My Sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey-with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her! feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.
OR, THE CHARGE OF A CHILD TO HIS YOUNGER COMPANION.
THAT is work of waste and ruin-
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
We must spare them-here are many:
Look at it the flower is small,
Small and low, though fair as any:
Do not touch it! summers two
I am older, Anne, than you.
Pull the primrose, Sister Anne !
Pull as many as you can.
-Here are daisies, take your fill!
Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower:
Of the lofty daffodil
Make your bed, and make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ;
Only spare the strawberry-blossom.
Primroses, the spring may love them-
Summer knows but little of them;
Violets, a barren kind,
Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.
God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured strawberry-flower.
When the months of spring are fled,
Hither let us bend our walk;
Lurking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,
Each within its leafy bower;
And for that promise spare the flower!
CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE
YEARS OLD.
LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild;
And innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes,
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,
Not less if unattended and alone,
Than when both young and old sit gathered round
And take delight in its activity,
Even so this happy creature of herself
Is all sufficient: solitude to her
Is blithe society, who fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched;
Unthought-of, unexpected as the stir
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow flowers;
Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many-coloured images impressed
Upon the bosom of a placid lake.
ADDRESS TO A CHILD, DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING.
BY A FEMALE FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.
WHAT way does the wind come? What way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow,
Through wood, and through vale; and o'er rocky height, Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight. He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And rings a sharp larum ;-but if you should look,
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow,
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
So no times he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock ;-
Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space,
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left for a bed for beggars or thieves !
As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!
Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:
-But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;
Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light;
Books have we to read,-hush! that half-stifled knell,
Methinks 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.
-Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we care?
He
may knock at the door,-we'll not let him in,
May drive at the windows,-we'll laugh at his din;
Let him seek his own home wherever it be;
Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.
A MONTH, Sweet little-ones, is passed
Since your dear mother went away,-
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.
O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,-
And shouted, Mother, come to me!"
Louder and louder did he shout
With witless hope to bring her near;
Nay, patience! patience, little boy!
Your tender mother cannot hear."
I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through ;-
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
ut he submits; what can he do?
No strife disturbs his sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day,
The bonds of our humanity.
Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.
Her brother now takes up the note,
And echoes back his sister's glee;
They hug the infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.
Then settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower;
While sweetly shone the evening sun,
In his departing hour.
We told o'er all that we had done,-
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
Where two fair swans together glide.
We talked of change, of winter gone,
Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray,
Of birds that build their nests and sing,
And "all since mother went away!"
To her these tales they will repeat,
To her our new-born tribes will show,
The goslings green, the ass's colt,
The lambs that in the meadow go.
-But, see, the evening star comes forth
To bed the children must depart;
A moment's heaviness they feel,
A sadness at the heart:
'Tis gone-and in a merry fit
They run up stairs in gamesome race;
I too, infected by their mood,
I could have joined the wanton chase.
Five minutes past and oh the change!
Asleep upon their beds they lie;
Their busy limbs in perfect rest,
And closed the sparkling eye.
LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE.
OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day,
The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
-The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow.'
"That, father, will I gladly do; 'Tis scarcely afternoon
The Minster clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon.'
At this the father raised his hook
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work;- and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blyther is the mountain roe:
With many a wauton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb;
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood A furlong from their door.
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