H, poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain; It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain; It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain! The children of the rich man have not their bread to win, They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin; And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear; 102 THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB. The children of the poor man-though they be young, each one, Early in the morning they are up before the rising sun; And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is done. Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride; Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three; A thousand flocks were on the hills-a thousand flocks and more, Feeding in sunshine pleasantly,—they were the rich man's store; There was, the while, one little lamb beside a cottage door : A little lamb, that did lie down with the children, 'neath the tree; That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee; That had a place within their hearts, as one of the family. But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their head, . The father laboured all day long, that the children might be fed ; And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread. That father, with a down-cast eye, upon his threshold stood, "Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-dropping head Each does his small craft mournfully!-the hungry must be fed; And that which has a price to bring, must go, to buy us bread!” THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB. It went-oh, parting has a pang, the hardest heart to wring, Therefore, most sorrowful it was, those children small to see, Most sorrowful to hear them plead for their pet, so piteously;— 'Oh, mother dear! it loveth us; and what beside have we?" 103 "Let's take him to the broad green hills," in his impotent despair, Said one strong boy, "Let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair; I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there!" 'Twas vain! they took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down, With a strong cord they tied him fast, and, o'er the common brown, And o'er the hot and flinty roads they took him to the town. The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow, From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow; The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow! Ah, poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain! MARY HOWITT. It was a new-born thing: the rain Was drenched and cold. Morn came again, Yet the poor mother's fond distress Its every art had tried, To shield, with sleepless tenderness, The weak one at her side. Round it, all night, she gathered warm Her woolly limbs-her head Day dawned, and it was dead. |