The Home Book of Verse Volume I Part 65

And now, unless it be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O G.o.d, have Thou no mercy upon me!

Poor Child!

Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]

THE TOYS

My little Son, who looked from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, I struck him, and dismissed With hard words and unkissed, --His Mother, who was patient, being dead.

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet.

And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-veined stone, A piece of gla.s.s abraded by the beach, And six or seven sh.e.l.ls, A bottle with bluebells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I prayed To G.o.d, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, "I will be sorry for their childishness."

Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]

A SONG OF TWILIGHT

Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is falling, To see the nursery lighted and the children's table spread; "Mother, mother, mother!" the eager voices calling, "The baby was so sleepy that he had to go to bed!"

Oh, to come home once more, and see the smiling faces, Dark head, bright head, cl.u.s.tered at the pane; Much the years have taken, when the heart its path retraces, But until time is not for me, the image will remain.

Men and women now they are, standing straight and steady, Grave heart, gay heart, fit for life's emprise; Shoulder set to shoulder, how should they be but ready!

The future s.h.i.+nes before them with the light of their own eyes.

Still each answers to my call; no good has been denied me, My burdens have been fitted to the little strength that's mine, Beauty, pride and peace have walked by day beside me, The evening closes gently in, and how can I repine?

But oh, to see once more, when the early dusk is falling, The nursery windows glowing and the children's table spread; "Mother, mother, mother!" the high child voices calling, "He couldn't stay awake for you, he had to go to bed!"

Unknown

LITTLE BOY BLUE

The little toy dog is covered with dust, But st.u.r.dy and stanch he stands; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket moulds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new, And the soldier was pa.s.sing fair; And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said, "And don't you make any noise!"

So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, He dreamt of the pretty toys; And, as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue-- Oh! the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face; And they wonder, as waiting the long years through In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue, Since he kissed them and put them there.

Eugene Field [1850-1895]

THE DISCOVERER

I have a little kinsman Whose earthly summers are but three, And yet a voyager is he Greater then Drake or Frobisher, Than all their peers together!

He is a brave discoverer, And, far beyond the tether Of them who seek the frozen Pole, Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll.

Ay, he has travelled whither A winged pilot steered his bark Through the portals of the dark, Past h.o.a.ry Mimir's well and tree, Across the unknown sea.

Suddenly, in his fair young hour, Came one who bore a flower, And laid it in his dimpled hand With this command: "Henceforth thou art a rover!

Thou must make a voyage far, Sail beneath the evening star, And a wondrous land discover."

--With his sweet smile innocent Our little kinsman went.

Since that time no word From the absent has been heard.

Who can tell How he fares, or answer well What the little one has found Since he left us, outward bound?

Would that he might return!

Then should we learn From the p.r.i.c.king of his chart How the skyey roadways part.

Hus.h.!.+ does not the baby this way bring, To lay beside this severed curl, Some starry offering Of chrysolite or pearl?

Ah, no! not so!

We may follow on his track, But he comes not back.

And yet I dare aver He is a brave discoverer Of climes his elders do not know.

He has more learning than appears On the scroll of twice three thousand years, More than in the groves is taught, Or from furthest Indies brought; He knows, perchance, how spirits fare,-- What shapes the angels wear, What is their guise and speech In those lands beyond our reach,-- And his eyes behold Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told.

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]

A CHRYSALIS

My little Madchen found one day A curious something in her play, That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed; It was not anything that grew, Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew; Had neither legs nor wings, indeed; And yet she was not sure, she said, Whether it was alive or dead.

She brought in her tiny hand To see if I would understand, And wondered when I made reply, "You've found a baby b.u.t.terfly."

"A b.u.t.terfly is not like this,"

With doubtful look she answered me.

So then I told her what would be Some day within the chrysalis; How, slowly, in the dull brown thing Now still as death, a spotted wing, And then another, would unfold, Till from the empty sh.e.l.l would fly A pretty creature, by and by, All radiant in blue and gold.

"And will it, truly?" questioned she-- Her laughing lips and eager eyes All in a sparkle of surprise-- "And shall your little Madchen see?"

"She shall! I said. How could I tell That ere the worm within its sh.e.l.l Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread, My little Madchen would be dead?

To-day the b.u.t.terfly has flown,-- She was not here to see it fly,-- And sorrowing I wonder why The empty sh.e.l.l is mine alone.

Perhaps the secret lies in this: I too had found a chrysalis, And Death that robbed me of delight Was but the radiant creature's flight!

Mary Emily Bradley [1835-1898]

MATER DOLOROSA