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CHILDHOOD. |
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On all these doth Baby ponder; And they wile him forth to wander Still, through fields of scented clover, Toddling, tumbling, rolling over, Hiding in each grassy hollow."
Thus, between the budding leaves, Underneath the cottage eaves, Answer made our friend the Swallow. |
THE CHILD'S WORLD.
Lilliput Lectures.
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breast� World, you are beautifully drest!
The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree, It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.
You friendly Earth! how far do you go
With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers
that flow, With cities, and gardens, and cliffs, and isles. And people upon you for thousands of miles ?
Ah! you are so great, and I am so small, I tremble to think of you, world, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, A whisper inside me seemed to say:
"You are more than the earth, though you are
such a dot: You can love and think, and the earth can not!'* |
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ROBIN REDBREAST.
William Allingham.
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For summer's nearly done; The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun; Our thrushes now are silent,
Our swallows flown away, But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
And scarlet breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear! Robin sings so sweetly,
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian princes,
But soon they'll turn to ghosts! The leathery pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough; It's autumn, autumn, autumn late,
'Twill soon be winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast,
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. |
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THE BROOK.
Alfeed Tennyson.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow To joiu the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. |
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