The Home Book of Verse Volume I Part 61

Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command To show their pa.s.sions by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbids me yet my flame to tell; Dear Five-years-old befriends my pa.s.sion, And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms' beds With all the tender things I swear; Whilst all the house my pa.s.sion reads, In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pa.s.s for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas! when she shall tear The rhymes some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!), That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

EX ORE INFANTIUM

Little Jesus, wast Thou shy Once, and just so small as I?

And what did it feel like to be Out of Heaven, and just like me?

Didst Thou sometimes think of there, And ask where all the angels were?

I should think that I would cry For my house all made of sky; I would look about the air, And wonder where my angels were; And at waking 'twould distress me-- Not an angel there to dress me!

Hadst Thou ever any toys, Like us little girls and boys?

And didst Thou play in Heaven with all The angels, that were not too tall, With stars for marbles? Did the things Play Can you see me? through their wings?

Didst Thou kneel at night to pray, And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way?

And did they tire sometimes, being young, And make the prayer seem very long?

And dost Thou like it best, that we Should join our hands to pray to Thee?

I used to think, before I knew, The prayer not said unless we do.

And did Thy Mother at the night Kiss Thee, and fold the clothes in right?

And didst Thou feel quite good in bed, Kissed, and sweet, and Thy prayers said?

Thou canst not have forgotten all That it feels like to be small: And Thou know'st I cannot pray To Thee in my father's way-- When Thou wast so little, say, Could'st Thou talk Thy Father's way?-- So, a little Child, come down And hear a child's tongue like Thy own;

Take me by the hand and walk, And listen to my baby-talk.

To Thy Father show my prayer (He will look, Thou art so fair), And say: "O Father, I, Thy Son, Bring the prayer of a little one."

And He will smile, that children's tongue Has not changed since Thou wast young!

Francis Thompson [1859-1907]

OBITUARY

Finding Francesca full of tears, I said, "Tell me thy trouble." "Oh, my dog is dead!

Murdered by poison!--no one knows for what!-- Was ever dog born capable of that?"

"Child,"--I began to say, but checked my thought,-- "A better dog can easily be bought."

For no--what animal could him replace?

Those loving eyes! That fond, confiding face!

Those dear, dumb touches! Therefore I was dumb.

From word of mine could any comfort come?

A bitter sorrow 'tis to lose a brute Friend, dog or horse, for grief must then be mute,-- So many smile to see the rivers shed Of tears for one poor, speechless creature dead.

When parents die there's many a word to say-- Kind words, consoling_--one can always pray; When children die 'tis natural to tell Their mother, "Certainly, with them 'tis well!"

But for a dog, 'twas all the life he had, Since death is end of dogs, or good or bad.

This was his world; he was contented here; Imagined nothing better, naught more dear, Than his young mistress; sought no brighter sphere; Having no sin, asked not to be forgiven; Ne'er guessed at G.o.d nor ever dreamed of heaven.

Now he has pa.s.sed away, so much of love Goes from our life, without one hope above!

When a dog dies there's nothing to be said But--kiss me, darling!--dear old Smiler's dead.

Thomas William Parsons [1819-1892]

THE CHILD'S HERITAGE

On, there are those, a sordid clan, With pride in gaud and faith in gold, Who prize the sacred soul of man For what his hands have sold.

And these shall deem thee humbly bred: They shall not hear, they shall not see The kings among the lordly dead Who walk and talk with thee!

A tattered cloak may be thy dole, And thine the roof that Jesus had: The broidered garment of the soul Shall keep thee purple-clad!

The blood of men hath dyed its brede, And it was wrought by holy seers With sombre dream and golden deed, And pearled with women's tears.

With Eld thy chain of days is one: The seas are still Homeric seas; Thy skies shall glow with Pindar's sun, The stars of Socrates!

Unaged the ancient tide shall surge, The old Spring burn along the bough: For thee, new and old converge In one eternal Now!

I give thy feet the hopeful sod, Thy mouth, the priceless boon of breath; The glory of the search for G.o.d Be thine in life and death!

Unto thy flesh, the soothing dust; Thy soul, the gift of being free: The torch my fathers gave in trust, Thy father gives to thee!

John G. Neihardt [1881-

A GIRL OF POMPEII

A public haunt they found her in: She lay asleep, a lovely child; The only thing left undefiled Where all things else bore taint of sin.

Her supple outlines fixed in clay The universal law suspend, And turn Time's chariot back, and blend A thousand years with yesterday.

A sinless touch, austere yet warm, Around her girlish figure pressed, Caught the sweet imprint of her breast, And held her, surely clasped, from harm.