But in the Nile's proud fight he died, And I am now an orphan boy! Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I, To see the lighted windows flame! The people's shouts were long and loud; My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; "Rejoice! REJOICE!" still cried the crowd,My mother answer'd with her tears! "Oh why do tears steal down your cheek," Cried I, "while others shout for joy?" She kiss'd me; and in accents weak, She call'd me her poor orphan boy! "What is an orphan boy?" I said; When suddenly she gasp'd for breath, And her eyes closed! I shriek'd for aid, But ah! her eyes were closed in death. My hardships since I will not tell; But now, no more a parent's joy, Ah, lady, I have learn'd too well What 'tis to be an orphan boy! Oh, were I by your bounty fed!— Nay, gentle lady, do not chide; Trust me, I mean to earn my bread, The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep; what is't you say? You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear parents! look and see Your happy, happy orphan boy! AMELIA OPIE. ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. LITTLE Ellie sits alone By a stream-side on the grass, Little Ellie, in her smile, Chooses, ... "I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds! The swan's nest among the reeds. "And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath; And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death. "And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind, And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind. "But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face. He will say, ‘O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in, And I kneel here for thy grace.' "Then, ay, then-he shall kneel low, "Then he'll ride among the hills Which the wicked bear along. "Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain And kneel down beside my feet: 'Lo, my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting! What wilt thou exchange for it?' "And the first time I will send "Then the young foot-page will run— Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee; 'I am a duke's eldest son! Thousand serfs do call me master, But, O Love, I love but thee!' "He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover Through the crowds that praise his deeds: And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds." Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the two. Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding up the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads— Past the boughs she stoops-and stops. Lo, the wild swan had deserted— And a rat had gnawed the reeds. Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not; but I know She could never show him-never That swan's nest among the reeds! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. MY CHILD. I CANNOT make him dead: His fair sunshiny head is ever bounding round my study-chair; The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, Is but his wardrobe lock'd;-he is not And hers the silence and the calm there! He lives! In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 'Twill be our heaven to find that-he is THREE YEARS SHE GREW. THREE years she grew in sun and shower; On earth was never sown; A lady of my own. "Myself will to my darling be The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn, That wild with glee across the lawn Of mute, insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend: Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm "The stars of midnight shall be dear In many a secret place, Where rivulets dance their wayward round, "And vital feelings of delight Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake; the work was doneHow soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene, And never more will be. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE MORNING.GLORY. WE wreathed about our darling's head The morning-glory bright; Her little face looked out beneath, So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise, That we could only say, “She is the morning-glory true, And her poor types are they." So always from that happy time We called her by their name, For sure as morning came, But not so beautiful they rear Their airy cups of blue As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Round their supports are thrown As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own. We used to think how she had come, To crown Love's morning hour; We never could have thought, O God, Like the morning-glory's cup; Her fair and noble head, Till she lay stretched before our eyes, The morning-glory's blossoming Will soon be coming round; We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground; The tender things the winter killed Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning Has passed away from earth. O Earth! in vain our aching eyes Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, But up in groves of Paradise Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee. THE THREE SONS. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness and mind of gentle mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is fair And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air; I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mindThe food for grave, inquiring speech he everywhere doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of me when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk; Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee; she teacheth him to pray; And strange and sweet and solemn then are the words which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years, like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be; And when I look into his eyes and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel were i to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee; I do not think his light-blue eye is, like I know the angels fold him close beneath his brother's, keen, their glittering wings, Nor his brow so full of childish thought And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things. as his hath ever been; But his little heart's a fountain pure of I know that we shall meet our babe (his kind and tender feeling, mother dear and I) And his every look's a gleam of light, rich Where God for aye shall wipe away all depths of love revealing. tears from every eye. When he walks with me, the country folk, Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his who pass us in the street, bliss can never cease; Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he Their lot may here be grief and fear, but looks so mild and sweet. his is certain peace. A playfellow is he to all; and yet, with It may be that the tempter's wiles their cheerful tone, souls from bliss may sever; Will sing his little song of love when left But, if our own poor faith fail not, he to sport alone. must be ours for ever. His presence is like sunshine sent to glad- When we think of what our darling is, den home and hearth, and what we still must be To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten When we muse on that world's perfect all our mirth. bliss and this world's miseryShould he grow up to riper years, God When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain grant his heart may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now Oh, we'd rather lose our other two than for earthly love; And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him. I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell. To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given, And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining scraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the Are number'd with the secret things which But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants be-on their I know his spirit feels no more this weary have him here again! JOHN MOULTRIE. WE ARE SEVEN. -A SIMPLE child, That lightly draws its breath, I met a little cottage girl; She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That cluster'd round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: How many may you be?" But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams "Two of us in the churchyard lie. of joy for ever fresh. My sister and my brother; |