Yet one of them, more hard of heart, Did vow to do his charge, Because the wretch that hired him Had paid him very large. The other would not agree thereto, So here they fell at strife; With one another they did fight, About the children's life; And he that was of mildest mood Did slay the other there, Within an unfrequented wood; While babes did quake for fear. He took the children by the hand When tears stood in their eye, And bade them come and go with him, And look they did not cry; And two long miles he led them on, While they for food complain : "Stay here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread When I do come again." These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and down, But nevermore they saw the man Thus wandered these two pretty babes No burial this pretty pair Of any man receives, Till robin redbreast, painfully, Did cover them with leaves. And now the heavy wrath of God Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, His barns were fired, his goods consumed, His cattle died within the field, And, in the voyage of Portugal, Two of his sons did die; And, to conclude, himself was brought He pawned and mortgaged all his land The fellow that did take in hand These children for to kill Was for a robber judged to die, As was God's blessed will; Who did confess the very truth, The which is here expressed; Their uncle died while he, for debt, In prison long did rest. You that executors be made, And overseers eke, Of children that be fatherless, A MOTHER'S LOVE. ANONYMOUS A LITTLE in the doorway sitting, ; But when the boy had heard her voice, O, mother's love is glorifying, In the eyes a moistened light, THOMAS BURBIDGE. THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN. Down the dimpled greensward dancing Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, How they glimmer, how they quiver! Sparkling one another after, Like bright ripples on a river. Tipsy band of rubious faces, Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit, Make your mocks and sly grimaces At Love's self, and do not fear it. GEORGE DARLEY. UNDER MY WINDOW. UNDER my window, under my window, There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, Under my window, under my window, Merry and clear, the voice I hear, Of each glad-hearted rover. Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses; Under my window, under my window, I catch them all together: Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, Under my window, under my window, And off through the orchard closes ; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, They scamper and drop their posies; But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses. THOMAS WESTWOOD. THE MOTHER'S HEART. WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, And natural piety that leaned to heaven ; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, Yet patient to rebuke when justly given; Obedient, easy to be reconciled, And meekly cheerful; such wert thou, my child! Now with her empty can the maiden turned away; But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay. Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place I unobserved could see the workings of her face. If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, SEVEN TIMES ONE. THERE's no dew left on the daisies and clover, I am old, - so old I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done. Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid The lambs play always, they know no better ; might sing: "What ails thee, young one?-what? Why pull so at thy cord? Is it not well with thee?-well both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; Rest, little young one, rest; what is 't that aileth thee? "Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can They are only one times one. O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low. You were bright—ah, bright - but your light is failing; You are nothing now but a bow. You Moon! have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face? Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And twice in the day, when the ground is wet And shine again in your place. with dew, "Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." "Two of us in the churchyard lie, Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie Beneath the churchyard tree." "You run about, my little maid; Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied: "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit; My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. "And often after sunset, sir, "The first that died was Sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; "So in the churchyard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS. And balmy rest about thee I sit me down, and think Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, Thy sidelong pillowed meekness; The little trembling hand These, these are things that may demand Sorrows I've had, severe ones, I will not think of now; But when thy fingers press |