Childhood's Favorites and Fairy Stories Part 44

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

BY COOL SILOAM'S SHADY RILL

By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows!

How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose!

Lo, such the child whose early feet The paths of peace have trod; Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, Is upward drawn to G.o.d.

By cool Siloam's shady rill The lily must decay; The rose that blooms beneath the hill Must shortly fade away.

And soon, too soon, the wintry hour Of man's maturer age Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, And stormy pa.s.sion's rage.

O Thou, whose infant feet were found Within thy Father's shrine, Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned, Were all alike divine;

Dependent on thy bounteous breath, We seek thy grace alone, In childhood, manhood, age, and death, To keep us still thine own.

REGINALD HEBER

THE WIND IN A FROLIC

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep, Saying, "Now for a frolic! now for a leap!

Now for a madcap galloping chase!

I'll make a commotion in every place!"

So it swept with a bustle right through a great town, Creaking the signs, and scattering down Shutters, and whisking, with merciless squalls, Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls.

There never was heard a much l.u.s.tier shout, As the apples and oranges tumbled about; And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize.

Then away to the fields it went bl.u.s.tering and humming, And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming.

It plucked by their tails the grave, matronly cows, And tossed the colts' manes all about their brows, Till, offended at such a familiar salute, They all turned their backs and stood silently mute.

So on it went, capering and playing its pranks; Whistling with reeds on the broad river banks; Puffing the birds, as they sat on the spray, Or the traveler grave on the King's highway.

It was not too nice to bustle the bags Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags, 'T was so bold that it feared not to play its joke With the doctor's wig, and the gentleman's cloak.

Through the forest it roared, and cried gayly, "Now, You st.u.r.dy old oaks, I'll make you bow!"

And it made them bow without more ado, Or it cracked their great branches through and through.

Then it rushed like a monster o'er cottage and farm, Striking their inmates with sudden alarm; And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.

There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps, To see if their poultry were free from mishaps; The turkeys, they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud, And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd; There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on, Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.

But the wind had pa.s.sed on, and had met in a lane With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain, For it tossed him, and twirled him, then pa.s.sed, and he stood With his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud.

WILLIAM HOWITT

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

They grew in beauty, side by side, They filled one home with glee; Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair, sleeping brow; She had each folded flower in sight: Where are those sleepers now?

One, midst the forest of the West, By a dark stream is laid; The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one; He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed Above the n.o.ble slain; He wrapped the colors round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one--o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves by soft winds fanned; She faded midst Italian flowers-- The last of that fair band.

And parted thus, they rest who played Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee.

They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth; Alas for love! if thou wert all, And naught beyond, O earth!

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS

WE ARE SEVEN

... A simple child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage-girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That cl.u.s.tered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were bright, and very fair-- Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said, And wond'ring looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven?--I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be?"