And lo! in the meadow sweet was the grave of a little child, With a crumbling stone at the feet, and the ivy running wild: Tangled ivy and clover folding it over and over: Close to my sweetheart's feet was the little mound up-piled. Stricken with nameless fears, she shrank and clung to me, And her eyes were filled with tears for a sorrow I did not see: Lightly the winds were blowing, softly her tears were flowing Tears for the unknown years and a sorrow that was to be! SWEETHEART, SIGH NO MORE IT was with doubt and trembling Sing it, sing it, tawny throat, How dear she is to me Sweetheart, sigh no more! Sing it, sing it, and through the summer long The winds among the clover-tops, And brooks, for all their silvery stops, Shall envy you the song- WILLIAM ALLINGHAM WILLIAM ALLINGHAM, born in Ireland in 1828§ died 1889. He removed to England and became editor of "Fraser's Magazine." He was the author of numerous poems. "Lawrence Bloomfield in Ire land and Day and Night Songs are the best known. THE RUINED BY CHAPEL (From "Day and Night Songs") Y the shore, a plot of ground Buttressed with a grassy mound; Where Day and Night and Day go by Washing of the lonely seas, Day and Night and Day go by To the endless tune of these. Or, when, as winds and waters keep Here the silence is most deep. The empty ruins, lapsed again Sow themselves with seed and grain As Day and Night and Day go by; And suckers from the ash-tree spread, While Day and Night and Day go by: And stars move calmly overhead. SONG (From "Day and Night Songs ") Bring back the friendship of the sun; And peeping stars bid lovers wait. ROBIN REDBREAST 100D-BYE, good-bye to Summer! J For Summer's nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, O Robin dear! Robin sings so sweetly Bright yellow, red, and orange, O Robin dear! And what will this poor Robin do? For pinching days are near. The fireside for the cricket, The wheat-stack for the mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house. The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow-Alas! in winter dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer. HANS, CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN Pri HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN, poet, dramatist and story-writer, born at Odense, Denmark, in 1805; died at Copenhagen in 1875. From his early youth he was a maker of tales, and on the banks of the silver Odense River he walked and dreamed of the days of old, and the famous days to come. marily a writer of tales for children, his work possesses such deep insight into human nature, such tenderness, that the person who has not read them has a gap on the shelves of his mental library. Before he laid down his pen at the close of his life's work, it took fifty volumes to contain his writings. THE GARDENER OF THE MANOR ABOUT one Danish mile from the capital stood an old manor-house, with thick walls, towers, and pointed gable-ends. Here lived, but only in the summer season, a rich and courtly family. This manor-house was the best and the most beautiful of all the houses they owned. It looked outside as if it had just been cast in a foundry, and within it was comfort itself. The family arms were carved in stone over the door; beautiful roses twined about the arms and the balcony; a grass-plot extended before the house with red-thorn and white-thorn, and many rare flowers grew even outside the conservatory. The manor kept also a very skilful gardener. It was a real pleasure to see the flowergarden, the orchard, and the kitchen-garden. There was still to be seen a portion of the manor's original |