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LITTLE BROWN HANDS.

M. H. KROUT.

THEY drive home the cows from the pasture,

Up through the long shady lane, Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,

That are yellow with ripening grain. They find in the thick waving grasses,

Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows. They gather the earliest snowdrops,

And the first crimson buds of the rose. They toss the new hay in the meadow;

They gather the elder-bloom white;
They find where the dusky grapes purple

In the soft-tinted October light.
They know where the apples hang ripest,

And are sweeter than Italy's wines;
They know where the fruit hangs the thickest

On the long, thorny blackberry-vines.
They gather the delicate sea-weeds,

And build tiny castles of sand; They pick up the beautiful sea-shells,

Fairy barks that have drifted to land. They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops

Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings ; And at night-time are folded in slumber

By a song that a fond mother sings. Those who toil bravely are strongest;

The humble and poor become great ;

And so from these brown-handed children

Shall grow mighty rulers of state.
The pen of the author and statesman, -

The noble and wise of the land,
The sword, and the chisel, and palette,

Shall be held in the little brown hand.

OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

ANONYMOUS.

OVER and over again,

No matter which way I turn,
I always find in the book of life,

Some lesson I have to learn.
I must take my turn at the mill,

I must grind out the golden grain,
I must work at my task with a resolute will,

Over and over again.

We cannot measure the need

Of even the tiniest flower,
Nor check the flow of the golden sands

That run through a single hour;
But the morning dews must fall,

And the sun and the summer rain Must do their part, and perform it all

Over and over again.

Over and over again

The brook through the meadows flows,

And over and over again

The ponderous mill-wheel goes.
Once doing will not suffice,

Though doing be not in vain ;
And a blessing failing us once or twice,

May come if we try again.
The path that has once been trod,

Is never so rough to the feet;
And the lesson we once have learned,

Is never so hard to repeat.
Though sorrowful tears must fall,

And the heart to its depths be driven With storm and tempest, we need them all

To render us meet for Heaven.

SUNSHINE

FROM THE FRENCH OF DELAVIGNE.

TRANSLATED AND ARRANGED BY THE EDITORS.

WHEN the bright sun

Doth smiling rise,
A ruddy ball

Through cloudy skies,

The wood and field
To him do yield,
And flower and leaf
Forget their grief.
In childish hearts

So springs delight,

Chasing black care

Back into night.

Joys, like the flowers,

In children rise ;
They smile with tears

Still in their eyes.

SIXTY AND SIX.

THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON.

“ FONS DELICIUM DOMUS."

Joy of the morning,

Darling of dawning,
Blithe little, lithe little daughter of mine,

While with thee ranging,

Sure I'm exchanging
Sixty of my years for six years like thine.

Wings cannot vie with thee,

Lightly I fly with thee,
Gay as the thistle-down over the lea;

Life is all magic,

Comic or tragic,
Played as thou playest it daily with me.

Floating and ringing,

Thy merry singing Comes when the light comes, like that of the birds.

List to the play of it,

That is the way of it;
All's in the music and naught in the words.

Glad or grief-laden,

Schubert or Haydn,
Ballad of Erin, or merry Scotch lay ;

Like an evangel,

Some baby angel,
Brought from sky-nursery, stealing away.

Surely I know it,

Artist nor poet
Guesses my treasure of jubilant hours.

Sorrows, what are they?

Nearer or far, they Vanish like sunshine, like dew from the flowers.

Years, I am glad of them !

Would that I had of them More and yet more, while thus mingled with thine.

Age, I make light of it,

Fear not the sight of it;
Time's but our playmate, whose toys are divine.

SEVEN TIMES ONE.

JEAN INGELOW.

THERE's no dew left on the daisies and clover,

There's no rain left in heaven;
I've said my “seven times” over and over,

Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old I can write a letter;

My birthday lessons are done;

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