The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 62 : Truer than work of sculptor's art Comes this dear maid of long ago, Sheltered from

Truer than work of sculptor's art Comes this dear maid of long ago, Sheltered from woeful chance, to show A spirit's lovely counterpart,

And bid mistrustful men be sure That form shall fate of flesh escape, And, quit of earth's corruptions, shape Itself, imperishably pure.

Edward Sandford Martin [1856-

ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY"

Tired of play! Tired of play!

What hast thou done this live-long day!

The bird is silent and so is the bee, The shadow is creeping up steeple and tree; The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves; Twilight gathers, and day is done,-- How hast thou spent it, restless one?

Playing! And what hast thou done beside To tell thy mother at eventide?

What promise of morn is left unbroken?

What kind word to thy playmate spoken?

Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?

How with thy faults has duty striven?

What hast thou learned by field and hill, By greenwood path and by singing rill?

There will come an eve to a longer day That will find thee tired,--but not with play!

And thou wilt learn, as thou learnest now, With wearied limbs and aching brow, And wish the shadows would faster creep And long to go to thy quiet sleep.

Well will it be for thee then if thou Art as free from sin and shame as now!

Well for thee if thy tongue can tell A tale like this, of a day spent well!

If thine open hand hath relieved distress, And thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness-- If thou hast forgiven the sore offence And humbled thy heart with penitence;

If Nature's voices have spoken to thee With her holy meanings, eloquently-- If every creature hath won thy love, From the creeping worm to the brooding dove-- If never a sad, low-spoken word Hath plead with thy human heart unheard-- Then, when the night steals on, as now It will bring relief to thine aching brow, And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has pa.s.sed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colors have all pa.s.sed away from her eyes!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

CHILDREN'S SONG

Sometimes wind and sometimes rain, Then the sun comes back again; Sometimes rain and sometimes snow, Goodness, how we'd like to know Why the weather alters so.

When the weather's really good We go nutting in the wood; When it rains we stay at home, And then sometimes other some Of the neighbors' children come.

Sometimes we have jam and meat, All the things we like to eat; Sometimes we make do with bread And potatoes boiled instead.

Once when we were put to bed We had nowt and mother cried, But that was after father died.

So, sometimes wind and sometimes rain, Then the sun comes back again; Sometimes rain and sometimes snow, Goodness, how we'd like to know If things will always alter so.

Ford Madox Ford [1873-

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN

When a' other bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?

'Tis the puir doited loonie,--the mitherless bairn!

The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn!

Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

Her spirit, that pa.s.sed in yon hour o' his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!

O, speak him na harshly,--he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile; In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn That G.o.d deals the blow, for the mitherless bairn!

William Thom [1798?-1848]

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west-- But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly!

They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in the sorrow, Why their tears are falling so?

The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago; The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost: But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man's h.o.a.ry anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy; "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary; Our young feet" they say, "are very weak; Few paces have we taken, yet are weary-- Our grave-rest is very far to seek: Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old.