And in the churchyard cottage I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be ?"
Then did the little maid reply:
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."
"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"But they are dead-those two are dead,
Their spirits are in Heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away, for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
THE MOTHER'S HOPE.
Is there, where the winds are singing
In the happy summer-time,
Where the raptured air is ringing
With Earth's music heavenward springing.
Forest chirp, and village chime;
Is there, of the sounds that float
Minglingly, a single note
"Their graves are green, they may be Half so sweet, and clear, and wild,
The little maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's
And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit—
I sit and sing to them.
"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we play'd, My brother John and I.
As the laughter of a child?
Listen; and be now delighted.
Morn hath touch'd her golden strings,
Earth and sky their vows have plighted,
Life and light are reunited,
Amid countless carollings;
Yet, delicious as they are,
There's a sound that's sweeter far-
One that makes the heart rejoice
More than all,-the human voice!
Organ, finer, deeper, clearer,
Though it be a stranger's tone;
Than the winds or waters dearer,
More enchanting to the hearer,
For it answereth his own.
But of all its witching words,
Sweeter than the songs of birds,
Those are sweetest, bubbling wild
Through the laughter of a child.
Harmonies from time-touch'd towers,
Haunted strains from rivulets,
Hum of bees among the flowers,
Rustling leaves, and silver showers,-
These ere long the ear forgets;
And when the ground was white with But in mine there is a sound
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
'How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in Heaven?" The little maiden did reply, "Oh, master, we are seven!"
Ringing on the whole year round;
Heart-deep laughter that I heard,
Ere my child could speak a word.
Ah! 'twas heard by ear far purer,
Fondlier form'd to catch the strain-
Ear of one whose love is surer;
Hers, the mother, the endurer
Of the deepest share of pain;
Hers the deepest bliss, to treasure
Memories of that cry of pleasure;
Hers to hoard, a lifetime after,
Echoes of that infant laughter.
Yes, a mother's large affection
Hears with a mysterious sense;
Breathings that evade detection,
Whisper faint, and fine inflection,
Thrill in her with power intense.
Childhood's honey'd tones untaught
Heareth she, in loving thought!
Tones that never thence depart,
For she listens-with her heart!
THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN.
Down the dimpled green-sward dancing,
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy—
Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing,
Love's irregular little levy.
Rows of liquid eyes in laughter,
How they glimmer, how they quiver! sparkling one another after,
Like bright ripples on a river. Tipsy band of rubious faces,
Flush'd with Joy's ethereal spirit, Make your mocks and sly grimaces At Love's self, and do not fear it. GEORGE DARLEY.
UNDER MY WINDOW. UNDER my window, under my window, All in the Midsummer weather, Three little girls with fluttering curls
Flit to and fro together:
There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud with her mantle of silver green,
And Kate with her scarlet feather.
Under my window, under my window,
Leaning stealthily over,
Merry and clear, the voice I hear,
Of each glad-hearted rover. Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses; And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies,
As merry as bees in clover.
Under my window, under my window,
In the blue Midsummer weather,
Stealing slow, on a hush'd tip-toe,
I catch them all together:-
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.ro/books/content?id=HcUnAAAAMAAJ&hl=ro&output=html_text&pg=PA53&img=1&zoom=3&q=hope&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U036DUxcJwnUQ3StCJ357FrkjYvrQ&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=443,157,419,616)
THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOL. Now ponder well, you parents deare, These wordes, which I shall write; A doleful story you shall heare, In time brought forth to light: A gentleman of good account In Norfolke dwelt of late, Who did in honor far surmount
Most men of his estate.
Sore sicke he was, and like to dye,
No helpe his life could save;
His wife by him as sicke did lye,
And both possest one grave.
No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kinde;
In love they liv'd, in love they dyed,
And left two babes behinde :
The one a fine and pretty boy,
Not passing three yeares olde;
The other a girl more young than he,
And fram'd in beautyes moulde.
The father left his little son,
As plainlye doth appeare,
When he to perfect age should come,
Three hundred poundes a yeare.
And to his little daughter Jane
Five hundred poundes in gold,
To be paid downe on marriage-day,
Which might not be controll'd ;
But if the children chance to dye
Ere they to age should come,
Their uncle should possesse their wealth,
For so the wille did run.
Now, brother, said the dying man,
Look to my children deare;
Be good unto my boy and girl,
No friendes else have they here:
To God and you I recommend
My children deare this daye;
But little while be sure we have
Within this world to staye.
You must be father and mother both, And uncle all in one;
God knowes what will become of them
When I am dead and gone.
With that bespake their mother deare,
Oh brother kinde, quoth shee,
You are the man must bring our babes
To wealth or miserie:
And if you keep them carefully,
Then God will you reward;
But if you otherwise should deal,
God will your deedes regard.
With lippes as cold as any stone,
They kist their children small:
God bless you both, my children deare;
With that the teares did fall.
These speeches then their brother spake
To this sicke couple there:
The keeping of your little ones,
Sweet sister, do not feare:
God never prosper me nor mine,
Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children deare,
When you are layd in grave.
The parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes,
And bringes them straite unto his house,
Where much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a daye,
But, for their wealth, he did devise
To make them both awaye.
He bargain'd with two ruffians strong,
Which were of furious mood,
That they should take these children young,
And slaye them in a wood.
He told his wife an artful tale,
He would the children send
To be brought up in faire Londòn,
With one that was his friend.
Away then went those pretty babes,
Rejoycing at that tide,
Rejoycing with a merry minde,
They should on cock-horse ride.
They prate and prattle pleasantly,
As they rode on the waye,
To those that should their butchers be,
And work their lives decaye:
So that the pretty speeche they had,
Made Murder's heart relent:
And they that undertooke the deed
Full sore did now repent.
Yet one of them more hard of heart,
Did vowe to do his charge,
Because the wretch, that hired him,
Had paid him very large.
The other won't agree thereto,
So here they fall to strife;
With one another they did fight,
About the childrens life:
And he that was of mildest mood,
Did slaye the other there,
Within an unfrequented wood;
The babes did quake for feare!
He took the children by the hand,
Teares standing in their eye,
And bad them straitwaye follow him,
And look they did not crye;
And two long miles he ledd them on,
While they for food complaine :
Staye here, quoth he, I'll bring you bread,
When I come back againe.
These pretty babes, with hand in hand,
Went wandering up and downe, But never more could see the man
Approaching from the towne: Their prettye lippes, with black-berries, Were all besmear'd and dyed, And, when they sawe the darksome night, They sat them downe and cry'd.
Thus wandered these poor innocents,
Till deathe did end their grief;
In one anothers arms they dyed,
As wanting due relief.
No burial "this" pretty "pair
Of any man receives,
Till Robin-red-breast piously
Did cover them with leaves.
And now the heavy wrathe of God
Upon their uncle fell;
Yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house,
His conscience felt an hell.
His barnes were fir'd, his goodes consum'd,
His landes were barren made;
His cattle dyed within the field,
And nothing with him stayd.
And in a voyage to Portugal
Two of his sonnes did dye;
And to conclude, himselfe was brought
To want and miserye:
He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land
Ere seven years came about.
And now at length this wicked act
Did by this meanes come out :
The fellowe, that did take in hand
These children for to kill,
Was for a robbery judg'd to dye,
Such was God's blessed will:
Who did confess the very truth,
As here hath been display'd:
Their uncle having dyed in gaol,
Where he for debt was layd.
You that executors be made,
And overseers eke
Of children that be fatherless,
And infants mild and meek;
Take you example by this thing,
And yield to each his right,
Lest God, with such like miserye,
Your wicked minds requite.
THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS.
A LITTLE child, beneath a tree,
A little song, a pleasant song,
Which was she sang it all day long"When the wind blows the blossoms fall; But a good God reigns over all."
There pass'd a lady by the way,
Moaning in the face of day:
There were tears upon her cheek,
Grief in her heart too great to speak;
Her husband died but yester-morn,
And left her in the world forlorn.
She stopp'd and listen'd to the child
That look'd to heaven, and, singing,
smiled;
And saw not, for her own despair,
Another lady, young and fair,
Who also passing, stopp'd to hear
The infant's anthem ringing clear.
For she but few sad days before
Had lost the little babe she bore;
And grief was heavy at her soul
As that sweet memory o'er her stole,
And show'd how bright had been the past,
The present drear and overcast.
And as they stood beneath the tree
Listening, soothed and placidly,
A youth came by, whose sunken eyes
Spake of a load of miseries;
And he, arrested like the twain,
Stopp'd to listen to the strain.
Death had bow'd the youthful head
Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed:
Her marriage robes were fitted on,
Her fair young face with blushes shone.
When the destroyer smote her low,
And changed the lover's bliss to woe.
And these three listen'd to the song,
Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong,
Which that child, the livelong day,
Chanted to itself in play:
"When the wind blows the blossoms fall · But a good God reigns over all.”
The widow's lips impulsive moved;
The mother's grief, though unreproved,
Soften'd, as her trembling tongue
Repeated what the infant sung;
And the sad lover, with a start,
Conn'd it over to his heart.
And though the child-if child it were,
And not a seraph sitting there-
Was seen no more, the sorrowing three
Went on their way resignedly,
|