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SONGS FOR |
CHILDHOOD. 77 |
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He's crossing o'er the wold apace, He's stronger than the storm ;
He does not feel the cold, not he— His heart it is so warm ;
For father's heart is stout and true
As ever human bosom knew !
He makes all toil, all hardship light;
Would all men were the same! So ready to be pleased—so kind;
So very slow to blame! Folks need not be unkind, austere, For love hath readier will than fear.
Nay, do not close the shutters, child;
For far along the lane The little window looks, and he
Can see it shining plain. I've heard him say he loves to mark The cheerful fire-light through the dark.
And we'll do all that father likes;
His wishes are so few— Would they were more—that every hour
Some wish of his I knew! I'm sure it makes a happy day, When I can please him auy way.
I know he's coming, by this sign—
That baby's almost wild; See how he laughs, and crows, and stares!
Heaven bless the merry child! He's father's self in face and limb, And father's heart is strong in him.
Hark ! hark ! I hear his footsteps now ;
He's through the garden-gate; Run, little Bess, and ope the door,
And do not let him wait! Shout, baby, shout, and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands! |
What it says I don't know, But it sings a loud song.
But green leaves and blossoms, And sunny warm weather,
And singing and loving, All come back together.
And the lark is so brimful
Of gladness and love— The green fields below him,
The blue sky above-That he sings, and he sings,
Aud forever sings he, " I love my love, and
My love loves me!" |
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CHOOSING A NAME. Mary Lamb.
I have got a new-born sister— I was nigh the first that kissed her. When the nursing-woman brought her To papa—his infant daughter— How papa's dear eyes did glisten I She will shortly be to christen, And papa has made the offer, I shall have the naming of her.
Now I wonder what would please her—
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ?
Ann and Mary—they're too common ;
Joan's too formal for a woman ;
Jane's a prettier name beside,
But we had a Jane that died.
They would say, if 'twas Rebecca,
That she was a little Quaker.
Edith's pretty, but that looks
Better in old English books;
Ellen's left off long ago;
Blanche is out of fashion now.
None that I have named as yet
Are so good as Margaret.
Emily is neat and fine;
What do you think of Caroline?
How I'm puzzled and perplexed
What to choose or think of next!
I am in a little fever,
Lest the name that I should give her
Should disgrace her or defame her:
I will leave papa to name her! |
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WHAT THE BIRDS SAY.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Do you ask what the birds say ?
The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, the thrush say,
" I love ! I love !"
In winter they're silent, The wind is so strong; |
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