Then o'er a mushroom's head
Our tablecloth we spread;
A grain of rye or wheat
The diet that we eat;
Pearly drops of dew we drink,
In acorn cups fill'd to the brink.
The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,
Serve for our minstrelsy;
Grace said, we dance awhile,
And so the time beguile;
And if the moon doth hide her head,
The glowworm lights us home to bed.
O'er tops of dewy grass
So nimbly do we pass,
The young and tender stalk
Ne'er bends where we do walk.
Yet in the morning may be seen
Where we the night before have been.
THE BLIND BOY.
Oh! say what is that thing called light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the sight?
Oh! tell a poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see;
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I always keep awake,
With me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
While thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor Blind Boy.
THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM.
'You are old, father William,' the young man cried, "The few locks that are left you are gray : You are hale, father William, a hearty old man ; Now tell me the reason, I pray.'
'In the days of my youth,' father William replied,
'I remembered that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need it at last.'
'You are old, father William,' the young man cried,
'And pleasures with youth pass away,
And yet you lament not the days that are gone;
Now tell me the reason, I pray.'
'In the days of my youth,' father William replied,
'I remembered that youth could not last;
I thought of the future whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.'
'You are old, father William,' the young man cried,
And life must be hastening away;
You are cheerful and love to converse upon death:
Now tell me the reason, I pray.'
'I am cheerful, young man,' father William replied,
'Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God,
And he's not forgotten my age.'
THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM.
A nightingale that all day long
Had cheer'd the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when even-tide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off upon the ground
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glowworm by his spark.
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop ;
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
'Did you admire my lamp,' quoth he,
'As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same power divine
Taught you to sing and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.'
The songster heard his short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Releas'd him as my story tells,
And found his supper somewhere else.
THE CHILD'S MONITOR. The wind blows down the largest tree, And yet the wind I cannot see; Playmates far off, who have been kind My thought can bring before my mind;
The past by it is present brought,
And yet I cannot see my thought.
The charming rose scents all the air,
Yet I can see no perfume there.
Blithe robin's notes, how sweet, how clear,
From his small bill they reached my ear;
And whilst upon the air they float,
I hear, yet cannot see a note.
When I would do what is forbid,
By something in my heart I'm chid;
When good I think, then quick and pat,
That something says, My child, do that.'
When I too near the stream would go,
So pleased to see the waters flow,
That something says, without a sound,
'Take care, dear child, you may be drown'd;'
And for the poor whene'er I grieve,
That something says, ' a penny give!'
Thus something very near must be,
Although invisible to me;
Whate'er I do, it sees me still,
O then, good spirit, guide my will!
One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher,
Although he was poor, did not want to be richer;
For all such vain wishes to him were prevented,
By a fortunate habit of being contented.
Though cold was the weather, or dear was the food,
John never was found in a murmuring mood;
For this he was constantly heard to declare,
What he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear.
For, why should I grumble and murmur ?' he said,
'If I cannot get meat, I'll be thankful for bread;
And tho' fretting may make my calamities deeper,
It never can cause bread and cheese to be cheaper.
If John was afflicted with sickness and pain,
He wished himself better, but did not complain;
Nor lie down to fret in despondence and sorrow,
But said that he hoped to be better to-morrow.
If any one wronged him, or treated him ill,
Why, John was good-natured and sociable still;
For he said, that revenging the injury done,
Would be making two rogues, where there need be but one.
And thus honest John, tho' his station was humble,
Passed thro' this sad world without even a grumble;
And 'twere well if some folks, who are greater and richer,
Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher.
1 AM POOR AND ALONE.
Take pity, I pray, on a poor orphan child,
Who has not like you got a home;
I once was beloved-and I often have smiled,
But now I am poor and alone.
I once had a father so joyful and gay,
Till the war came to make him its own:
He fought and he died, and oh, sad was the day,
When he left us to weep all alone.
I once had a mother so watchful and kind,
Oh, why is such happiness flown?
She bore all her sorrows and never repined,
But she died-and she left me alone.
My good mother taught me to work and to pray,
To be joyful with what was my own;
But sickness and hunger both taught me to-day To beg, for I'm poor and alone.
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