My heart it sorely tries To see her kneel, with such a reverent air, Beside her brothers, at their evening prayer; Or lift those earnest eyes To watch our lips, as though our words she knew, Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear That even her father would not care for her. Thank God it is not so! And when his sons are playing merrily, Then move her own, as she were speaking She comes and leans her head upon his too. I've watch'd her looking up To the bright wonder of a sunset sky, That I could almost hope The struggling soul would burst its binding cords, And the long pent-up thoughts flow forth in words. The song of bird and bee, The chorus of the breezes, streams, and groves, knee. Oh, at such times I know, By his full eye and tones subdued and mild, How his heart yearns over his silent child. Not of all gifts bereft, Even now. How could I say she did not speak? What real language lights her eye and cheek, And renders thanks to Him who left Unto her soul yet open, avenues All the grand music to which Nature For joy to enter, and for love to use! moves, Are wasted melody And God in love doth give To her; the world of sound a nameless To her defect a beauty of its own: contain: For in his quite turns siccan questions That I leuch clean outright, for I cou'dna he'll spier! How the moon can stick up in the sky He was sic a conceit-sic an ancient-like And folk wha hae skill o' the lumps on the head Hint there's mae ways than toilin' o' winnin' ane's bread; How he'll be a rich man, and hae men to work for him, Wi' a kyte like a baillie's, shug-shuggin' afore him; Wi' a face like the moon-sober, sonsy, and douce wean! But 'mid a' his daffin sic kindness he shows, That he's dear to my heart as the dew to the rose; And the unclouded hinny-beam aye in his ee Maks him every day dearer and dearer to me. Though Fortune be saucy, and dorty, and dour, And gloom through her fingers like hills. through a shooer, When bodies hae gat a bit bit bairn o' their ain, How he cheers up their hearts!-he's a wonderfu' wean! WILLIAM MILLER. JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD. ONE time my soul was pierced as with a sword, Contending still with men untaught and wild, When He who to the prophet lent his gourd Gave me the solace of a pleasant child. A summer gift my precious flower was given, A very summer fragrance was its life; And a back, for its breadth, like the side Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of "Tweel! I'm unco ta'en up wi't—they mak o' a house. a' sae plain. heaven, When home I turn'd, a weary man of strife. He's just a town's talk; he's a by-ord'nar With unform'd laughter, musically sweet, wean! I ne'er can forget sic a laugh as I gat, To see him put on father's waistcoat and hat; Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far owre his knees The tap-loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' ease; Then he march'd through the house, he march'd but, he march'd ben, Like owre mony mae o' our great little men, How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss: With outstretch'd arms its care-wrought father greet! Oh, in the desert, what a spring was this! A few short months it blossom'd near my heart: A few short months, else toilsome all, and sad; But that home-solace nerved me for my part, And of the babe I was exceeding glad. Alas! my pretty bud, scarce form'd, was dying (The prophet's gourd, it wither'd in a night); And He who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying, Took gently home the child of my delight. Not rudely cull'd, not suddenly it perish'd, But gradual faded from our love away: As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherish'd, Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day. My blessed Master saved me from repining, So tenderly He sued me for His own; So beautiful He made my babe's declining, Its dying bless'd me as its birth had done. And daily to my board at noon and even Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping: Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child! Still as he sicken'd seem'd the doves too dwining, Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play; And on the day he died, with sad note pining, One gentle bird would not be fray'd away. His mother found it, when she rose, sadhearted, At early dawn, with sense of nearing ill; And when, at last, the little spirit parted, The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill. The other flew to meet my sad homeriding, As with a human sorrow in its coo; That we might commune of our rest in To my dear child and its dead mate then And I too loved, erewhile, at times to THEY say that God lives very high. As if my tender mother laid On my shut lids her kisses' pressure, Half waking me at night, and said, Softly her father stoop'd to lay His rough hand down in loving way, "Who kissed you through the dark, dear Then huskily said John," Not her, not her!" guesser?" ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. THE SLEEPING BABE. THE baby wept ; The mother took it from the nurse's arms, And soothed its griefs, and stilled its vain alarms, And baby slept. Again it weeps, We stopp'd beside the trundle-bed, I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek And God doth take it from the mother's We whisper'd, while our eyes were dim. arms, Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son, From present pain and future unknown Turbulent, reckless, idle one harms, And baby sleeps. SAMUEL HINDS. WHICH SHALL IT BE? A house and land while you shall live, 'Could he be spared? Nay; He who gave I said to John. Quite silently Across her cheek in wilful way, And shook his head: "Nay, love; not thee," And then of this. "Come, John," said I, We miss'd from its accustom'd place; "We'll choose among them as they lie Asleep;" so, walking hand in hand, Thankful to work for all the seven, ETHEL LYNN BEERS. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. When the night is beginning to lower, That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me From my study I see in the lamplight, A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together A sudden rush from the stairway, They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Is not a match for you all? I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Nane covers his cauld back or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn! Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly-rock'd bed Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn! Oh, speak him na harshly,-he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile; In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn! WILLIAM THOM THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. WHEN a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, And hear a helpless orphan's tale; Ah, sure my looks must pity wake,"Tis want that makes my cheek so pale; 'T is the puir doited loonie,-the mitherless Yet I was once a mother's pride, bairn! And my brave father's hope and joy; |