Literature for Children Part 13

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal, And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.

--LORD BYRON.

PSALM XCI

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: My G.o.d; in him will I trust.

Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, And from the noisome pestilence.

He shall cover thee with his feathers, And under his wings shalt thou trust: His truth shall be thy s.h.i.+eld and buckler.

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; Nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; Nor for the destruction that wasteth by noon-day.

A thousand shall fall at thy side, And ten thousand at thy right hand; But it shall not come nigh thee.

Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold And see the reward of the wicked.

Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, Even the most High, thy habitation; There shall no evil befall thee, Neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.

For he shall give his angels charge over thee, To keep thee in all thy ways.

They shall bear thee up in their hands, Lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.

Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder: The young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet.

Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name.

He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him.

With long life will I satisfy him, And show him my salvation.

--KING DAVID.

SEVENTH YEAR

THE PILGRIM

Who would true valour see Let him come hither.

One here will constant be, Come wind, come weather: There's no discouragement Shall make him once relent His first-avow'd intent To be a Pilgrim.

Whoso beset him round With dismal stories, Do but themselves confound; His strength the more is.

No lion can him fright; He'll with a giant fight; But he will have a right To be a Pilgrim.

Nor enemy, nor fiend, Can daunt his spirit; He knows he at the end Shall Life inherit:-- Then, fancies, fly away; He'll not fear what men say; He'll labour night and day, To be a Pilgrim.

--JOHN BUNYAN.

THE CLOUD

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet birds every one, When rocked to rest on their Mother's breast, As she dances in the sun.

I wield the flail of the las.h.i.+ng hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pa.s.s in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the Blast.

Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits; In a cavern under is fettered the Thunder-- It struggles and howls by fits.

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the Genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains; And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

--PERCY BYSSHE Sh.e.l.lEY.

THE GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil.

Come away, come away, Hark to the summons!

Come in your war-array, Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky; The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlocky.

Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr'd, The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended, Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, va.s.sal, page and groom, Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather!

Wide waves the eagle plume Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset!

--SIR WALTER SCOTT.

INDIAN SUMMER

From gold to gray Our mild, sweet day Of Indian summer fades too soon: But tenderly Above the sea Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.

In its pale fire The village spire Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance: The painted walls Whereon it falls Transfigured stand in marble trance.

--JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

MORNING

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides.

Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free; To hear the Lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: While the c.o.c.k with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn door, Stoutly struts his dames before, Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some h.o.a.r hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill.

Sometime walking not unseen By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great Sun begins his state, Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight: While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.

--JOHN MILTON.

WHO IS SYLVIA?

Who is Sylvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness: Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness, And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Sylvia let us sing, That Sylvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring.

--WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.