Childhood's Favorites and Fairy Stories Part 45

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-- I sit and sing to them.

"And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till G.o.d released her of her pain, And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid; And when the gra.s.s 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."

"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?"

The little maiden did reply, "O master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; these two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!"

'T was throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

THE BETTER LAND

"I hear thee speak of the better land; Thou call'st its children a happy band; Mother! oh, where is that radiant sh.o.r.e?

Shall we not seek it and weep no more?

Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance through the myrtle boughs?"-- "Not there, not there my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?

Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange bright birds on their starry wings Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"-- "Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?

Where the burning rays of the ruby s.h.i.+ne, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?

Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"-- "Not there, not there, my child!"

"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy; Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,-- Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom; For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb, It is there, it is there, my child!"

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS

THE JUVENILE ORATOR

You'd scarce expect one of my age To speak in public, on the stage; And if I chance to fall below Demosthenes or Cicero, Don't view me with a critic's eye, But pa.s.s my imperfections by.

Large streams from little fountains flow; Tall oaks from little acorns grow; And though I now am small and young, Of judgment weak, and feeble tongue, Yet all great learned men--like me-- Once learned to read their A, B, C.

And why may not Columbia's soil Rear men as great as Britain's isle, Exceed what Greece and Rome have done, Or any land beneath the sun?

May n't Ma.s.sachusetts prove as great As any other sister state?

Or, where's the town, go far or near, That does not find a rival here?

Or, where 's the boy but three feet high Who's made improvement more than I?

Those thoughts inspire my youthful mind To be the greatest of mankind; Great, not like Caesar, stained with blood; But only great, as I am good.

DAVID EVERETT

THE FOX AND THE CROW

A FABLE

The fox and the crow, In prose, I well know, Many good little girls can rehea.r.s.e: Perhaps it will tell Pretty nearly as well, If we try the same fable in verse.

In a dairy a crow, Having ventured to go, Some food for her young ones to seek, Flew up in the trees, With a fine piece of cheese, Which she joyfully held in her beak.

A fox, who lived by, To the tree saw her fly, And to share in the prize made a vow; For having just dined, He for cheese felt inclined, So he went and sat under the bough.

She was cunning, he knew, But so was he too, And with flattery adapted his plan; For he knew if she'd speak, It must fall from her beak, So, bowing politely, began.

"'T is a very fine day"

(Not a word did she say): "The wind, I believe, ma'am, is south: A fine harvest for peas:"

He then looked at the cheese, But the crow did not open her mouth.

Sly Reynard, not tired, Her plumage admired, "How charming! how brilliant its hue!

The voice must be fine, Of a bird so divine, Ah, let me just hear it, pray do.

"Believe me, I long To hear a sweet song!"

The silly crow foolishly tries: She scarce gave one squall, When the cheese she let fall, And the fox ran away with the prize.