Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

The Lost Boy.

307

THE LOST BOY.

HE little boy wandered away,

Nor thought what might betide him,
For he loved to ramble and play,

With his faithful dog beside him;

The flowers were gay, the leaves were green,
A pleasanter day never was seen,

The birds were singing on every spray,
As if they would flutter the boy away,
When he'd none but his dog to guide him.

They rambled, rambled on,
The boy and dog together,

In many a pleasant path they run,
Nor knew, nor heeded whither-

But the sun has set, and a storm seems near,

And the poor little boy is pale with fear:
He thought the old trees grew dark and tall,
And as he ran you might hear him call,
"Oh, mother, do come hither!"

His mother is all alone,

And sadly, sadly weeping;

The father to seek the son is gone,
And how can she think of sleeping?

She watches the clock, she watches the skies,-
"Oh, where is my poor little boy?" she cries;
"Oh, where will he pillow his little head!

And where can he find a sheltered bed,
When the storm in its wrath is sweeping?"

The morning is fresh and fair,

There's silver dew on the blossom,

The mother she sits in her easy chair,
With her little boy on her bosom-

"Oh, mother, dear mother, don't weep, I pray,
For never again will I ramble away—
I'll remember to ask if I wish to go-"
And each little boy must remember it too,
Lest his mother should grieve to lose him.

PETER PARLEY.

THE VILLAGE BOY.

REE from the cottage corner, see how wild
The village-boy along the pasture hies,

With every smell, and sound, and sight beguiled,

That round the prospect meets his wondering eyes;
Now, stooping, eager for the cowslip peeps,

As though he'd get them all,-now, tired of these,
Across the flaggy brook he eager leaps

For some new flower his happy rapture sees,—

Now, leering 'mid the bushes on his knees

On woodland banks, for blue-bell flowers he creeps,-

And now, while looking up among the trees,

He spies a nest, and down he throws his flowers,
And up he climbs with new-fed ecstasies;

The happiest object in the summer hours.

JOHN CLARE.

The Blind Boy.

309

THE SCULPTOR BOY.

HISEL in hand stood a sculptor boy,
With his marble block before him ;

And his face lit up, with a smile of joy,

As an angel-dream passed o'er him :

He carved it then on the yielding stone,

With many a sharp incision;

With heaven's own light the sculpture shone :
He had caught that angel-vision.

Sculptors of life are we, as we stand,
With our souls, uncarved, before us,
Waiting the hour when, at God's command,
Our life-dream shall pass o'er us.
If we carve it then, on the yielding stone,
With many a sharp incision,

Its heavenly beauty shall be our own,

Our lives, that angel-vision.

BISHOP DOANE.

THE BLIND BOY.

SAY what is that thing called Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ;

What are the blessings of the sight,

O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see,

You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he

Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play;

And could I ever keep awake
With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy,
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,

Although a poor blind boy.

C. CIBBER.

THE ENGLISH BOY.

OOK from the ancient mountains down,

My noble English boy!

Thy country's fields around thee gleam

In sunlight and in joy.

Ages have rolled since foeman's march
Passed o'er that old firm sod;
For well the land hath fealty held

To freedom and to God!

Gaze proudly on, my English boy,
And let thy kindling mind
Drink in the spirit of high thought

From every chainless wind.

The English Boy.

There in the shadow of old Time,

The halls beneath thee lie,

Which poured forth to the fields of yore

Our England's chivalry.

How bravely and how solemnly

They stand midst oak and yew; Where Crecy's yeoman haply framed The bow, in battle true.

311

And round their walls the good swords hang,
Whose faith knows no alloy,

And shields of knighthood, pure from stain;
Gaze on, my English boy.

Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church
Gleams by the antique helm ;

Or where the minster lifts the cross
High through the air's blue realm.

Martyrs have showered their free hearts' blood
That England's prayer might rise,
From those grey fanes of thoughtful years,

Unfettered to the skies.

Along their aisles, beneath their trees,

This earth's most glorious dust, Once fired with valour, wisdom, song,

Is laid in holy trust.

Gaze on-gaze further, further yet,—

My gallant English boy;

Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag

The billow's pride and joy.

« AnteriorContinuar »