O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes! Those shoes that no little feet use. O the price were high That those shoes would buy, For they hold the small shape of feet And ceased from their totter so sweet. And O, since that baby slept, That little dear treasure, For they mind her forevermore And blue eyes she sees Look up from her knees With the look that in life they wore. As they lie before her there, A little sweet face That's a gleam in the place, Than those tiny blue shoes And whose sight makes such fond tears start! WILLIAM C. BENNETT. OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. ALL in our marriage garden Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever Suckt the green warmth of the sod; O beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled ; And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world. PICTURES OF MEMORY. AMONG the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's wall Is one of a dim old forest, That seemeth best of all; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother, With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep : Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago; But his feet on the hills grew weary, And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face; And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty, Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all. ALICE CARY. THE PET NAME. "The name Which from THEIR lips seemed a caress." I HAVE a name, a little name, Uncadenced for the ear, Unhonored by ancestral claim, Unsanctified by prayer and psalm The solemn font anear. It never did, to pages wove For gay romance, belong. It never dedicate did move As "Sacharissa," unto love, "Orinda," unto song. Though I write books, it will be read Earth saddens, never shall remove, And e'en that mortal grief shall prove And heighten it with Heaven. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. OUT OF NORFOLK, the gift of MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine, - thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear! - O welcome guest, though unexpected, here! My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm and velvet cap, "T is now become a history little known That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes, less deeply traced : Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed, All this, and, more endearing still than all, The violet, the pink, the jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the whileWouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? - I would not trust my heart, the dear delight 'Where tempests never beat nor billows roar": And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide And day by day some current's thwarting force And now, farewell!-Time, unrevoked, has run And, while the wings of fancy still are free, WILLIAM COWPER. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. [An Inverary correspondent writes: "Thom gave me the following narrative as to the origin of The Mitherless Bairn'; I quote his own words. When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin' "Ye hussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn!" I hobled up the stair and wrote the sang afore sleepin'.'"] WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-daine, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? 'T is the puir doited loonie, the mitherless bairn ! The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit, that passed 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 God deals the blow, for the mitherless bairn! WILLIAM THOM. I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember Nor brought too long a day; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday, The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops It was a childish ignorance, To know I'm farther off from heaven THOMAS HOOD. |