The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 2

As wistly she did me behold, How lik'st thou him? quoth she.

Why, well, quoth I, the better should, Had he but eyes to see.

How sayst thou, honest friend, quoth she, Wilt thou a 'prentice take?

I think, in time, though blind he be, A ferryman he'll make.

To guide my pa.s.sage-boat, quoth I, His fine hands were not made; He hath been bred too wantonly To undertake my trade.

Why, help him to a master, then, Quoth she, such youths be scant; It cannot be but there be men That such a boy do want.

Quoth I, when you your best have done, No better way you'll find, Than to a harper bind your son, Since most of them are blind.

The lovely mother and the boy Laugh'd heartily thereat, As at some nimble jest or toy, To hear my homely chat.

Quoth I, I pray you let me know, Came he thus first to light, Or by some sickness, hurt, or blow, Deprived of his sight?

Nay, sure, quoth she, he thus was born.

'Tis strange, born blind! quoth I; I fear you put this as a scorn On my simplicity.

Quoth she, thus blind I did him bear.

Quoth I, if't be no lie, Then he's the first blind man, I'll swear, E'er practis'd archery.

A man! quoth she, nay, there you miss, He's still a boy as now, Nor to be elder than he is The G.o.ds will him allow.

To be no elder than he is!

Then sure he is some sprite, I straight reply'd. Again at this The G.o.ddess laugh'd outright.

It is a mystery to me, An archer, and yet blind!

Quoth I again, how can it be, That he his mark should find?

The G.o.ds, quoth she, whose will it was That he should want his sight, That he in something should surpa.s.s, To recompense their spite, Gave him this gift, though at his game He still shot in the dark, That he should have so certain aim, As not to miss his mark.

By this time we were come ash.o.r.e, When me my fare she paid, But not a word she utter'd more, Nor had I her bewray'd.

Of Venus nor of Cupid I Before did never hear, But that a fisher coming by Then told me who they were.

_M. Drayton_

X

_SONG_

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall we see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live in the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

_W. Shakespeare_

XI

_LUCY GRAY_

_Or Solitude_

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, --The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.

'To-night will be a stormy night-- You to the town must go; And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow.'

'That, Father, will I gladly do!

'Tis scarcely afternoon-- The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!'

At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a f.a.ggot-band; He plied his work;--and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb; But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door.

They wept, and, turning homeward, cried, 'In heaven we all shall meet!'

--When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed; The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none!

--Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

_W. Wordsworth_

XII

_RAIN IN SUMMER_

How beautiful is the rain!

After the dust and the heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs!

How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane It pours and pours; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain.