THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 806. 1 
 
 PS69 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/picturesflowersfOOunse 
 
“ There is to me 
 A daintiness about these early flowers, 
 
 That touches me like poetry. They blow out 
 
 With such a simple loveliness among 
 
 The common herbs of pasture, and they breathe 
 
 go unobtrusively, like hearts 
 
 Whose beatings are too gentle for the world.” 
 
 Willis. 
 
PICTURES AND FLOWERS 
 
 FOR 
 
 CHILD-LOVERS. 
 
 “ I love God and every little child.” 
 
 Jean Paul. 
 
 44 O, each of these young human flowers 
 God’s own high message bears, 
 
 And we are walking all our hours 
 With ‘ angels unawares.’ ” 
 
 R. Edmonston*. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 WALKER, FULLER, AND COMPANY, 
 
 245 Washington Street. 
 
 1 8 6 5 . 
 
o. 
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 C. RAND & AVERY, 
 
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 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 i 
 
 May the reader, in turning over these pages, 
 have a pleasure as pure as the compiler had 
 in arranging the Pictures, and gathering the 
 Flowers. 
 
 In regard to some of the extracts, it may be 
 remarked, that, although it might seem almost 
 like sacrilege to take detached portions of some 
 beautiful poems, it was required by the nature 
 x of the plan, namely, the presenting of exquisite 
 and touching pictures of infancy and child- 
 hood. * 
 
 A volume combining such a range of selec- 
 tions bearing upon these subjects it is believed 
 cannot fail to be acceptable wherever the influ- 
 ence of childhood has been felt ; to kindle an 
 interest in these “ lords of the household and 
 monarchs of the heart,” where it has not. 
 
 9 
 
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 446052 
 

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CONTENTS 
 
 PAOB 
 
 Pleasant Children, 
 
 
 9 
 
 My Bird, 
 
 Mrs. Judson , . . 
 
 11 
 
 The Little Foot, 
 
 
 12 
 
 The Mother’s Heart, 
 
 Mrs. Norton , 
 
 15 
 
 Peter’s Temper, 
 
 William Austin , . 
 
 18 
 
 A Graphic Description of a Baby, . . 
 
 Knickerbocker , . 
 
 19 
 
 The Return, 
 
 Anonymous , . . 
 
 22 
 
 A Picture, 
 
 Pray , .... 
 
 23 
 
 Threnodia. [Extract], 
 
 
 23 
 
 The Kitten and the Falling Leaves. . . 
 
 Wordsworth , . . 
 
 25 
 
 The Child’s Song. [Extract], . . . 
 
 C. Mackay , . . 
 
 27 
 
 The Watcher, 
 
 Anonymous , . . 
 
 29 
 
 Little Bessie, 
 
 u 
 
 31 
 
 To a Child in Prayer, 
 
 it 
 
 31 
 
 Child-Sleep, 
 
 
 33 
 
 On my First Son, 
 
 Ben Jonson , . . 
 
 84 
 
 Curiosifcv, 
 
 Charles Sprague , 
 
 35 
 
 The Morning-Glory, ....... 
 
 Lowell's Poems , . 
 
 36 
 
 To a Child, 
 
 Joanna Baillie , . 
 
 39 
 
 Harry’s Letter, 
 
 
 41 
 
 Some Account of a Remarkable Baby, . 
 
 C. Dickens , . . 
 
 44 
 
 The Boy’s Appeal, 
 
 Anonymous , . . 
 
 45 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Unlucky One, Hoffman, ... 45 
 
 Saturday Afternoon, N. P. Willis , . . 46 
 
 Gone. [Extract], ....... Whittier , ... 48 
 
 Star-Child, Studies in Religion , 60 
 
 Childhood ever Hopeful and Trustful, . Words in a S. School , 52 
 
 To Herman. [Extract], J. F. Clarice , . . 52 
 
 Our Charlie, Thomas Mackellar , 55 
 
 Wee Willie, Blackwood's Mag., 67 
 
 The Image in Lava, Mrs. Hemans, . 61 
 
 To our Eldest Heir, Mrs. Coleridge , . 63 
 
 Art of Being Happy, N. M. Magazine , 65 
 
 Willie going into Breeches, Lamb , . . 66 
 
 Domestic Influence of Children, . . . R. H. Dana , . . 68 
 
 Early Lost, Early Saved, G.W. Bethune , . 73 
 
 Health and Play vs. Tubercular Virtue, Dr. 0. W. Holmes , 76 
 
 Buttercups and Daisies, Mary Howitt , . . 79 
 
 My Child, Pierpont , ... 80 
 
 Joy in Sorrow. [Extract], .... Alaric A. Watts , 83 
 
 Resignation, Longfellow , . . 84 
 
 Youth Eternal, Words in a S. School, 87 
 
 Childhood, New Monthly Mag., 88 
 
 Babie Bell, T. B. Aldrich, . 92 
 
 Extract from “ Elia,” Charles Lamb, . 97 
 
 On the Flowering Acacia. [Extract], . Fanny Butler , . . 98 
 
 A Child is Born, Browning, ... 99 
 
 Thoughts while she rocks the Cradle, . Dr. E. G. Holland, 100 
 The Playful School-Children, .... Shenstone, . . . 102 
 
 My First Play, Charles Lamb, . 104 
 
 Versicles (for Fathers and Mothers only), J. G. Grant, . . 105 
 Extract from Ode to Immortality, . . Wordsworth, .. . 108 
 Some Account of Family Skirmishes, . C. Dickens, . . 109 
 
 The Lost Heir. [Extract], T. Hood, . . . 112 
 
 Wishes. [Extract], Earl of Surrey, . 110 
 
 To my little Cousin with her first Bonnet, Mrs. Southey, . . 117 
 
 Deaths of Little Children, Leigh Hunt, . . 120 
 
 The Sickly Babe, 121 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I Remember, I Remember, T. Hood, . . . 122 
 
 The Three Sons, Moultrie , . . . 125 
 
 Little Children, Montgomery , . . 130 
 
 Childhood Departed. [Extract], . . J. R. Lowell , . . 130 
 
 The Deserted Garden. [Extract], . . Elizabeth Barrett, 132 
 
 Joyousness of Children, Richter , . . . 135 
 
 To my Children Sleeping, Anonymous , . . 136 
 
 A Parental Ode to my Son, T. Hood , . . . 137 
 
 The Gypsy Child, Eliza Cook, . . . 140 
 
 Tired of Play, N. P. Willis, . . 142 
 
 The Reaper and the Flowers, .... Longfelloiv, . . 144 
 
 The Little Step-Son, Anonymous , . . 146 
 
 Morning, Words in a S. School, 149 
 
 Threnody. [Extract], R. W. Emerson, . 151 
 
 Household Treasures, Mary Howitt , . . 154 
 
 The Star and the Flower, Mrs. Osgood, . . 156 
 
 The Charge of Infantry, Knickerbocker , . 158 
 
 Home. [Extract], Anonymous, . . 161 
 
 Extract from “ King John,” .... Shakespeare, . . 162 
 
 Our Birthdays, T. Hood, . . . 163 
 
 Fragment from the List of “Daily Trials,” 0. W Holmes, . 164 
 The Child and the Gossamer, . ... S. Lover , . . . 164 
 
 The Baby’s Complaint, ....... Fanny Fern, . . 165 
 
 Good Life, Long Life. [Extract], . . Ben Jonson , . . 167 
 
 The Child’s Reverie, Western Evangelist , 168 
 
 The Childless, Mrs. Abdy, . . 170 
 
 Childhood’s Guardian Angels, . . . Coleridge , . . . 174 
 
 To a Step- Child, Louisville Journal, 175 
 
 The Youngest, Anonymous , . . 177 
 
 Pictures of Memory, Alice Carey , . . 177 
 
 On an Infant dying as soon as born, . Charles Lamb, . 179 
 
 u The Child is Father of the Man,” . . Wordsworth, . . 182 
 
 Death of an Infant, Anonymous, . . 183 
 
 Extract from “ Macbeth,” Shakespeare, . . 184 
 
 The Town and Country Child, . . . Cunningham , . . 185 
 
 Extract from “ Two April Mornings,” . Wordsworth , . . 189 
 
Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Extract from “ Seasons of Prayer,” . . II. Ware , Jr., . . 
 
 Child and Flower, Bryant , .... 
 
 The Early Dead. [Extract], . ... T. Moore , . . . 
 
 The Death of a Child, Anonymous , . . 
 
 My Boy, Knickerbocker , 
 
 The Model Baby, Punch , .... 
 
 The Open Window, II. W. Longfellow , 
 
 The First Snow-fall, J. R. Lowell , . . 
 
 Two Years Old, Anonymous , . . 
 
 Little George’s Sttory, Fanny Fern , . . 
 
 The Bird’s-nest in the Moon. [Extract], N. E. Magazine , 
 
 PAGE 
 
 190 
 
 190 
 
 191 
 
 192 
 
 193 
 198 
 200 
 201 
 203 
 206 
 207 
 
PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 PLEASANT CHILDREN. 
 
 Everywhere, — everywhere, — 
 
 Like the butterfly’s silver wings, 
 
 That are seen by all in the summer air, 
 
 We meet with these beautiful tilings ! 
 
 And the low, sweet lisp of the baby child 
 By a thousand hills is heard, 
 
 And the voice of the young heart’s laughter, wild 
 As the voice of a singing bird ! 
 
 The cradle rocks in the peasant’s cot 
 As it rocks in the noble’s hall, 
 
 And the brightest gift in the loftiest lot, 
 
 Is a gift that is given to all ; — 
 
10 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 For the sunny light of childhood’s eyes 
 Is a boon like the common air, 
 
 And, like the sunshine of the skies, 
 
 It falleth everywhere ! 
 
 They tell us this old earth no more 
 By angel feet is trod, — 
 
 They bring not now, as they brought of yore, 
 The oracles of God. 
 
 O, each of these young human flowers 
 God’s own high message bears, 
 
 And we are walking all our hours 
 With “ angels, unawares ” ! 
 
 By stifling street and breezy hill 
 We meet their spirit mirth : 
 
 That such bright shapes should linger till 
 They take the stains of earth ! 
 
 0, play not those a blessed part 
 To whom the boon is given, 
 
 To leave their errand with the heart, 
 
 And straight return to Heaven ! 
 
MY BIRD. 
 
 11 
 
 - 
 
 MY BIRD. 
 
 Ere last year’s moon had left the sky, 
 
 A birdling sought my Indian nest, 
 
 And folded, O so lovingly ! 
 
 Her tiny wings upon my breast. 
 
 From mom till evening’s purple tinge, 
 In winsome helplessness she lies ; 
 
 Two rose-leaves with a silken fringe, 
 Shut softly on her starry eyes. 
 
 There ’s not in Ind a lovelier bird, 
 
 Broad earth owns not a happier nest ; 
 
 0 God, thou hast a fountain stirred, 
 Whose waters never more may rest ! 
 
 This beautiful, mysterious thing, 
 
 This seeming visitant from Heaven, 
 
 This bird with the immortal wing, 
 
 To me, — to me thy hand hath given. 
 
12 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, 
 The blood its crimson hue, from mine 
 This life which I have dared invoke, 
 Henceforth is parallel with thine. 
 
 A silent awe is in my room, — 
 
 I tremble with delicious fear ; 
 
 The future, with its light and gloom, 
 Time and Eternity are here. 
 
 Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise ; 
 
 Hear, O my God ! one earnest prayer 
 Room for my bird in Paradise, 
 
 And give her angel plumage there ! 
 
 THE LITTLE FOOT. 
 
 My boy, as gently on my breast, 
 
 From infant sport, thou sink’st to rest. 
 And on my hand I feel thee put, 
 
 In playful dreams, thy little foot ; 
 
THE LITTLE FOOT. 
 
 13 
 
 The thrilling touch sets every string 
 Of my full heart to quivering ; 
 
 For ah ! I think, what chart can show 
 The ways through which this foot may go ? 
 
 Its print will be, in childhood’s hours, 
 Traced in the garden, round the flowers ; 
 But youth will bid it leap the rills, 
 
 Bathe in the dew on distant hills, 
 
 Roam o’er the vales, and venture out 
 When riper years would pause and doubt ; 
 Nor brave the pass, nor try the brink, 
 Where youth’s unguarded foot may sink. 
 
 But what, when manhood tints thy cheek, 
 Will be the ways this foot will seek ? 
 
 Is it to lightly pace the deck, 
 
 Helpless to slip from off the wreck ? 
 
 Or wander o’er a foreign shore, 
 
 Returning to thy home no more, 
 
 Until the bosom now thy pillow 
 Is low and cold beneath the willow ? 
 
 Or, is it for the battle-plain, 
 
 Beside the slayer and the slain ? 
 
14 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Wilt there its final step be taken ? 
 
 There, sleep thine eye no more to waken ? 
 Is it to glory or to shame, — 
 
 To sully or to gild thy name ? 
 
 Is it to happiness or woe 
 This little foot is made to go ? 
 
 But wheresoe’er its lines may fall, 
 Whether in cottage or in hall, 
 
 O, may it ever shun the ground 
 Where’er His foot was never found, 
 
 Who on his path of fife hath shed 
 A living light, that all may tread 
 Upon his earthly steps ; and none 
 E’er dash the foot against a stone ! 
 
 Which would a mother value most, the most elegant pair of 
 Parisian slippers, or a little worn-out shoe, once filled with a 
 precious # infant foot, now walking with the angels? 
 
 Mrs. Child. 
 
THE MOTHER'S HEART. 
 
 15 
 
 THE MOTHER’S HEART. 
 
 When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond. 
 
 My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, 
 
 My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
 All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure : 
 
 Nor thought that any love again might be 
 So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 
 
 Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, 
 
 And natural piety that leaned to heaven ; 
 
 Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, 
 
 Yet patient of rebuke when justly given, — 
 Obedient, easy to be reconciled, 
 
 And meekly cheerful, — such thou wert, my child ! 
 
 Not willing to be left ; still by my side, 
 
 Haunting my walks, while summer day was dying, 
 Nor leaving in thy turn ; but pleased to glide 
 Through the dark room where I was sadly lying : 
 Or by the couch of pain a sitter meek, 
 
 Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. 
 
16 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 O boy ! of such as thee are oftenest made 
 Earth’s fragile idols ; like a tender flower, 
 
 No strength in all thy freshness, — prone to fade, 
 And bending weakly to the thunder-shower, — 
 
 Still round the loved thy heart found force to bind, 
 And clung like woodbine shaken in the wind ! 
 
 But thou , my merry love, bold in thy glee, 
 
 Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, 
 
 With thy sweet temper and thy spirits free, 
 
 Didst come as restless as a bird’s wing glancing, 
 
 Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth, 
 
 Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth ! 
 
 Thine was the shout ! the song ! the burst of joy ! 
 Which sweet from childhood’s rosy lip resoundeth ; 
 Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy, 
 
 And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth 
 And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
 Lurk in the laughter of thy dark blue eye ! 
 
 Amd thine was many an art to win and bless, 
 
 The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming ; 
 The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress, 
 
 The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming ; 
 
THE MOTHER’S HEART. 
 
 17 
 
 Again my heart a new affection found, 
 
 But thought that love with thee had reached its bound. 
 
 At length thou earnest ; thou the last and least, — 
 Nicknamed the “Emperor” by thy laughing brothers, 
 Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast, 
 
 And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others ; 
 Mingling with every playful infant wile, 
 
 A mimic majesty that made us smile. 
 
 And O, most like a regal child wert thou ! 
 
 An eye of resolute and successful scheming ; 
 
 Fair shoulders, curling lip, and dauntless brow, 
 
 Fit for the world’s strife, not for poet’s dreaming : 
 
 And proud the lifting of thy stately head, 
 
 And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 
 
 Different from both ! yet each succeeding claim, 
 
 I, that all other love had been forswearing, 
 
 Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; 
 
 Nor injured either by this love’s comparing, 
 
 Nor stole a fraction from the newer call, 
 
 But in the Mother’s Heart found room for all ! 
 
18 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 PETER’S TEMPER. 
 
 From boyhood, Peter’s temper was altogether un- 
 governable, and then his language was terrible. In 
 these fits of passion, if a door stood in his way, he 
 would never do less than kick a panel through. He 
 would sometimes throw his heels over his head and 
 come down on his feet, uttering oaths in a circle ; 
 and thus in a rage, he was the first who performed a 
 somerset, and did what others have since learned to 
 do for merriment and money. Once he was seen to 
 bite a tenpenny nail in halves. In those days, every- 
 body, both men and boys, wore wigs ; and Peter, at 
 these moments of violent passion, would become so 
 profane that his wig would rise up from his head. 
 Some said it was on account of his terrible language. 
 Others accounted for it in a more philosophical way, 
 and said it was caused by the expansion of his scalp ; 
 as violent passion, we know, will swell the veins, and 
 expand the head. While these fits were on him, 
 Peter had no respect for heaven or earth. Except 
 
A GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF A BABY. 19 
 
 tliis infirmity, all his school-fellows and playmates 
 agreed that he was a very good sort of a boy ; for 
 when his fits were over, nobody was so ready to com- 
 mend a •placid temper as Peter ! 
 
 A GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF A BABY. 
 
 Hurrah ! Light upon the world again ! It ’s a glo- 
 rious world ! magnificent ! quite too beautiful to leave ; 
 and besides, I would rather stay, if only to thank God 
 a. little longer for this glorious fight, this pure air that 
 can echo back my loudest hurrah. And then my 
 boy — but have n’t I told you ? Why, sir, I’ve got 
 a boy. A BOY ! ha, ha ! I shout it out to you, — A 
 BOY : fourteen pounds, and the mother a great deal 
 better than could be expected ! And I say, sir, it ’s 
 mine ! Hurrah and hallelujah forever ! 0, sir, 
 
 such legs, such arms, and such a head ! and O, 
 Good Heavens ! he has his mother's lips ! I can kiss 
 them forever ! and then, sir, look at his feet, his 
 hands, his chin, his eyes, his everything, in fact, — 
 
20 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 80 “ so perfectly 0 . K ! ” Give me joy, sir : no you 
 need n’t either] I am full now ; I run over ; and 
 they say that I ran over a number of old women, 
 half killed the mother, pulled the doctor by the nose, 
 and upset a ’pothecary shop in the corner ; and then 
 did n’t I ring the tea-bell ? Did n’t I blow the horn ? 
 Didn’t I dance, shout, laugh, and cry altogether? 
 The women they had to tie me up. I don’t be- 
 lieve that ; but who is going to shut his mouth when 
 he has a live baby? You should have heard his 
 lungs, sir, at the first mouthful of fresh air, — such 
 a burst ! A little tone in his voice, but not pain ; 
 excess of joy, sir, from too great sensation. The 
 air-bath was so sudden, you know. 
 
 Think of all his beautiful machinery starting off at 
 once in full motion ; all his thousand outside feelers 
 answering to the touch of the cod air; the flutter 
 and crash at the ear, and that curious contrivance 
 the eye, looking out wonderingly and bewildered 
 upon the great world, so glorious to his unworn 
 perceptions. His network of nerves, his wheels and 
 pulleys, his air-pumps and valves, his engines and 
 reservoirs ; and within all, that beautiful fountain, 
 with its jets and running streams, dashing and cours- 
 
A GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF A BABY. 21 
 
 ing through the whole length and breadth, without 
 stint or pause ; making altogether, sir, exactly four- 
 teen. Did I ever talk brown to you, sir, or blue, or 
 any other of the Devil’s colors ? You say I have. 
 Beg your pardon, sir, but you are mistaken in the 
 individual. I am this day, sir, multiplied by two. 
 I am duplicate, — I am number one of an indefinite 
 series, and there ’s my continuation. And you ob- 
 serve, sir, it is not a block, nor a blockhead, nor a 
 painting, nor a bust, nor a fragment of anything, 
 however beautiful ; but a combination of all the arts 
 and sciences in one : painting, sculpture, music (hear 
 him cry !), mineralogy, chemistry, mechanics (see him 
 kick !), geography, and the use of the globes (see 
 him nurse!), and withal, he is a perpetual motion, 
 — a timepiece that will never run down. And who 
 wound it up? But words are but a mouthing and 
 a mockery 
 
 When a man is nearly crushed under obligations, it 
 is presumed he is unable to speak ; but he may bend 
 over very carefully, for fear of falling, nod in a small 
 way, and say nothing ; and then if he have sufficient 
 presence of mind to lay a hand upon his heart, and 
 look down at an angle of forty-five degrees, with a 
 
22 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 motion of the lips, muttered poetry, showing the wish 
 and the inability, it will be (well done) very grace- 
 fully expressive. With my boy in his first integu- 
 ments, I assume that position, make the small nod 
 aforesaid, and leave you the poetry unmuttered. 
 
 I hold it a religious duty, 
 
 To love and worship children’s beauty; 
 
 They ’ve least the taint of earthly clod, 
 
 They ’re freshest from the hand of God. 
 
 With heavenly looks, they make us sure 
 The heaven that made them must be pure. 
 
 Campbell, 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 One climbs into his arms, another 
 Clings smiling round his knee ; 
 
 A third is lifted by its mother 
 Its father’s face to see : 
 
 The cradled innocent, his youngest treasure, 
 
 Holds out its dimpled arms, and crows for pleasure. 
 
 0 banish the tears of children! Continued rains upon the 
 blossoms are hurtful. — Jean Paul. 
 
TJIRENODIA. 
 
 23 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 A laughing boy, above a well 
 Is peeping down. He cannot tell 
 What spirit is below. 
 
 He wonders if he sees an elf ; 
 
 It laughs when he is laughing. 
 
 Is it the semblance of himself, 
 
 Or some one water quaffing ? 
 
 To find the truth, he calls aloud. 
 Echo but mocks. The boy is proud, 
 And chiding says, “ I know.” 
 
 THRENODIA. 
 
 (Extract.) 
 
 How peacefully they rest, 
 
 Crossfolded there 
 Upon his little breast, 
 
 Those small white hands that ne’er were still before ; 
 But ever sported with his mother’s hair, 
 
 Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore ; 
 
 2 
 
24 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Her heart no more will beat 
 To feel the touch of that soft palm. 
 
 That ever seemed a new surprise, 
 
 Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes 
 To bless him with their holy calm. 
 
 Full short his journey was ; no dust 
 Of earth unto his sandals clave ; 
 
 The weary weight that old men must, 
 
 He bore not to the grave. 
 
 He seemed a cherub who had lost his way, 
 And wandered hither ; so his stay 
 With us was short ; and ’t was most meet 
 That he should be no delver in earth’s clod, 
 Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet 
 To stand before his God, 
 
 O blest word, — evermore ! 
 
THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES. 25 
 
 THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 That way look, my infant, lo ! 
 
 What a pretty baby-show ! 
 
 See the kitten on the wall, 
 
 Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
 
 Withered leaves — one — two — and three — 
 From the lofty elder-tree ! 
 
 But the kitten, how she starts, 
 
 Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! 
 
 First at one, and then its fellow, 
 
 Just as bright, and just as yellow ; 
 
 * There are many now — now one — 
 
 Now they stop ; and there are none. 
 
 What intenseness of desire 
 In her upward eye of fire ! 
 
 With a tiger-leap half-way 
 Now she meets the coming prey, 
 
 Lets it go as fast, and then 
 Has it in her power again ; 
 
 Now she works with three or four, 
 
 Like an Indian conjurer ; 
 
2G 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Quick as he in feats of art, 
 
 F ar beyond in joy of heart. 
 
 ’T is a pretty baby-treat ; 
 
 Nor, I deem, for me unmeet ; 
 
 Here, for neither babe nor me, 
 
 Other playmate can I see. 
 
 Such a light of gladness breaks, 
 Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — - 
 Spreads with such a living grace 
 O’er my little Lizzie’s face ; 
 
 Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
 Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, 
 That almost I could repine 
 That your transports are not mine, — 
 That I do not wholly fare 
 Even as ye do, thoughtless pair ! 
 
 And I will have my careless season 
 Spite of melancholy reason ; 
 
 Will walk through life in such a way 
 That, when time brings on decay, 
 Now and then I may possess 
 Hours of perfect gladsomeness. 
 Pleased by any random toy, — 
 
 By a kitten’s busy joy, 
 
THE CHILD’S SONG. 
 
 27 
 
 Or an infant’s laughing eye 
 Sharing in the ecstasy, — 
 
 I would fain, like that or this, 
 
 Find my wisdom in my bliss ; 
 
 Keep the sprightly soul awake, 
 
 And have faculties to take, 
 
 Even from things by sorrow wrought, 
 Matter for a jocund thought ; — 
 
 Spite of care, and spite of grief, 
 
 To gambol with Life’s falling Leaf. 
 
 THE CHILD’S SONG. 
 
 A little child, beneath a tree 
 Sat and chanted cheerily 
 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 passed a lady by the way, 
 
 Moaning in the face of day : 
 
23 
 
 PICTURES AND FLO AVERS. 
 
 There Avere tears upon her cheek, 
 
 Grief in her heart too great to speak ; 
 
 For she but a feAv 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 showed how bright had been the Past, 
 The Present drear and overcast. 
 
 She stopped and listened to the child 
 That looked to heaven, and singing, smiled ; 
 And as she listened 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 mother’s lips impulsive moved, 
 
 The mother’s grief, though unreproved, 
 Softened, as her trembling tongue 
 Repeated what the infant sung ; 
 
 And though the child — if child it Avere, 
 And not a seraph sitting there — 
 
 Was seen no more, the sorrowing one 
 Went on her way resignedly, 
 
THE WATCHER. 
 
 29 
 
 The song still ringing in her ears, — 
 
 Was it music of the spheres ? 
 
 Who shall tell ? She did not know. 
 
 But in the midst of deepest woe 
 The strain recurred when sorrow grew, 
 To warn her, and console her too : 
 
 “ When the wind blows, the blossoms fall, 
 But a good God reigns over all.” 
 
 THE WATCHER. 
 
 Mother ! watch the little feet 
 Climbing o’er the garden wall, 
 Bounding through the busy street, 
 Ranging cellar, shed, and hall. 
 Never count the moments lost, 
 
 Never mind the time it costs : 
 
 Little feet will go astray ; 
 
 Guide them, mother, while you may. 
 
 Mother ! watch the little hand 
 Picking berries by the way ; 
 Making houses in the sand, 
 
 Tossing up the fragrant hay. 
 
30 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Never dare the question ask, 
 
 “ Why to me this weary task ? ” 
 These same little hands may prove 
 Messengers of light and love. 
 
 Mother ! watch the little tongue, 
 Prattling eloquent and wild, 
 
 What is said, and what is sung, 
 
 By the happy, joyous child. 
 
 Catch the word while yet unspoken ; 
 Stop the vow while yet unbroken ; 
 This same tongue may yet proclaim 
 Blessings in the Saviour’s name. 
 
 Mother ! watch the little heart, 
 Beating soft and warm for you ; 
 Wholesome lessons now impart ; 
 
 Keep, O keep the young heart true 
 Exfricating every weed, 
 
 Sowing good and precious seed, 
 
 • v Harvest rich you then may see, 
 Ripening for eternity. 
 
 . 
 
 o 
 
LITTLE BESSIE. 
 
 31 
 
 LITTLE BESSIE. 
 
 And the mother pressed her darling 
 Closer to her burdened breast ; 
 Next the heart so near its breaking, 
 Lay the heart so near its rest ; 
 
 At the solemn hour of midnight, 
 
 In the darkness calm and deep, 
 Lying on her mother’s bosom, 
 
 Little Bessie fell asleep ! 
 
 TO A CHILD IN PLAYER. 
 
 Fold thy little hands in prayer, 
 
 Bow down at thy Maker’s knee, 
 
 Now thy sunny face is fair, 
 
 Shining through thy golden hair, 
 
 Thine eyes are passion-free ; 
 
 And pleasant thoughts like garlands bind thee • 
 Unto thy home, yet grief may find thee, — 
 Then pray, child, pray. 
 
 2 * 
 
32 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Now thy young heart, like a bird, 
 
 Singeth in its summer nest, 
 
 No evil thought, no unkind word, 
 
 No bitter, angry voice hath stirred 
 The beauty of its rest ; 
 
 But winter cometh, and decay 
 Wasteth thy verdant home away ; 
 
 Then pray, child, pray. 
 
 Thy spirit is a house of glee, 
 
 And gladness harpeth at the door, 
 
 While ever with a merry shout, 
 
 Hope, the May Queen, danceth out, 
 
 Her lips with music running o’er ; 
 
 But Time those strings of joy will sever, 
 And Hope will not dance on forever ; 
 
 Then pray, child, pray. 
 
 Now thy mother’s hymn abideth, 
 Bound thy pillow in the night, 
 And gentle feet creep to thy bed, 
 And o’er thy quiet face is shed 
 The taper’s darkened light. 
 
CHILD-SLEEP. 
 
 33 
 
 But that sweet hymn shall pass away, 
 
 By thee no more those feet shall stay ; 
 
 Then pray, child, pray. 
 
 CHILD-SLEEP. 
 
 But a child ! that bids the world good night 
 In downright earnest, and cuts it quite, — 
 
 Is a cherub no art can copy ; — 
 
34 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 His bed is a perfect halcyon nest, — 
 
 All calm, and balm, and quiet, and rest. 
 ’T is a perfect picture to see him lie, 
 
 As if he had supped on dormouse pie, 
 (An ancient classical dish, by the by,) 
 With a sauce of the syrup of poppy. 
 
 ON MY FIRST SON. 
 
 Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy 
 My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy : 
 Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay 
 Exacted by thy fate on the just day. 
 
 O, could I lose all father now ! for why 
 Will man lament the state he should envy ? 
 
 To have so soon ’scaped world’s and flesh’s rage, 
 And if no other misery, yet age ? 
 
 Rest in soft peace, and asked, say here doth lie 
 Ben Jonson, his best piece of poetry ! 
 
CURIOSITY. 
 
 35 
 
 CURIOSITY. 
 
 (Extract.) 
 
 In the pleased infant see its power expand, 
 
 When first the coral fills his little hand ; 
 
 Throned in his mother’s lap, it dries each tear, 
 
 As her sweet legend falls upon his ear ; 
 
 Next it assails him in his top’s strange hum 
 Breathes in his whistle, echoes in his drum ; 
 
 Each gilded toy that doting love bestows, 
 
 He longs to break, and every spring expose. 
 
 Placed by your hearth, with what delight he pores 
 O’er the bright pages of his pictured stores ! 
 
 How oft he steals upon your graver task, 
 
 Of this to tell you, and of that to ask ! 
 
 And, when the waning hour to bedward bids, 
 Though gentle sleep sit waiting on his lids, 
 
 How winningly he pleads to gain you o’er, 
 
 That he may read one little story more ! 
 
 Nor yet alone to toys or tales confined, 
 
 It sits, dark-brooding, o’er his embryo mind. 
 
 Take him between your knees, peruse his face, 
 While all you know, or think you know, you trace ; 
 
36 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Tell him who spoke creation into birth, 
 
 Arched the broad heavens, and spread the rolling 
 earth ; 
 
 Who formed a pathway for the obedient sun, 
 
 And bade the seasons in their circles run ; 
 
 Who tilled the air, the forest, and the flood, 
 
 And gave man all, for comfort or for food ; 
 
 Tell him they sprang at God’s creating nod, — 
 
 He stops you short with, “ Father, who made God ? ” 
 
 The tear down childhood’s cheek that flows, 
 
 Is like the dew-drop on the rose ; 
 
 When next the summer breeze comes by, 
 
 The bush is waved, the flower is dry. 
 
 Walter Scott. 
 
 THE MORNING-GLORY. 
 
 We wreathed about our darling’s head the morning- 
 glory bright ; 
 
 Her little face looked out beneath, so full of life and 
 light, 
 
THE MORNING-GLORY. 
 
 37 
 
 So lit as with a sunrise, that we could only say, 
 
 She is the morning-glory true, and her poor types 
 are they. 
 
 So always from that happy time we called her by 
 their name, 
 
 ' And very fitting did it seem, for, sure as morning 
 came, 
 
 Behind her cradle-bars she smiled to catch the first 
 faint ray, 
 
 As from the trellis smiles the flower and opens to the 
 day. 
 
 But not so beautiful they rear their airy cups of blue, 
 
 As turned her sweet eyes to the light brimmed with 
 sleep’s tender dew ; 
 
 And not so close their tendrils fine round their sup- 
 ports are thrown, 
 
 As those dear arms whose outstretched plea clasped 
 all hearts to her own. 
 
 We used to think how she had come, even as comes 
 the flower, 
 
 The last and perfect added gift to crown love’s morn- 
 . * irig hour, 
 
38 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 And how in her was imaged forth the love we could 
 not say, 
 
 As on the little dew-drops round shines back the 
 heart of day. 
 
 We never could have thought, O God, that she must 
 wither up, 
 
 Almost before a day was flown, like the morning- 
 glory’s cup ; 
 
 We never thought to see her droop her fair and 
 noble head, 
 
 Till she lay stretched before our eyes, wilted, and 
 cold, and dead. 
 
 The morning-glory’s blossoming will soon be coming 
 round ; 
 
 We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves upspring- 
 ing from the ground ; 
 
 The tender things the winter killed renew again their 
 birth, 
 
 But the glory of our morning has passed away from 
 earth. 
 
TO A CHILD. 
 
 39 
 
 O Earth, in vain our aching eyes stretch over thy 
 green plain ! 
 
 Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, her spirit to 
 sustain ; 
 
 But up in groves of Paradise full surely we shall see 
 Our morning-glory beautiful twine round our dear 
 Lord’s knee. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, 
 And curly pate, and merry eye, 
 
 And arm and shoulders round and sleek, 
 And soft and fair, — thou urchin sly ? 
 
 What boots it who, with sweet caresses, 
 First called thee his, or squire, or hind ? - 
 Since thou, in every wight that passes, 
 
 Dost now a friendly playmate find. 
 
40 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning, 
 
 As fringed eyelids rise and fall, — 
 
 Thy shyness, swiftly from me running, — 
 
 ’T is infantine coquetry all ! 
 
 But far afield thou hast not flown : 
 
 With mocks and threats, half lisped, half spoken, 
 
 I feel thee pulling at my gown, — 
 
 Of right good-will thy simple token. 
 
 And thou must laugh and wrestle too, — 
 
 A mimic warfare with me waging : 
 
 To make, as wily lovers do, 
 
 Thine after-kindness more engaging ! • 
 
 The wilding rose sweet as thyself, 
 
 And new-crop daisies, are thy treasures ; 
 
 I ’d gladly part with worldly pelf, 
 
 To taste again thy youthful pleasures. 
 
 But yet, for all thy merry look, 
 
 Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming 
 
 When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, 
 
 The weary spell of horn-book thumbing. 
 
harry’s letter. 
 
 41 
 
 Well, let it be ! Through weal and woe, 
 Thou know’st not now thy future range : 
 Life is a motley, shifting show, — 
 
 And thou, a thing of hope and change. 
 
 But all ! what light and little things 
 Are childhood’s woes : they break no rest ; 
 Like dew-drops on the skylark’s wings, 
 
 Gone in a moment, when she springs 
 To meet the air with open breast. 
 
 H AERY’S LETTER. 
 
 Dear Bill : — 
 
 Here I am in Lincolnshire. Now I ’ll tell you 
 what I want. I want you to come down here for 
 the holidays. Don’t be afraid. Ask your sister 
 to ask your mother to ask your father to let you 
 come. It ’s only ninety miles. If you ’re out of 
 
42 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 pocket-money, you can walk, and beg a lift now 
 and then, or swing by the dickeys. Put on cordu- 
 roys, and don’t care for cut behind. The two pren- 
 tices, George and Nick, are here to be made far- 
 mers of, and brother Frank is took home from school 
 to help in agriculture. We like farming very much, 
 it ’s capital fun. Us four have got a gun, and go 
 out shooting : it ’& a famous good one, and sure to 
 go off if you don’t full cock it. Tiger is to be our 
 shooting dog as soon as he has left off killing the 
 sheep. He ’s a real savage, and worries cats beau- 
 tiful. Before father comes down, we mean to bait 
 our bull with him. 
 
 There ’s plenty of New Rivers about, and we ’re 
 going a fishing as soon as we have mended our top 
 joint. We ’ve killed one of our sheep on the sly 
 to get gentles. We ’ve a pony too, to ride upon 
 when we can catch him, but he ’s loose in the pad- 
 dock, and has neither mane nor tail to signify to lay 
 hold of. Is n’t it prime, Bill ? You must come. If 
 your mother won’t give your father leave to allow 
 you, — run away. There ’s a pond full of frogs, 
 but we won’t pelt them till you come, but let it be 
 before Sunday, as there ’s our own orchard to rob, 
 and the fruit ’s to be gathered on Monday. 
 
harry’s letter. 
 
 43 
 
 If you like sucking raw eggs, we know where 
 the hens lay, and mother don’t ; and I ’m bound 
 there ’s lots of birds’ nests. Do come, Bill,, and I ’ll 
 show you the wasp’s nest, and everything to make 
 you comfortable. I dare say you could borrow your 
 father’s volunteer musket of him without his know- 
 ing it ; but be sure any how to bring the ramrod, as 
 we ’ve mislaid ours by firing it off* Don’t forget 
 some bird-lime, Bill, and some fish-hooks, — and some 
 different sorts of shot, — and some gunpowder, — 
 and a gentle-box, and some flints, — some May-flies, 
 and a powder-horn, — and a landing-net, — and a 
 dog-whistle, — and some porcupine-quills, and a bul- 
 let-mould, — and a trolling-winch, and a shot-belt, — - 
 and a tin-can. You pay for ’em, Bill, and I ’ll 
 owe it you. 
 
 Your old friend and schoolfellow, 
 
 Harry. 
 
 “ When children are doing nothing, they are doing mischief” 
 
44 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF A REMARKABLE BABY. 
 
 It was a peculiarity of this baby to be always 
 cutting teeth. Whether they never came, or whether 
 they came and went away again, is not in evidence ; 
 but it had certainly cut enough, on the showing of 
 its mother, to make a handsome dental provision for 
 the sign of the Bull and Mouth. All sorts of objects 
 were impressed for the rubbing of its gums, notwith- 
 standing that it always carried, dangling at its waist 
 (which was immediately under its chin), a bone ring, 
 large enough to have represented the rosary of a 
 young nun. Knife-handles, umbrella-tops, the heads 
 of walking-sticks selected from the stock, the fingers 
 of the family, nutmeg-graters, crusts, the handles of 
 doors, and the cool knobs on the tops of pokers, 
 were among the commonest instruments indiscrimi- 
 nately applied for the baby’s relief. The amount of 
 electricity that must have been rubbed out of it in 
 a week is not to be calculated. Still its mother 
 always said, “It was coming through , and then the 
 child would he herself” and still it never did come' 
 through, and the child continued to be somebody else. 
 
THE UNLUCKY ONE. 
 
 45 
 
 THE BOY'S APPEAL. 
 
 0, why must my face be washed so clean, 
 
 And rubbed and scrubbed for Sunday ? 
 
 When you very well know, as you often have seen, 
 ’T will be dirty again on Monday ? 
 
 You rub as hard as ever you can, 
 
 And your hands are rough, to my sorrow ; 
 
 No woman shall wash me when I ’m a man ; 
 
 And I wish I was one to-morrow ! 
 
 THE UNLUCKY ONE. 
 
 Extract from the u Golden Pot.” 
 
 Or a truth, I am born to losses and crosses for 
 my life long! When, in boyhood, at Odds or 
 Evens, I could never once guess the right way ; 
 my bread and butter always fell on the buttered 
 
46 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 side.* Did I ever put on a new garment, with- 
 out the first day smearing it with tallow, or, on 
 some ill-fastened nail or other, tearing a ragged 
 hole in it? 
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 I loye to look on a scene like this, 
 
 Of wild and careless play, 
 
 And persuade myself that I am not old, * 
 And my locks are not yet gray. 
 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man’s heart, 
 And makes his pulses fly, 
 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 
 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 I have walked the world for fourscore years, 
 And they say that I am old ; 
 
 * “ I never had a piece of bread 
 Particularly large and wide, 
 
 But fell upon the sanded floor. 
 
 And always on the buttered side. ” 
 
SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 47 
 
 That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, 
 And my years are well-nigh told. 
 
 It is very true, — it is very true, — 
 
 I ’m old, and I “ bide my time,” — 
 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on ! play on ! I am with you there, 
 
 In the midst of your merry ring ; 
 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
 
 And I whoop the smothered call, 
 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 I am willing to die when my time shall come, 
 And I shall be glad to go, 
 
 For the world, at best, is a weary place, 
 
 And my pulse is getting low ; 
 
 But the grave is dark, and* the heart will fail 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, 
 
 To see the young so gay. 
 
 3 
 
48 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 GONE. 
 
 “ The good die first.” 
 
 Another hand is beckoning on, 
 Another call is given ; 
 
 And glows once more with angel steps 
 The path which reaches Heaven. 
 
 Our youngest, she whose infant smile 
 Made brightest summer hours, 
 
 Amid the frosts of autumn time 
 Has left us with the flowers. 
 
 No paling of the cheek of bloom 
 Forewarned us of decay, 
 
 No shadow from the silent land, 
 
 Fell round our sister’s way. 
 
 The light of her young life went down 
 As sinks behind the hill 
 
 The glory of a setting star, — 
 
 Clear, suddenly, and still. 
 
GONE. 
 
 49 
 
 The blessing of her lovely life 
 Fell on us like the dew ; 
 
 And pure thoughts where her footsteps pressed 
 Like fairy blossoms grew. 
 
 Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds 
 Were in her very look : 
 
 We read her face as one who reads 
 A true and holy book. 
 
 We miss her in the place of prayer, 
 
 And by the hearth’s fire-light ; 
 
 We pause beside her room to hear 
 Once more her sweet, “ Good night.” 
 
 There seems a shadow in the day 
 Her smile no longer cheers, 
 
 A dimness on the stars of night 
 Like eyes that look through tears. 
 
 Alone unto our Father’s will 
 One thought hath reconciled ; 
 
 That He whose love exceedeth ours 
 Hath taken home his child. 
 
50 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Fold her, 0 Father ! in thine arms 
 And let her henceforth be 
 A messenger of love between 
 Our human hearts and thee. 
 
 STAR-CHILD. 
 
 In a pleasant chamber, close beside 
 A lofty window, deep and wide, 
 
 Stood a little bed, in whose bosom deep 
 A young boy went to his nightly sleep. 
 
 The window was as a crystal door, 
 
 Opening out on the silent night ; 
 
 And the radiance of the clear starlight 
 Lay in white streaks on the chamber floor, 
 
 And shone on the pillow and the bed, 
 
 And brightened the sleeper’s beautiful head. 
 
 And all the night, as one by one, 
 
 The shining stars went up the sky, 
 
 They paused and looked through that window high, 
 
STAR-CHILD. 
 
 51 
 
 And as each and every star in turn, 
 
 Like a crown of silver lustre shone, 
 
 Round the head of the boy, more still and deep, 
 More starry and bright, grew his innocent sleep. 
 
 One night he awoke ; and one star, alone, 
 Through that lofty casement was shining down ; 
 He gazed, and he gazed, till it grew like an eye, 
 Placid and clear, in the midnight sky ; 
 
 Then the boy looked trustfully up, and smiled, 
 And the star looked brightly back to the child. 
 The morrow, he went to his pictures and play. 
 But ever and often he turned him away, 
 
 And smiled to his thought, as though a fair dream 
 Were passing him and his sports between ; 
 
 The mother questions him gently the while, 
 
 “ Why does my boy look upward and smile ? ” 
 
 “ O mother, O mother, I would you might see 
 The beautiful angel that’s watching me ! ” 
 
52 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 CHILDHOOD EVER HOPEFUL AND TRUSTFUL. 
 
 While childhood’s light and hope is above us, 
 
 Many and near seem the pleasant fountains, 
 
 And a wide, sweet shade are the hearts that love us, 
 As the vale is kept cool by its guarding mountains. 
 
 And every moss has its moisture cool, 
 
 And every leaf its drop of dew, 
 
 And every covert its glancing pool, 
 
 And by every rock a spring bursts through. 
 
 TO HERMAN. 
 
 Where is my boy ? 
 
 It seems but an hour ago, 
 
 He was digging in the snow, 
 
 Joy and love in his face, 
 
 In his hands a nameless grace, 
 
 As he lifted the heavy spade 
 — The little path he made, 
 
TO HERMAN. 
 
 53 
 
 Half in work, half in play, 
 
 Has not yet melted away. 
 
 You may see it in the snow, 
 
 Lingering as loath to go. 
 
 But he has melted and gone, — 
 
 Gone into earth or air, 
 
 Leaving us so alone ! 
 
 Where is my boy, — O where ? 
 
 Beautiful child ! 
 
 All hearts were drawn around thee by thy manners 
 sweet ; 
 
 Those loved to question thee whom thou didst meet ; 
 
 Noting within thy speaking eye 
 
 The careful thought moulding the just reply. 
 
 That beauty which adorned the dusty street, 
 Suddenly passed away. 
 
 We, unawares, had talked and smiled 
 With an angel undefiled. 
 
 Our eyes were holden, and we did not know 
 That thou so soon must go. 
 
 Happy were we 
 
 Eight years that life to see. 
 
54 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Eight years to reap the harvest of that love, 
 
 That draught of beauty every day to drain, 
 
 Each day to watch that soul without a stain. 
 Happy we are ! 
 
 For though we stand alone, 
 
 Like the disciples, gazing up to heaven 
 Toward our ascended One, 
 
 We know that God, who takes what he has given, 
 Never a soul forsakes, 
 
 And surely gives again that which he takes. 
 
 He who has passed above the sky, 
 
 Has gone in Time, — comes in Eternity. 
 
 This earth was not his sphere : 
 
 Long enough he lingered here ! 
 
 What was ours to teach, he learned ; 
 
 Then passed inward, and returned. 
 
 By no circuitous w.ay of sin and pain 
 He went to Heaven again ; 
 
 But by a path direct pursued his way, 
 
 A steady brightening toward the perfect day. 
 
 As from the world of sense our boy departs, 
 
 God brings him nearer to our heart of hearts ; 
 
OUR CHARLIE. 
 
 55 
 
 Sheds sacred lustre on the infant’s brow, 
 
 Makes him our guardian and our angel now ; 
 
 His young feet pressed Death’s portal without fear, 
 To lift our death-like thoughts, and bring Heaven near. 
 
 OUR CHARLIE. 
 
 A little son — an only son — have we ; 
 
 (God bless the lad, and keep him night and day, 
 And lead him softly o’er the stony way !) 
 
 He is blue-eyed, and flaxen hair has he, 
 
 (Such long ago mine own was wont to be, — 
 And people say he much resembles me.) 
 
 I ’ve never heard a bird or runlet sing 
 So sweetly as he talks. His words are small, 
 Sweet words — 0, how deliciously they fall ! — 
 Much like the sound of silver bells they ring, 
 And fill the house with music. Beauty lies 
 As naturally upon his cheek as bloom 
 Upon a peach. Like morning vapor, flies 
 
 Before his smile my mind’s unfrequent gloom. 
 
 3 * 
 
56 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 A jocund child is he, and full of fun : 
 
 He laughs with happy heartiness ; and he 
 His half-closed eyelids twinkles roguishly, 
 
 Till from their lashes tears start up and run. 
 
 The drops are bright as diamonds. When they roll 
 Adown his cheek they seem to be the o’erflowing 
 Of the deep well of love within his soul, — 
 
 The human tenderness of his nature showing. 
 
 ’T is pleasant to look upon him while he sleeps : 
 
 His plump and chubby arms, and delicate fingers, — 
 The half-formed smile that round his red lip creeps : 
 The intellectual glow that faintly lingers 
 Upon his countenance, as if he talks 
 With some bright angel on his nightly walks. 
 
 We tremble when we think that many a storm 
 May beat upon him in the time to come, — 
 
 That his now beautiful and fragile form 
 May bear a burden sore and wearisome. 
 
 Yet so the stain of guiltiness and shame 
 Be never placed upon his soul and name, — 
 
 So he preserves his virtue though he die, — 
 
 And to his God, his race, his country, prove 
 A faithful man, whom praise nor glory can buy, 
 
 Nor threats of vile, designing men can move, 
 
WEE WILLIE. 
 
 57 
 
 We ask no more. We trust that He, who leads 
 The footsteps of the feeble lamb, will hold 
 This lamb of ours in mercy’s pasture fold, 
 
 Where every inmate near the loving Shepherd feeds. 
 
 WEE WILLIE. 
 
 Fare-thee-well, our last and fairest, 
 Dear wee Willie, fare-thee-well ! 
 
 He who lent thee hath recalled thee 
 Back with him and his to dwell. 
 Fifteen moons their silver lustre 
 Only o’er thy brow had shed, 
 
 When thy spirit joined the seraphs, 
 And thy dust the dead. 
 
 Like a sunbeam through our dwelling 
 Shone thy presence bright and calm ! 
 Thou didst add a zest of pleasure ; 
 
 To our sorrows thou wert balm — 
 
58 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Brighter beamed thine eyes than summer ; 
 
 And thy first attempt at speech 
 Thrilled our heart-strings with a rapture 
 Music ne’er could reach. 
 
 As we gazed upon thee sleeping, 
 
 With thy fine, fair locks outspread, 
 
 Thou didst seem a little angel, 
 
 Who from heaven to earth had strayed ; 
 And, entranced, we watched the vision, 
 Half in hope and half affright, 
 
 Lest what we deemed ours, and earthly, 
 Should dissolve in light. 
 
 Snows o’ermantled hill and valley, 
 
 Sullen clouds obscured the sky, 
 
 When the first drear doubt oppressed us, 
 That our child was doomed to die ! 
 Through each long night-watch the taper 
 Showed the hectic of thy cheek, 
 
 And each anxious dawn beheld thee 
 More worn out and weak. 
 
 T was e’en then Destruction’s angel 
 Shook his pinions o’er our path, — 
 
WEE WILLIE. 
 
 59 
 
 Seized the rosiest of our household, 
 
 And struck Charlie down in death, — * 
 Fearful, awful Desolation 
 On our lintel set his sign ; 
 
 And we turned from his sad death-bed, 
 Willie, round to thine ! 
 
 As the beams of Spring’s first morning 
 Through the silent chamber played, 
 Lifeless, in mine arms I raised thee, 
 
 And in thy small coffin laid ; 
 
 Ere the day-star with the darkness 
 Nine times had triumphant striven, 
 
 In one grave had met your ashes, 
 
 And your souls in Heaven ! 
 
 Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms 
 Of our hopes and hearts and hearth; 
 Two asleep lie buried under, 
 
 Three for us yet gladden earth : 
 
 Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie, 
 
 Willie, thee our snow-drop pure, 
 
 Back to us shall second spring-time 
 Never more allure ! 
 
60 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Yet while thinking, 0 our lost ones ! 
 
 Of how dear ye were to us, 
 
 Why should dreams of doubt and darkness 
 Haunt our troubled spirits thus ? 
 
 Why across the cold, dim churchyard 
 Flit our visions of despair ? 
 
 Seated on the tomb, Faith’s angel 
 Says, “ Ye are not there ! ” 
 
 Where, then, are ye ? With the Saviour 
 Blest, forever blest, are ye, 
 
 ’Mid the sinless, little children, 
 
 Who have heard his “ Come to me ! ” 
 ’Yond the shades of death’s dark valley, 
 Now ye lean Upon his breast, 
 
 Where the wicked dare not enter, 
 
 And the weary rest ! 
 
 We are wicked, — we are weary, — 
 
 For us pray, and for us plead ; 
 
 God, who ever hears the sinless, 
 
 May through you the sinful heed ; 
 
 Pray that through Christ’s mediation, 
 
 All our faults may be forgiven ; 
 
 Plead that ye may be sent to greet us 
 At the gates of Heaven ! 
 
THE IMAGE IN LAYA. 
 
 61 
 
 THE IMAGE IN LAYA. 
 
 The impression of a woman’s form, with an infant clasped to 
 her bosom, was found at the uncovering of Herculaneum. 
 
 Thou thing of years departed ! 
 
 What ages have gone by, 
 
 Since here the mournful seal was set 
 By love and agony ! 
 
 Temple and tower have mouldered, 
 
 Empires from earth have passed, 
 
 And woman’s heart hath left a trace 
 Those glories to outlast ! 
 
 And childhood’s fragile image 
 Thus fearfully enshrined, 
 
 Survives the proud memorials reared 
 By conquerors of mankind. 
 
 Babe ! wert thou calmly slumbering 
 Upon thy mother’s breast, 
 
 When suddenly the fiery tomb 
 Shut round each gentle guest ? 
 
62 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 A strange, dark fate o’ertook you, 
 
 Fair babe and loving heart ! 
 
 One moment of a thousand pangs 
 Yet better than to part ! 
 
 Haply of that fond bosom, 
 
 On ashes here impressed, 
 
 Thou wert the only treasure, child ! 
 Whereon a hope might rest. 
 
 Perchance all vainly lavished, 
 
 Its other love had been, 
 
 And where it trusted, naught remained 
 But thorns on which to lean. 
 
 Far better, then, to perish, 
 
 Thy form within its clasp, 
 
 Than live and lose thee, precious one ! 
 From that impassioned grasp. 
 
 O, I could pass all relics 
 Left by the pomps of old, 
 
 To gaze on this rude monument, 
 
 Cast in affection’s mould ! 
 
TO OUR ELDEST HEIR. 
 
 63 
 
 Love, human love ! what art thou ? 
 
 Thy print upon the dust 
 Outlives the cities of renown 
 Wherein the mighty trust ! 
 
 Immortal, O immortal 
 
 Thou art, whose earthly glow 
 Hath given these ashes holiness, — 
 It must, it must be so ! 
 
 TO OUR ELDEST HEIR. 
 
 Deem not that our eldest heir 
 Wins too much of love and care ; 
 What a parent’s heart can spare, 
 Who can measure duly ? 
 Early crops were never found 
 To exhaust that fertile ground, 
 Still with riches ’t will abound, 
 Ever springing newly. 
 
64 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 See in yonder plot of flowers 
 How the tallest lily towers, 
 
 Catching beams and kindly showers 
 
 Which the heavens are shedding. 
 While the younger plants below,- 
 Less of sun and breezes know, 
 
 Till beyond the shade they grow, 
 
 High and richly spreading. 
 
 She that latest leaves the nest, 
 Little fledgling much carest, 
 
 Is not therefore loved the best, 
 
 Though the most protected ; 
 Nor the gadding, daring child, 
 
 Oft reproved for antics wild, 
 
 Of our tenderness beguiled, 
 
 Or in thought neglected. ~ 
 
 ’Gainst the islet’s rocky shore, 
 Waves are beating evermore, 
 
 Yet with blooms it ’s scattered o’er, 
 Decked in softest lustre : 
 
ART OF BEING HAPPY. 
 
 65 
 
 Nature favors it no less 
 Than the guarded, still recess, 
 Where the birds for shelter press, 
 And the harebells cluster. 
 
 ART OF BEING HAPPY. 
 
 Children may teach us one blessed, one enviable 
 art, — the art of being easily happy. Kind nature 
 has given to them that useful power of accommoda- 
 tion to circumstances which compensates for so many 
 external disadvantages ; and it is only by injudicious 
 management that it is lost. Give him but a mod- 
 erate portion of food and kindness, and the peasant’s 
 child is happier than the duke’s ; free from artificial 
 wants, unsated by indulgence, all nature ministers to 
 his pleasures ; he can carve out felicity from a bit of 
 hazel twig, or fish for it successfully in a puddle. 
 
66 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 WILLIE GOING INTO BREECHES. 
 
 Joy to Willie, he this day 
 Has his long coats cast away, 
 
 And (the childish season gone) 
 
 Puts the manly breeches op. 
 
 Officer on gay parade, 
 
 Redcoat in his first cockade, 
 
 Bridegroom in his wedding trim, 
 Birthday beau surpassing him, 
 
 Never did with conscious gait 
 Strut about in half the state, 
 
 Or the pride (yet free from sin) 
 
 Of my little manikin ; 
 
 Never was there pride or bliss 
 Half so rational as his. 
 
 Sashes, frocks, to those that need ’em, — 
 Willie’s limbs have got their freedom, — 
 He can run, or he can ride, 
 
 And do twenty things beside, 
 
 Which his petticoats forbade ; 
 
 Is he not a happy lad ? 
 
WILLIE GOING INTO BREECHES. 
 
 67 
 
 Now he ’s under other banners 
 He must leave his former manners ; 
 Bid adieu to female games, 
 
 And forget their very names. 
 
 Puss in corners, hide and seek, 
 
 Sports for girls and punies weak ! 
 Baste the bear he now may play at, 
 Leap-frog, football, sport away at, 
 Show his skill and strength at cricket, 
 Mark his distance, pitch his wicket, 
 Run about in winter’s snow 
 Till his cheeks and fingers glow, 
 Climb a tree or scale a wall, 
 
 Without any fear to fall. 
 
 If he get a hurt or bruise, 
 
 To complain he must refuse. 
 
 Though the anguish and the smart 
 Go unto his little heart, 
 
 He must have his courage ready, 
 Keep his voice and visage steady, 
 Brace his eyeballs stiff as drum, 
 
 That a tear may never come, 
 
 And his grief must only speak 
 From the color in his cheek. 
 
68 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 This and more must he endure, 
 Hero he in miniature ! 
 
 This and more must now be done, 
 Now the breeches are put on. 
 
 DOMESTIC INFLUENCE OF CHILDKEN. 
 
 The relations of parents and children are the 
 holiest in our lives ; and there are no pleasures, or 
 cares, or thoughts connected with this world, which 
 reminds us so soon of another. The helpless in- 
 fancy of children sets our own death before us, when 
 they will be left to a world to which we would not 
 trust ourselves ; and the thought of the character 
 they may take in after life brings with it the ques- 
 tion, what awaits them in another. Though there 
 is a melancholy in this, its seriousness has a religious 
 tendency. And the responsibility which a man has 
 laid himself under begets a resoluteness of char- 
 acter, a sense that this world was not made to idle in, 
 and a feeling of dignity that he is acting for a great 
 
DOMESTIC INFLUENCE OF CHILDREN. 69 
 •*- 
 
 end. How heavily does one toil who labors only for 
 himself ; and how is he cast down by the thought of 
 what a worthless creature it is all for ! 
 
 We have heard of the sameness of domestic life. 
 He must have a dull head and little heart who grows 
 weary of it. A man who moralizes feelingly, and 
 has a proneness to see a beauty and fitness in all 
 God’s works, may find daily food for his mind even 
 in an infant. In its innocent sleep, when it seems 
 like some blessed thing dropped from the clouds, with 
 tints so delicate, and with its peaceful breathing, we 
 can hardly think of it as of mortal mould, it looks so 
 like a pure spirit made visible for our delight. 
 
 “ Heaven lies about us in our infancy,” says 
 Wordsworth. And who of us, that is not too good 
 to be conscious of his own vices, who has not felt 
 rebuked and humbled under the clear and open 
 countenance of a child ? Who that has not felt his 
 impurities foul upon him in the presence of a sinless 
 child? These feelings make the best lesson that 
 can be taught a man ; and tell him in a way which' 
 all else he has read or heard never could, how paltry 
 is all the show of intellect compared with a pure and 
 good heart. He that will humble himself and go 
 
70 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 to a child for instruction, will come away a wiser 
 man. 
 
 If children can make us wiser, they surely can 
 make us better. There is no one more to be envied 
 than a good-natured man watching the workings of 
 children’s minds, or overlooking their play. Their 
 eagerness, curious about everything, making out by a 
 quick imagination what they see but a part of, — 
 their fanciful combinations and magic inventions, 
 creating out of ordinary circumstances, and the com- 
 mon things which surround them, strange events 
 and little ideal worlds, and these all working in mys- 
 tery to form matured thought, is study enough for 
 the most acute minds, and should teach us, also, not 
 too officiously to regulate what we so little under- 
 stand. 
 
 The still musing and deep abstraction in which 
 children sometimes sit, affect us as a playful mockery 
 of older heads. The little philosophers have no 
 foolish system, with all its pride and jargon, confusing 
 their brains. Theirs is the natural movement of the 
 soul, intense with new life, and busy after truth, 
 working to some purpose, though without a noise. 
 
 When children are lying about seemingly idle and 
 
DOMESTIC INFLUENCE OF CHILDREN. 71 
 
 dull, we, who have become case-hardened by time 
 and satiety, forget that they are all sensation, that 
 their outstretched bodies are drinking in from the 
 common sun and air, that every sound is taken note 
 of fly the ear, that every floating shadow and passing 
 form come and touch at the sleepy eye, and that the 
 little circumstances and the material world about 
 them make their best school, and will be the instruct- 
 ors and formers of their characters for life. And 
 it is delightful to look on and see how busily the 
 whole acts, with its countless parts fitted to each 
 other, and moving in harmony. There are none of 
 us who have stolen softly behind a child when la- 
 boring in a sunny corner, digging a Lilliputian well, 
 or fencing in a six-inch barn-yard, and listened to 
 his soliloquies, and his dialogues with some imag- 
 inary being, without our hearts being touched by it. 
 Nor have, we observed the flush which crossed his 
 face when finding himself betrayed, without seeing 
 in it the delicacy and propriety of the after man. 
 
 A man may have many vices upon him, and have 
 walked long in a bad course, yet if he has a love 
 of children, and can take pleasure in their talk and 
 play, there is something still left in him to act upon, 
 4 
 
72 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 — something which can love simplicity and truth. I 
 have seen one in whom some lo^ vice had become 
 a habit, make himself the plaything of a set of riot- 
 ous children, with as much delight in his countenance 
 as if nothing hut goodness had ever been expressed 
 in it ; and have felt as much of kindness and sym- 
 pathy toward him, as I have of revolting toward 
 another, who has gone through life with all due 
 propriety, with a cold and supercilious bearing to- 
 wards children, which makes them shrinking and still. 
 I have known one like the latter attempt, with un- 
 couth condescension, to court an open-hearted child, 
 who would draw back with an instinctive aversion ; 
 and I have felt as if there were a curse upon him. 
 Better to be driven out from among men, than to be 
 disliked of children. 
 
 “ Is there, of the sounds that float 
 Minglingly, a single note 
 Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, 
 \s the laughter of a child ! ” 
 
EARLY LOST, EARLY SAVED. 
 
 73 
 
 EARLY LOST, EARLY SAVED. 
 
 “ Whom the gods love, die young.’* 
 
 "Within her downy cradle there lay a little child, 
 
 And a group of hovering angels unseen upon her 
 smiled. 
 
 A strife arose among them, — a loving, holy strife, — 
 
 Which should shed the richest blessing over the new- 
 born life. 
 
 One breathed upon her features, and the babe in 
 beauty grew 
 
 With a cheek like morning’s blushes, and an eye of 
 azure hue ; 
 
 Till every one who saw her was thankful for the 
 sight 
 
 Of a face so sweet, and radiant with ever fresh de- 
 light. 
 
 Another gave her accents, and a voice as musical 
 
 As a spring bird’s joyous carol, or a rippling stream- 
 let’s fall ; 
 
74 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Till all who heard her laughing or her words of 
 childish grace 
 
 Loved as much to listen to her, as to look upon her 
 face. 
 
 Another brought from heaven a clear and gentle 
 mind, 
 
 And within the lovely casket the precious gem en- 
 shrined ; 
 
 Till all who knew her wondered that God should be 
 so good 
 
 As to bless with such a spirit our desert world and 
 rude. 
 
 Thus did she grow in beauty, in melody and truth, 
 
 The budding of her childhood just opening into youth, 
 
 And to our hearts yet dearer every moment than 
 before 
 
 She became, though we thought fondly heart could 
 not love her more. 
 
 Then outspake another angel, nobler, brighter than 
 the rest, 
 
 As with strong arm, but tender, he caught her to his 
 breast : 
 
EARLY LOST, EARLY SAVED. 
 
 75 
 
 “ Te have made her all too lovely for a child of 
 mortal race, 
 
 But no shade of human sorrow shall darken o’er her 
 face : 
 
 “ Ye have tuned to gladness only the accents of her 
 tongue, 
 
 And no wail of human anguish shall from her lips be 
 wrung, 
 
 Nor shall the soul that shineth so purely from within 
 
 Her form of earth-born frailty ever know the taint 
 of sin : 
 
 “Lulled in my faithful bosom, I will bear her far 
 away, 
 
 Where there is nor sin, nor anguish, nor sorrow, nor 
 decay : 
 
 And mine, a bo5n more glorious than all the gifts 
 shall be, — 
 
 Lo ! I crown her happy spirit with immortality.” 
 
 Then on his heart our darling yielded up her gentle 
 breath, — 
 
 For the stronger, brighter angel who loved her best 
 was Death. 
 
76 
 
 PICTURES AMD FLOWERS. 
 
 HEALTH AND PLAY versus TUBERCULAR 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 In early years, while the child “ feels its life in 
 every limb,” it lives in the body and for the body to 
 a very great extent. It ought to be so. There have 
 been many interesting children who have shown a 
 wonderful indifference to the things of earth and an 
 extraordinary development of the spiritual nature. 
 There is a perfect literature of their biographies, all 
 alike in their essentials ; the same “ disinclination to 
 the usual amusements of childhood;” the same re- 
 markable sensibility ; the same docility ; the same 
 conscientiousness ; in short, an almost uniform char- 
 acter, marked by beautiful traits, which we look at 
 with a painful admiration. It will be found that 
 most of these children are the subjects of some con- 
 stitutional unfitness for living, the most frequent of 
 which I need not mention. They are like the beau- 
 tiful, blushing, half-grown fruit that falls before its 
 time because <its core is gnawed out. They have 
 their meaning, — they do not live in vain, — but 
 they are windfalls. I am convinced that many 
 
HEALTH AND PLAY. 
 
 77 * 
 
 healthy children are injured morally by being forced 
 to read too much about these little meek sufferers 
 and their spiritual exercises. Here is a boy that 
 loves to run, swim, kick football, turn somersets, 
 make faces, whittle, fish, tear his clothes, coast, skate, 
 fire crackers, blow squash “ footers,” cut his name on 
 fences, read about Robinson Crusoe and Sinbad the 
 Sailor, eat the widest angled slices of pie and untold 
 cakes and candies, crack nuts with his back teeth and 
 bite out the better part of another boy’s apple with 
 his front ones, turn up coppers, “ stick ” knives, call 
 names, throw stones, knock off hats, set mousetraps, 
 chalk door-steps, “ cut behind ” anything on wheels 
 or runners, whistle through his teeth, “ holler ” fire ! 
 on slight evidence, run after soldiers, patronize an 
 engine-company, or, in his own words, “blow for 
 tub No. 11,” or whatever it may be; — isn’t that a 
 pretty nice sort of a boy, though he has not got any- 
 thing the matter with him that takes the taste of this 
 world out? Now, when you put into such a hot- 
 blooded, hard-fisted, round-cheeked little rogue’s hand 
 a sad-looking volume or pamphlet, with the portrait 
 of a thin, white-faced child, whose life is really as 
 much a training for death as the last month of a con- 
 
78 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 demned criminars existence, what does he find in 
 common between his own overflowing and exulting 
 sense of vitality and the experiences of the doomed 
 offspring of invalid parents ? The time comes when 
 we have learned to understand the music of sorrow, 
 the beauty of resigned suffering, the holy light that 
 plays over the pillow of those who die before their 
 time, in humble hope and trust. But it is not until 
 he has worked his way through the period of honesty 
 hearty animal existence, which every robust child 
 should make the most of, — not until he has learned 
 the use of his various faculties, which is his first duty, 
 — that a boy of courage and animal vigor is in a 
 proper state to read these tearful records of prema- 
 ture decay. I have no doubt that disgust is implanted 
 in the minds of many healthy children by early sur- 
 feits of pathological piety. I do verily believe that 
 He who took children in His arms and blessed them, 
 loved the healthiest and most playful of them just as 
 well as those who were richest in the tuberculous 
 virtues. 
 
BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. 
 
 79 
 
 BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. 
 
 Buttercups and daisies, — 
 
 0, the pretty flowers 
 Coming ere the spring-time 
 To, tell of sunny hours. 
 
 While the trees are leafless, 
 
 While the fields are bare, 
 Buttercups and daisies 
 Spring up here and there. 
 
 Little hardy flowers, 
 
 Like to children poor, 
 
 Playing in their sturdy health 
 By their mother’s door ; 
 
 Purple with the north- wind, 
 
 Yet alert and bold ; 
 
 Fearing not and caring not, 
 Though they may be cold. 
 What to them is weather ! 
 
 What are stormy showers ? 
 Buttercups and daisies, 
 
 Are these human flowers ? 
 
 4 * 
 
80 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 He who gave them hardship, 
 
 And a life of care, 
 
 Gave them likewise hardy strength, 
 And patient hearts to bear. 
 
 MY CHILD. 
 
 I cannot make him dead ! 
 
 His fair, sunshiny head 
 Is ever bounding round my study-chair ; 
 
 Yet when my eyes, now dim 
 With tears, I turn to him, 
 
 The vision vanishes, — he is not there ! 
 
 I walk my parlor floor, 
 
 And, through the open door, 
 
 I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; 
 
 I ’m stepping towards the hall, 
 
 To give the boy a call ; 
 
 And then bethink me, — that he is not there ! 
 
MY CHILD. 
 
 81 
 
 I thread the crowded street ; 
 
 A satchelled lad I meet, 
 
 With the same beaming eyes and colored hair ; 
 And, as he ’s running by, 
 
 Follow him with my eye, 
 
 Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! 
 
 I know his face is hid 
 Under the coffin lid ; 
 
 Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead ; 
 
 My hand that marble felt ; 
 
 O’er it in prayer I knelt ; 
 
 Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 
 
 I cannot make him dead ! 
 
 When passing by the bed 
 So long watched over by parental care, 
 
 My spirit and my eye 
 Seek it inquiringly ; 
 
 Before Ihe thought comes that — he is not there ! 
 
 When at the cool, gray break 
 Of day, from sleep I wake, 
 
 With my first breathing of the morning air 
 
82 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 My soul goes up with joy 
 To him who gave my boy, 
 
 Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there 
 
 When at the day’s calm close, 
 
 Before we seek repose, 
 
 I ’m with his mother offering up our prayer, 
 Whate’er I may be saying , 
 
 I am, in spirit, praying 
 For our boy’s spirit, though he is not there ! 
 
 Not there ! Where, then, is he ? 
 
 The form I used to see 
 Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 
 
 The grave that now doth press 
 Upon that cast-off dress 
 Is but his wardrobe locked — he is not there ! 
 
 He lives ! in all the past 
 He lives ! nor to the last 
 Of seeing him again will I despair. 
 
 In dreams I see him now ; 
 
 And on his angel brow 
 I see it written, — Thou shalt see me there / 
 
JOY IN SORROW. 
 
 83 
 
 Yes, we all live to God ! 
 
 Father, thy chastening rod 
 So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 
 
 That in the Spirit land, 
 
 Meeting at thy right hand, 
 
 T will be our heaven to find that — he is there ! 
 
 JOY IN SORROW. 
 
 Have we not knelt beside his bed, 
 
 And watched our first-born blossom die ? 
 Hoped, till the shade of hope had fled, 
 Then wept till feeling’s fount was dry ? 
 Was it not sweet, in that dark hour, 
 
 To think, ’mid mutual tears and sighs, 
 Our bud had left its earthly bower, 
 
 And burst to bloom in Paradise ? 
 
 What to the thought that soothed that woe 
 Were life’s best joys — ten years ago ? 
 
84 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 But one dead lamb is there ! 
 
 There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended, 
 
 But has one vacant chair ! 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 
 The heart of Rachel for her children crying 
 Will not be comforted ! 
 
 Let us be patient ! these severe afilictions 
 Not from the ground arise ; 
 
 But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
 Assume this dark disguise. 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; 
 
 Amid these earthly damps 
 What seem to us but dim, funereal tapers, 
 
 May be heaven’s distant lamps. 
 
 There is no death ! what seems so is transition ; 
 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, 
 
 Whose portal we call Death. 
 
RESIGNATION. 
 
 85 
 
 She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 
 But gone unto that school, 
 
 Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
 And Christ himself doth rule. 
 
 In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion 
 By guardian angels led, 
 
 Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution, 
 
 She lives, whom we call dead. 
 
 Day after day we think what she is doing 
 In those bright realms of air ; 
 
 Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 
 
 Behold her grown more fair. 
 
 Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 
 The bond which nature gives, 
 
 Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 
 May reach her where she lives. 
 
 •Not ns a child shall we again behold her ; 
 
 For when with raptures wild 
 
 In our embraces we again enfold her, 
 
 She will not be a child ; 
 
86 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion, 
 Clothed with celestial grace ; 
 
 And beautiful, with all the soul’s expansion, 
 
 Shall we behold her face. 
 
 And though at times, impetuous with emotion 
 And anguish long suppressed, 
 
 The swelling heart heaves, moaning like the ocean 
 That cannot be at rest ; 
 
 We will be patient ! and assuage the feeling 
 We cannot wholly stay ; 
 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing 
 The grief that must have way. 
 
YOUTH ETERNAL. 
 
 87 
 
 YOUTH ETERNAL. 
 
 Thou drt young, God most loving 
 Gives to each one, in his turn, 
 
 This sweet gift, all other crowning, 
 Youth in feeling and in form. 
 
 This is thy enchanted hour, — 
 
 Thou art young, — and bird and bee, 
 Bursting dawn and springing flower 
 Share thy secret sympathy. 
 
 Thou art young, — and impulse free, 
 Soaring love, and fancies bold, 
 Whisper one command to thee, — 
 Never, never grow thou old ! 
 
 Let the silken lock grow gray, 
 
 Let the rounded form decline, — 
 
 But the gloss of feeling stay, 
 
 But the glowing soul be thine. 
 
 Fearless faith and generous choice, — 
 Purest love and boundless truth, 
 Wear these roses and rejoice, 
 
 In eternity of youth ! 
 
88 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS* 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 • • 
 
 He must be incorrigibly unamiable, who is not a 
 little improved by becoming a father. The selfish 
 bachelor may shudder when he thinks of the con- 
 sequences of a family; he may picture to himself 
 littered rooms and injured furniture, imagine the 
 noise and confusion, the expense and the cares, from 
 which he is luckily free ; hug himself in his solitude, 
 and pity his unfortunate neighbor, who has half a 
 dozen squalling children to torment and impoverish 
 him. The unfortunate neighbor, however, returns 
 the compliment with interest, sighs over the loneli- 
 ness of the wealthy bachelor, and can never see, 
 without feelings of regret, rooms where no stray 
 plaything tells of the occasional presence of a child ; 
 gardens where no tiny footmark reminds him of his 
 treasures at home. He has listened to his heart, and 
 learned from it a precious secret ; he knows how to 
 convert noise into harmony, expense into self-gratifi- 
 cation, and trouble into amusement ; and he reaps 
 in one day’s intercourse with his family a harvest 
 of love and enjoyment rich enough to repay years 
 
CHILDHOOD. 
 
 89 
 
 of toil and care. He listens eagerly on his thresh- 
 old for the boisterous greeting he is sure to receive, 
 feels refreshed by the mere pattering sound of the 
 darlings’ feet, as they hurry to receive his kiss, and 
 cures, by a noisy game at romps, the weariness and 
 headache which he gained in his intercourse with 
 men. But it is not only to their parents and near 
 connections that children are interesting and delight- 
 ful ; they are general favorites, and their caresses are 
 slighted by none but the strange, the affected, or the 
 morose. Even men may condescend to sport with 
 them without fear of contempt; and for those who 
 like to -shelter themselves under authority, and can- 
 not venture to be wise and happy their own way, we 
 have plenty of splendid examples, ancient and mod- 
 ern, living and dead, to adduce, which may sanction 
 a love for these pigmy playthings. Statesmen have 
 romped with them, orators told them stories, conquer- 
 ors submitted to their blows, judges, divines, and phi- 
 losophers listened to their prattle, and joined in their 
 sports. Spoiled children are, however, excepted 
 from this partiality ; every one joins in visiting the 
 faults of others upon their heads, and hating these 
 unfortunate victims of their parents’ folly. They 
 
90 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 must be bribed to good behavior, like many of their 
 elders; they insist upon fingering your watch, and 
 spoiling what they do not understand, like numbers 
 of the patrons of literature and the arts ; they will 
 sometimes cry for the moon, as absurdly as Alex- 
 ander for more worlds ; and when they are angry, 
 they have no mercy for cups and saucers. They 
 are as unreasonable, impatient, selfish, exacting, and 
 whimsical, as grown-up men and women, and only 
 want the varnish of politeness and mask of hypocrisy 
 to complete the likeness. 
 
 Another description of children, deservedly un- 
 popular, is the over-educated and superexeellent, 
 who despise dolls and drums, and, ready only for 
 instruction, have no wish for a holiday, no fancy for 
 a fairy tale. They appear to have a natural taste 
 for pedantry and precision ; their wisdom never in- 
 dulges in a nap, at least before company ; they have 
 learned the Pestalozzi system, and weary you with 
 questions ; they require you to prove everything you 
 assert, are always on the watch to detect you in a 
 verbal inaccuracy, or a slight mistake in a date. 
 But, notwithstanding the infinite pains taken to spoil 
 nature’s lovely works, there is a principle of re- 
 
CHILDHOOD. 
 
 91 
 
 sistanee, which allows only of partial success ; and 
 numbers of sweet children exist, to delight, and 
 soothe, and divert us, when we are wearied or 
 fretted by grown-up people, and to justify all that 
 has been said or written of the charms of childhood. 
 Perhaps only women, their natural nurses and faith- 
 ful protectresses, can thoroughly appreciate the at- 
 tractions of the first few months of human existence. 
 The recumbent position, the fragile limbs, the lethar- 
 gic tastes, and ungrateful indifference to notice, of a 
 very young infant, render it uninteresting to most 
 gentlemen, except its father; and he is generally 
 afraid to touch it, for fear of breaking its neck. But 
 even in this state, mothers, grandmothers, aunts, and 
 nurses assure you that strong indications of sense 
 and genius may be discerned in the little animal; 
 and I have known a clatter of surprise and joy 
 excited through a whole family, and matter afforded 
 for twenty long letters and innumerable animated 
 conversations, by some marvellous demonstration of 
 intellect in a creature in long clothes, who could not 
 hold its head straight. 
 
 But as soon as the baby has acquired firmness 
 and liveliness ; as soon as it smiles at a familiar face, 
 and stares at a strange one ; as soon as it employs 
 
92 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 its hands and eyes in constant expeditions of dis- 
 covery, and crows, and leaps, from the excess of 
 animal contentment, — it becomes an object of in- 
 definable and powerful interest, to which all the 
 sympathies of our nature attach us, — an object at 
 once of curiosity and tenderness, interesting as it is 
 in its helplessness and innocence, doubly interesting 
 from its prospects and destiny ; interesting to a phi- 
 losopher, doubly interesting to a Christian. 
 
 BABIE BELL. 
 
 THE POEM OF A LITTLE LIFE THAT WAS BUT THERE 
 APRILS LONG. 
 
 “ If she had lived, I think she would have been 
 Lilies without, and roses within.” 
 
 Have you not heard the poet tell 
 How came the dainty Babie Bell 
 Into this world of ours ? 
 
 The gates of Heaven were left ajar : 
 
 With folded hands and dreamy eyes 
 Wandering out of Paradise, 
 
 She saw this planet, like a star, 
 
BABIE BELL. 
 
 93 
 
 Hung in the purple depths of even, — 
 
 Its bridges, running to and fro, 
 
 O’er which the white winged Angels go, 
 Bearing the holy Dead to Heaven. 
 
 She touched a bridge of flowers, — those feet 
 So light, they did not bend the bells 
 Of the celestial asphodels 
 They fell like dew upon the flowers, 
 
 And all the air grew strangely sweet ! 
 
 And thus came dainty Babie Bell 
 Into this world of ours. 
 
 She came and brought delicious May. 
 
 The swallows visit beneath the eaves ; 
 
 Like sunlight in and out the leaves, 
 
 The robins went, the livelong day ; 
 
 # The lily swung its noiseless bell, 
 
 And o’er the porch the trembling vine 
 Seemed bursting with its veins of wine ! 
 How sweetly, softly, twilight fell ! 
 
 O, earth was full of singing birds, 
 
 And happy spring-tide flowers, 
 
 When the dainty Babie Bell 
 
 Came to this world of ours ! 
 
94 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 O Babie, dainty Babie Bell ! 
 
 How fair she grew from day to day ! 
 
 What woman nature filled her eyes, 
 
 What poetry within them lay ! 
 
 Those deep and tender twilight eyes, 
 
 So full of meaning, pure and bright 
 As if she yet stood in the light 
 Of those oped gates of Paradise ! 
 
 And we l^ved Babie more and more ; 
 
 Ah, never in our hearts before 
 Was love so lovely born ! 
 
 We felt we had a link between 
 This real world and that unseen, — 
 
 The land beyond the morn ! 
 
 And for love of those dear eyes, 
 
 For love of her whom God led forth, 
 
 (The mother’s being ceased on earth 
 When Babie came from Paradise !) 
 
 For love of Him who smote our lives, 
 
 And woke the chords of joy and pain, 
 
 We said, “Sweet Christ!” — our hearts bent 
 down 
 
 Like violets after rain. 
 
BAB IE BELL. 
 
 95 
 
 And now the orchards, which in June 
 
 Were white and rosy in their bloom — 
 Filling the crystal veins of air 
 
 With gentle pulses of perfume — 
 Were rich in Autumn’s mellow prime, 
 
 The plums were globes of honeyed wine, — 
 The hived sweets of summer-time ! 
 
 The ivory chestnut burst its shell ; 
 
 The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell. 
 The grapes were purpling in the grange, 
 And time wrought just as rich a change 
 In little Babie Bell ! 
 
 Her tiny form more perfect grew, 
 
 And in her feature we could trace, 
 
 In softened curves, her mother’s face ! 
 Her angel nature ripened too. 
 
 We thought her lovely when she came, 
 
 But she was holy, saintly now .... 
 Around her pale, angelic brow 
 We saw a slender ring of flame ! 
 
 God’s hand had taken away the seal 
 
 Which held the portals of her speech ; 
 And oft she said a few strange words, 
 
 Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. 
 
 5 
 
 • « 
 
96 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 She never was a child to us, • 
 
 We never held her being’s key ! 
 
 We could not teach her holy things : 
 
 She was Christ’s self in purity ! 
 
 It came upon us by degrees ; 
 
 We saw its shadow ere it fell, 
 
 The knowledge that our God had sent 
 His messenger for Babie Bell ! 
 
 We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, 
 
 And all our hopes were changed to fears, 
 And all our thoughts ran into tears, 
 
 Like sunshine into rain ! 
 
 We cried aloud in our belief, 
 
 “ O, smite us gently, gently, God ! 
 
 Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, 
 
 And perfect grow through grief.” 
 
 Ah ! how we loved her God, can tell ; 
 
 Her little heart was cased in ours ! 
 
 Our hearts are broken, Babie Bell ! 
 
 At last he came, the messenger, 
 
 The messenger fi;om unseen lands : 
 
 And what did dainty Babie Bell ? 
 
 She only crossed her little hands, 
 
EXTRACT FROM ELIA. 
 
 97 
 
 She only looked more meek and fair ! 
 
 We parted back her silken hair ; 
 
 We laid some buds upon her brow. 
 
 White buds, like scented flakes of snow, — 
 Death’s bride, arrayed in flowers ! 
 
 And thus went dainty Babie Bell 
 Out of this world of ours ! 
 
 EXTRACT FROM “ELIA” 
 
 Let the dreams of classic idolatry perish, — ex- 
 tinct be the fairies and fairy trumpery of legendary 
 fabling, — in the heart of childhood there will forever 
 spring up a well of innocent or wholesome supersti- 
 tion, — the seeds of exaggeration will be busy ther^ 
 and vital, — from every day forms educing the un- 
 known and the uncommon. In that little Goshen 
 there will be light, when the grown-up world floun- 
 ders about in the darkness of sense and materiality. 
 While childhood, and while dreams, reducing child- 
 hood, shall be left, — imagination shall not have 
 spread her holy wings totally to fly the earth. 
 
98 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 ON A BRANCH OF FLOWERING ACACIA. 
 
 The blossoms hang again upon the tree, 
 
 As when with their sweet breath they greeted me 
 Against my casement, on that sunny morn, 
 
 When thou, first blossom of my spring, wast born, 
 And as I lay, panting from the fierce strife, 
 
 With death and agony that won thy life, 
 
 Their sunny clusters hting on their brown bough, 
 E’en as upon my breast, my May Bud, thou. 
 
 They seem to me thy sisters, O my child ! 
 
 And now the air, full of their fragrance mild 
 
 Recalls that hour ; a tenfold agony 
 
 Pulls at my heartstrings as I think of thee. 
 
 Was it in vain ! O, was it all in vain ! 
 
 That night of hope, of terror, and of pain, 
 
 When from the shadowy boundaries of death, 
 
 I brought thee safely, breathing living breath. — 
 Upon my heart, — it was a holy shrine, 
 
 Full of God’s praise, — they laid thee, treasure mine ! 
 And from its tender depths the blue heavens smiled, 
 And the white blossoms bowed to thee, my child, 
 And solemn joy of a new life was spread, 
 
 Like a mysterious halo, round that bed. 
 
A CHILD IS BORN. 
 
 99 
 
 A CHILD IS BORN. 
 
 A child is born, — now take the germ and make it 
 A bud of moral beauty. Let the dews 
 Of knowledge and the light of virtue, wake it 
 In richest fragrance and in purest hues : 
 
 When passion’s gust and sorrow’s tempest shake it 
 The shelter of affection ne’er refuse, 
 
 For soon the gathering hand of death will break it, 
 From its weak stem of life ; and it shall lose 
 All power to charm ; but if that lovely flower 
 Hath swelled one pleasure, or subdued one pain, 
 0, who shall say that it hath lived in vain, 
 
 However fugitive its breathing hour ? 
 
 For virtue leaves its sweets wherever tasted, 
 
 And scattered truth is never, never wasted. 
 
 “ The boy carried in his face the 1 Open Sesame ’ to every door 
 and heart.” 
 
 C. Sedgwick. 
 
100 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 THOUGHTS WHILE SHE ROCKS THE 
 CRADLE. 
 
 What is the little one thinking about ? 
 
 Very wonderful thing no doubt, 
 
 Unwritten history ! 
 
 Unfathomable mystery ! 
 
 But he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, 
 And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, 
 As if his head were as full of kinks, 
 
 And curious riddles, as any sphinx ! 
 
 Warped by colic, and wet by tears, 
 
 Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, 
 
 Our little nephew will lose two years, 
 
 And he ’ll never know 
 Where the summers go ! 
 
 He need not laugh, for he ’ll find it so ! 
 
 Who can tell what the baby thinks ? 
 
 Who can follow the gossamer links 
 By which the manikin feels his way, 
 
 Out from the shores of the great unknown, 
 
THOUGHTS WHILE SHE ROCKS THE CRADLE. 101 
 
 Blind and wailing and alone, 
 
 Into the light of day ? 
 
 Out from the shores of the unknown sea 
 Tossing in pitiful agony ! 
 
 Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
 
 Specked with the barks of little souls, — 
 
 Barks that were launched on the other side, 
 
 And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! 
 
 And what does he think of his mother’s eyes ? 
 What does he think of his mother’s hair ? 
 
 What of the cradle roof that flies 
 Forward and backward through the air ? 
 
 What does he think of his mother’s breast, 
 
 Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
 
 Seeking it ever with fresh delight, 
 
 Cup of his joy, and couch of his rest ? 
 
 What does he think when her quick embrace 
 Presses his hand and buries his face 
 
 Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell 
 With a tenderness she can never tell, 
 
 Though she murmur the words of all the birds, — 
 Words she has learned to murmur so well ! 
 
102 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Now he thinks he ’ll go to sleep ! 
 
 I can see the shadows creep 
 Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, 
 Over his brow, and over his lips, 
 Out in his little finger tips, — 
 Softly sinking, down he goes, 
 
 Down he goes, down he goes, 
 
 See ! he is hushed in sweet repose ! 
 
 “ The smallest planet is ‘nearest the sun. Ye stand nearest to 
 God, ye little ones.” 
 
 “ Children are God’s apostles ; day by day sent forth to preach 
 of love, and hope, and peace.” 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 THE PLAYFUL CHILDREN JUST LET LOOSE 
 FROM SCHOOL. 
 
 FROM SIIENSTONE’S “ SCHOOLMISTRESS.”. 
 
 But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky, 
 And liberty unbars her prison door, 
 

 
THE PLAYFUL SCHOOL-CHILDREN. 103 
 
 And like a rushing torrent out they fly ; 
 
 And now the grassy cirque have covered o’er 
 With boisterous revel, rout, and wild uproar ; 
 
 A thousand ways in wanton rings they run. 
 Heaven shield their shortlived pastimes, I implore ; 
 For well may Freedom erst so dearly won 
 Appear to childish elf more gladsome than the sun. 
 
 Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade, 
 
 And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers ; 
 For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid, 
 
 O, never may ye taste more careless hours 
 In knightly castles or in ladies’ bowers. 
 
 O, vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! 
 
 But most in courts, where proud ambition towers ; 
 Deluded wight ! who weens fair peace can spring 
 Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. 
 
 See in each sprite some various bent appear ! 
 
 These rudely carol most incondite lay ; 
 
 Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer 
 Salute the stranger passing on his way ; 
 
 Some builden fragile tenements of clay ; 
 
 Some to the standing lake their courses bend, 
 
104 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play ; 
 Thilk to the huckster’s savory cottage lend, 
 
 In pastry kings and queens the allotted mite to spend. 
 
 Here as each season yields a different store, 
 
 Each season’s stores in order ranged been ; 
 
 Apples with cabbage-net y-covered o’er, 
 
 Galling full sore the unmoneyed wight, are seen, 
 See, cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, 
 
 With thread so white in tempting posies tied, 
 Scattering, like blooming maid, their glances round, 
 With pampered look draw little eyes aside ; 
 
 And must be bought, though penury betide. 
 
 O, may no wight e’er penniless come there, 
 
 Lest, smit with ardent love, he pines with hopeless 
 care. 
 
 MY FIRST PLAY. 
 
 FRAGMENT FROM “ ELIA.” 
 
 Trgs boxes at that time, full of well-dressed women 
 of quality, projected over the pit ; and the pilasters 
 
VERSICLES. 
 
 105 
 
 reaching down were adorned with a glistening sub 
 stance (I know not what) under glass (as it seemed), 
 resembling — a homely fancy — but I judged it to be 
 sugar-candy, — yet to my raised imagination, divested 
 of its homelier qualities, it appeared a glorified 
 candy ! 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 VERSICLES. 
 
 (for fathers and mothers only) on an infant daughter’s first 
 
 •WALKING. 
 
 Ha ! ambitious little elf ! 
 
 Off by thy adventurous self? 
 
 Fairly off ? O fair betide thee ! 
 
 With no living thing beside thee ; 
 
 Not a chair to creep or crawl by ; 
 
 Not a finger-tip to catch at ; 
 
 Not a sleeve or skirt to snatch at ; 
 
 Fairly off at length to sea, 
 
 F ull twelve inches (can it be 
 Really, truly ?) from the lee 
 Of mamma’s protecting knee ! 
 
106 . PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Fair and softly, — soft and fairly, — • 
 Little bark, thou sail’st it rarely, 
 
 In thy new-born power and pride 
 O’er the carpet’s level tide, 
 
 ♦ Lurching, though, from side to side, 
 Ever and anon, and heeling 
 Like a tipsy cherub reeling, 
 
 (If e’en cherubs, saucy gypsy ! 
 
 Smile like thee, or e’er get tipsy !) 
 Even as though yon dancing mote, 
 
 In the sunny air afloat, 
 
 Or the merest breath that met thee, 
 Might suffice to overset thee ! 
 
 Helm a weather ! steady, steady ! 
 Nay, the danger ’s past already ; 
 Thou, with gentle course, untroubled, 
 Table- Cape full well hast doubled, 
 Sofa Point hast shot ahead, 
 
 Safe by Footstool-Island sped, 
 
 And art steering, well and truly, 
 
 On for Closet Harbor duly ! 
 
 Anchor now, or turn in time, 
 
 Ere within the torrid clime 
 
YERSICLES. 
 
 107 
 
 Which the topic fender bounds, 
 
 And with brazen zone surrounds ; 
 
 Turn thee, weary little vessel, 
 
 Nor with further perils wrestle ; 
 
 Turn thee to refit a while 
 In the sweetly sheltering smile 
 Of thine own Maternal Isle, 
 
 In the haven of dear rest 
 Proffered by the doating breast, 
 
 And the ever-ready knee 
 Of a mother true to thee, 
 
 As the best of mothers be ! 
 
 Nay ! adventurous little ship ! 
 
 If thine anchor ’s still a-trip, 
 
 And, instead of port, you choose 
 Such another toilsome cruise, 
 Wheresoe’er the whim may lead thee, 
 On, my treasure ! and God speed thee ! 
 Hackneyed as, perchance, they be, 
 Solemn words as these to me, 
 
 Nor from an irreverent lip 
 Heedlessly or lightly slip : 
 
 Even He whose name I take 
 
108 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Thus, my dear one, for thy sake, 
 In this seeming idle strain, 
 Knows I take it not “ in vain.” 
 But as in a parent’s prayer 
 Unto Him to bless and spare ! 
 
 EXTRACT FROM ODE TO BIMORTALITY. 
 
 Behold the child among his new-born blisses, 
 
 A six years’ darling of a pigmy size ! 
 
 See, where ’mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses, 
 
 With light upon him from his father’s eyes ! 
 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral ; 
 
 And this hath now his heart, 
 
 And unto this he frames his song : 
 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
 
ACCOUNT OF FAMILY SKIRMISHES. 109 
 
 But it will not be long 
 Ere this be thrown aside, 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little actor cons another part ; 
 
 Filling from time to time his humorous stage 
 With all the persons down to palsied age, 
 That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 
 As if his whole vocation 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF THE SKIRMISHES IN 
 A SMALL FAMILY, 
 
 TOGETHER WITH A SKETCH OF MOLOCH’S BABYHOOD. 
 
 A small man sat in a small parlor, and in com- 
 pany with him almost any number of small children 
 you may please to name. Of these small fry, two 
 had, by some strong machinery, been got into bed in 
 a corner, where they might have reposed snugly 
 enough in the sleep of innocence, but for a constitu- 
 tional propensity to keep awake, and also to scuffle 
 in and out of bed. The immediate occasion of these 
 
110 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 predatory dashes at the waking world was the con- 
 struction of an oyster-shell wall in a corner by two 
 youths of tender age ; on which fortification the two 
 in bed made harassing descents (like those accursed 
 Piets and Scots who beleaguer the early historical 
 studies of most young Britons), and then withdrew 
 to their own territory. 
 
 In addition to the stir attendant on these inroads, 
 and the retorts of the invaded, who pursued hotly, 
 and made lunges at the bedclothes under which the 
 marauders took refuge, another little boy, in another 
 little bed, contributed his mite of confusion to the 
 family stock, by casting his boots upon the waters ; 
 in other words, by launching these and other small 
 objects, inoffensive in themselves, though of hard 
 substance considered as missiles, at the disturbers 
 of his repose, who were not slow to return these 
 compliments. 
 
 Besides which, another little boy — the biggest 
 there, but still little — was tottering to and fro, bent 
 on one side, and considerably affected in his knees 
 by the Weight of a large baby, which he was sup- 
 posed, by a fiction which obtains sometimes in san- 
 guine families, to be hushing to sleep. But oh ! the 
 
ACCOUNT OF FAMILY SKIRMISHES. 
 
 Ill 
 
 inexhaustible regions of contemplation and watch- 
 fulness into which this baby’s eyes were then only 
 beginning to compose themselves to stare, over his 
 unconscious shoulder ! It was a very Moloch of a 
 baby, on whose insatiate altar the whole existence 
 of this particular young brother was offered up a 
 daily sacrifice. Its personality may be said to have 
 consisted in its never being quiet, in any one place, 
 for five consecutive minutes, and never going to sleep 
 when required. The “ baby ” was as well known in 
 the neighborhood as the postman. It roved from 
 doorstep to doorstep, in the arms of little Johnny, a 
 little too late for everything attractive, from Monday 
 morning till Saturday night. Wherever children 
 were playing, there was little Moloch making Johnny 
 fag and toil. Wherever Johnny desired to stay, little 
 Moloch became fractious, and would not remain. 
 Whenever Johnny wanted to go out, Moloch was 
 asleep, and must be watched. Whenever Johnny 
 wanted to stay at home, Moloch was awake, and 
 must be taken out. 
 
112 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 THE LOST HEIR. 
 
 One day as I was going by 
 
 That part of Holborn christened High, 
 
 I heard a loud and sudden cry 
 That chilled my very blood ; 
 
 And lo ! from out a dirty alley 
 Where pigs and Irish wont to rally 
 I saw a crazy woman sally, 
 
 Bedaubed with grease and mud. 
 
 She turned her east, she turned her west, 
 Staring like Pythoness possessed, 
 
 With streaming hair and heaving breast, 
 As one stark mad with grief. 
 
 This way and that she wildly ran, 
 Jostling with woman and with man. 
 
 At last her frenzy seemed to reach 
 A point just capable of speech, 
 
 And with a tone almost a screech, 
 
 As wild as ocean birds, 
 
 Or female Ranter moved to preach, 
 
 She gave her “ sorrow words.” 
 
THE LOST HEIR. 
 
 113 
 
 0 Lord ! 0 dear, my heart will break, I shall go 
 
 stick, stark, staring wild ! 
 
 Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like 
 a crying, lost-looking child ? 
 
 Lord, help me, I don’t know where to look, or to run, 
 if I only knew which way, — 
 
 A child as is lost about London streets, and especially 
 Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay, — 
 The last time as ever I see him, poor thing! was 
 with my own blessed motherly eyes, 
 
 Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at 
 making little dirt-pies. 
 
 1 wonder he left the court where he was better off 
 
 than all the other young boys, 
 
 With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and 
 a dead kitten, by way of toys. 
 
 O Billy, you ’re bursting my heart in two, and my 
 life won’t be of no more vally, 
 
 If I ’m to see other folks’ darlings, and none of mine, 
 playing like angels in our alley. 
 
 And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I 
 looks at the old three-legged chair 
 As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and there 
 ain’t no Billy there ! 
 
114 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 For though I say it as ought n’t, yet I will say, you 
 may search for miles and mileses, 
 
 And not find one better brought up, or more pretty 
 behaved, from one end to t’ other of St. Giles’s. 
 
 And if I called him a beauty, it ’s no lie, but only as 
 a mother ought to speak ; 
 
 You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only 
 it has n’t been washed for a week ; 
 
 As for hair, though it ’s red, it ’s the most nicest hair 
 when I ’ve time to just show it the comb ; 
 
 I ’ll owe ’em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as 
 will only bring him safe and sound home. 
 
 He ’s blue eyes, and not to be called a squint, though 
 a little cast he ’s certainly got ; 
 
 And his nose is still a good one, though the bridge is 
 broke by his falling on a pewter pint pot ; 
 
 He ’s got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, 
 and very large teeth for his age ; 
 
 And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdochson’s child to play 
 Cupid on the Drury Lane stage. 
 
 And then he ’s got such dear winning ways — But 
 O I never, never shall see him no more ! 
 
 O dear ! to think of losing him just after nussing 
 him back from death’s door ! 
 
THE LOST HEIR. 
 
 115 
 
 Billy, — where are you, Billy, I say ? Come, Billy, 
 come home, to your best of mothers ! 
 
 I ’m scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they 
 drive so, they ’d run over their own sisters and 
 brothers. 
 
 O, I ’d give the whole wide world, if the world was 
 mine, to clap my two longin’ eyes on his face, 
 
 For he ’s my darlin’ of darlin’s, and if he don’t soon 
 come back, you ’ll see me drop stone dead on 
 the place. 
 
 I only wish I ’d got him safe in these two motherly 
 arms, and would n’t I hug him and kiss him ? 
 
 Lord ! I never knew what a precious he was, — but 
 a child don’t feel like a child till you miss him. 
 
 Why there he is ! Punch-and-Judy hunting, the 
 young wretch, it ’s that Billy as sartin as sin ! 
 
 But let me get him home, with a good grip of his 
 hair, and I ’m blest if he shall have a whole 
 bone in his skin! 
 
116 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 WISHES. 
 
 BY WILLIAM HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 1557. 
 
 How no age is content with his owne estate, and how the ago 
 of children is the happiest, if they had skill to understand it. 
 
 Laid in my quiet bed, in study as I were, 
 
 I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts 
 appear ; 
 
 And every thought did shew so lyvely in myne eyes, 
 That now I sighed, and then I smilde, as cause of 
 thoughts did ryse. 
 
 I sawe the little boy, in thought how oft that he 
 Did wish of God, to scape the rod, a tall yonge man 
 to be ; 
 
 The yonge man eake that feles his bones with pains 
 opprest, 
 
 How he would be a riche old man, to live and lye at 
 rest ; 
 
 The riche old man, that sees his end draw on so sore, 
 How he would be a boy againe, to live so much the 
 
 more. 
 
MY LITTLE COUSIN’S FIRST BONNET. 117 
 
 Whereat full oft I smylde, to see how all those 
 three, 
 
 From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and 
 change degree. 
 
 Whereat I sighed again, and sayde, Farewell my 
 wonted toye ; 
 
 Trusse up thy packe, and trudge from me to every 
 little boy, 
 
 And tell them thus from me, theyr time most 
 happy is, 
 
 If to theyr time they reason had, to know the truth 
 of this. 
 
 TO MY LITTLE COUSIN WITH HER FIRST 
 BONNET. 
 
 Fairies ! guard the baby’s bonnet, — 
 
 Set a special watch upon it ; 
 
 Elfin people ! to your care 
 I commit it, fresh and fair ; 
 
 Neat as neatness, white as snow, — - 
 See ye make it over so. 
 
 6 
 
118 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Watch and ward set all about, 
 
 Some within and some without ; 
 Over it with dainty hand, 
 
 One her kirtle green expand ; 
 
 One take post at every ring ; 
 
 One at each unwrinkled string ; 
 
 Two or three about the bow 
 Vigilant concern bestow ; 
 
 A score, at least, on either side, 
 ’Gainst evil accident provide, — 
 (Jolt or jar or overlay ;) 
 
 And so the precious charge convey 
 Through all the dangers of the way. 
 But when those are battled through, 
 Fairies, more remains to do; 
 
 Ye must gift, before ye go, 
 
 The bonnet, and the babe also, — 
 Gift it to protect her well, 
 
 Fays ! from all malignant spell, 
 Charms and seasons to defy, 
 Blighting winds and evil eye ; 
 
 And the bonny babe ! on her 
 All your choicest gifts confer ; — 
 
MY LITTLE COUSIN’S FIRST BONNET. 
 
 Just as much of wit and sense 
 As may be hers without pretence. — 
 Just as much of grace and beauty, 
 
 As shall not interfere with duty, — 
 
 Just as much of spriglitliness, 
 
 As may companion gentleness, — 
 
 Just as much of firmness, too, 
 
 As with self-will hath naught to do, — 
 Just as much light-hearted cheer, 
 
 As may be melted to a tear, 
 
 By a word, — a tone, — a look, — 
 Pity’s touch, — or Love’s rebuke, — 
 
 As much of frankness, sweetly free, 
 
 As may consort with modesty, — 
 
 As much of feeling as will bear 
 Of after life the wear and tear, — 
 
 As much of life — But, Fairies, there 
 Ye vanish into thinnest air ; 
 
 And with ye parts the playful vein 
 That loved a light and trivial strain. 
 Befits me better, babe, for thee 
 T’ invoke Almighty agency, — 
 Almighty love, Almighty power, 
 
 To nurture up the human flower ; 
 
120 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 To cherish it with heavenly dew, 
 Sustain with earthly blessings too ; 
 And when the ripe full time shall be, 
 Engraft it on eternity ! 
 
 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 Those who have lost an infant are never, as it 
 were, without an infant child. They are the only 
 persons who, in one sense, retain it always, and fur- 
 nish their neighbors with the same idea. The other 
 children grow up to manhood and womanhood, and 
 suffer all the changes of mortality. This one alone 
 is rendered an immortal child. Death has arrested 
 it with his kindly harshness, and blessed it into an 
 eternal image of youth and innocence. Of such as 
 these are the pleasantest shapes that visit our fancies 
 and hopes. They are the ever-smiling emblems of 
 joy; the prettiest pages that wait on imagination. 
 Lastly, “ Of these are the kingdom of Heaven.” 
 
 Indicator. 
 
THE SICKLY BABE. 
 
 121 
 
 “ I sighed,” says old Captain Dalton, “ when I 
 envied you the two bonny children ; but I sigh not 
 now to call either the monk or the soldier mine 
 own.” 
 
 Monastery. 
 
 THE SICKLY BABE. 
 
 Mine infant was a poor, weak thing : 
 
 No strength his little arms to fling ; 
 
 His cheek was pale and very thin, 
 
 And none a smile from him could win, 
 
 Save I, — his mother ! O my child ! 
 
 How could they think my love so wild ? 
 
 I never said it, — but I knew., 
 
 From the first breath my baby drew. 
 
 That I must soon my joy resign, — 
 
 That he was God’s, — not mine, not mine ! 
 But think you that I loved him less 
 Because I saw his feebleness ? 
 
122 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 To others, senseless seemed his eye, 
 
 They looked, and only thought, “ He ’ll 
 die ! ” 
 
 To me, that little suffering frame 
 Came freighted with a spirit’s claim, — 
 Came full of blessing to my heart, 
 Brought thoughts I could to none impart. 
 
 The pale, pale bud bloomed not on earth ; 
 Blighted and stricken from his birth, 
 
 A few short months upon my breast 
 He lay, then smiled and went to rest ; 
 And all forgot him, born to die, 
 
 All, all forgot, save God and I. 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 I remember, I remember, 
 
 The house where I was born, 
 
 The little window where the sun 
 Came peeping in at morn : 
 
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 123 
 
 He never came a wink too soon, 
 Nor brought too long a day ; 
 But now, I often wish that 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 fresh 
 To swallows on the wing: 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then, 
 
 That is so heavy now, 
 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 The fever on my brow ! 
 
124 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 I remember, I remember, 
 
 The fir-trees dark and high ; 
 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 Were close against the sky ! 
 
 It was a childish ignorance, 
 
 But now ’t is little joy 
 To know I ’m farther off from heaven 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 “ It ’s hard we canna just remain young a’ the days we havo 
 to bide below, there ’s no sae mony o’ them. I never could find 
 the use of growing auld.” 
 
 “ The days of our youth ! had we a grip o’ them back again, 
 how different like wad we use them ; at least, so we think, but 
 wha can hinder the wind to blaw? youth winna be guided.” 
 
THE THREE SONS. 
 
 125 
 
 THE THREE SONS. 
 
 I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, 
 
 With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of 
 , gentle mould. 
 
 They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways 
 appears, — 
 
 That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his 
 childish years. 
 
 I cannot say how this may be : I know his face is fair ; 
 
 And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and 
 serious air. 
 
 I know his heart is kind and fond : I know he loveth 
 me ; 
 
 But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fer- 
 vency. 
 
 But that which others most admire, is the thought 
 which fills his mind, — 
 
 The food for grave, inquiring speech^ he everywhere 
 doth find. 
 
 Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we to- 
 gether walk ; 
 
 He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as 
 children talk. 
 
 6 * 
 
126 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on 
 bat or ball, 
 
 But looks on manhood’s ways and works, and aptly 
 mimics all. 
 
 His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed 
 
 With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts 
 about the next. 
 
 He kneels at his dear mother’s knee, she teacheth 
 him to pray, 
 
 And strange and sweet and solemn then are the 
 words which he will say. 
 
 0, should my gentle child be spared to manhood’s 
 years, like me, 
 
 A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be : 
 
 And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his 
 thoughtful brow, 
 
 I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose 
 him now. 
 
 I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; 
 
 I ’ll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, 
 
 How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles 
 on my knee. 
 
 I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother’s, 
 keen, 
 
THE THREE SONS. 
 
 127 
 
 Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath 
 ever been ; 
 
 But his little heart ’s a fountain pure of kind and 
 tender feeling, 
 
 And his every look ’& a gleam of light, rich depths of 
 love revealing. 
 
 When he walks with me, the country folk who pass 
 us in the street, 
 
 Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so 
 mild and sweet. 
 
 A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, 
 
 Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport 
 alone, 
 
 His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home 
 and hearth, 
 
 To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our 
 mirth. 
 
 Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his 
 heart may prove 
 
 As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for 
 earthly love : 
 
 And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes 
 must dim, 
 
 God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose 
 
 in him. 
 
128 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot 
 tell, 
 
 For they reckon not by years and months where he 
 is gone to dwell. 
 
 To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles 
 were given, 
 
 And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live 
 in heaven. 
 
 I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth 
 now, 
 
 Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining 
 seraph brow. 
 
 The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which 
 he doth feel, 
 
 Are numbered with the secret things which God 
 will not reveal. 
 
 But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is 
 now at rest, 
 
 Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour’s 
 loving breast. 
 
 I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of 
 flesh, 
 
 But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy 
 forever fresh. 
 
THE THREE SONS. 
 
 129 
 
 I know the. angels fold him close beneath their glit- 
 tering wings, 
 
 And soothe him with a gong that breathes of heaven’s 
 divinest things. 
 
 I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother 
 dear and I,) 
 
 Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from 
 every eye. 
 
 Whate’er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can 
 never cease ; 
 
 Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is 
 certain peace. 
 
 It may be that the tempter’s wiles their souls from 
 bliss may sever, 
 
 But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours 
 forever. 
 
 When we think of what our darling is, and what we 
 still must be, t— 
 
 When we muse on that world’s perfect bliss, and 
 this world’s misery, — 
 
 When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel 
 this grief and pain, — 
 
 O, we ’d rather lose our other two, than have him 
 here again ! 
 
130 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 Candid and curious, how they seek 
 All truth to know and scan ; 
 
 And, ere the budding mind can speak, 
 Begin to study man ! 
 
 Confiding sweetness colors all they say, 
 And angels listen when they try to pray. 
 
 CHILDHOOD DEPARTED. 
 
 And yet, 0 where art thou, 
 Childhood ! with sunny brow 
 And floating hair, — 
 
 Where art thou hiding now ? 
 
 I have sought thee everywhere, — 
 All among the shrubs and flowers 
 Of those garden-walks of ours ; — 
 Thou art not there ! 
 
 When the shadow of Night’s wings 
 
CHILDHOOD DEPARTED. 
 
 131 
 
 Hath darkened all the earth, 
 
 I listen for thy gambolings 
 Beside the cheerful hearth ; — 
 
 Thou art not there ! 
 
 I listen to the far-off bell, 
 
 I murmur o’er the little songs 
 Which thou did’st love so well ; 
 
 Pleasant memories come in throngs, 
 
 And mine eyes are blurred with tears, 
 
 But no glimpse of thee appears : 
 
 O, childish hopes and childish fancies, 
 Whither have ye fled away ? 
 
 I long for you in mournful trances, 
 
 I long for you by night and day ; 
 Beautiful thoughts that once were mine, 
 Might I but win you back once more, 
 Might ye about my being twine 
 And cluster as ye did of yore ! — 
 
 Hath the sun forgot its brightness, 
 
 Have the stars forgot to shine, 
 
 That they bring not their wonted lightness 
 To this weary heart of mine ? 
 
 ’T is not the sun that shone on thee, 
 Happy childhood ! long ago, — 
 
132 PICTURES AND* FLOWERS. 
 
 Not the same stars silently 
 Looking on the same bright snow, — 
 Not the same that youth and I 
 Together watched in days gone by ! 
 No, not .the same, alas for me ! 
 
 O for the hopes and for the feelings, 
 Childhood, that I shared with thee ! 
 
 “ Earth’s hopes will wither like earth’s flowers, 
 Joys born with spring die with spring’s hours, 
 Change o’er the youthful frame must roll, 
 
 But love and life are of the soul ! ” 
 
 THE DESERTED GARDEN. 
 
 I mind me in the days departed, 
 
 How often underneath the sun, 
 With childish bounds I used to run 
 To a garden long deserted. 
 
THE DESERTED GARDEN. 
 
 133 
 
 The trees were interwoven wild, 
 
 And spread their boughs enough about 
 To keep both sheep and shepherd out, 
 But not a happy child. 
 
 Adventurous joy it was for me ! 
 
 I crept beneath the boughs, and found 
 A circle smooth of mossy ground 
 Beneath a poplar-tree. 
 
 Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, — 
 Bedropt with roses waxen white, 
 
 Well satisfied with dew and light, 
 
 And careless to be seen. 
 
 And gladdest hours for me did glide 
 In silence at the rose-tree wall : 
 
 A thrush made gladness musical 
 Upon the other side. 
 
 My childhood from my life is parted ; 
 
 My footsteps from the moss which drew 
 Its fairy circle round : anew 
 The garden is deserted ! 
 
1U 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Another thrush may there rehearse 
 The madrigals which sweetest are, — 
 No more for me ! — myself afar 
 Do sing a sadder verse ! — 
 
 Ah me ! ah me ! when erst I lay 
 
 In that child’s nest so greenly wrought, 
 I laughed to myself and thought 
 The time will pass away ! 
 
 I laughed still, and did not fear 
 But that, whene’er was past away 
 The childish time, some happier play 
 My womanhood would cheer. 
 
 I knew the time would pass away, — 
 And yet beside the rose-tree wall, 
 
 Dear God ! — how seldom, if at all, 
 
 I looked up to pray ! 
 
 The time is past, — and now that grows 
 The cypress high among the trees, 
 
 And I behold white sepulchres 
 As well as the white rose. — 
 
JOYOUSNESS OF CHILDREN. 
 
 135 
 
 When wiser, meeker thoughts are given, 
 And I have learnt to lift my face, 
 Remembering earth’s greenest place 
 The color draws from Heaven. 
 
 If something saith for earthly pain, 
 
 But more for heavenly promise free, 
 That I who was, would shrink to be 
 That happy child again. 
 
 JOYOUSNESS OF CHILDREN. 
 
 How should it be otherwise? I can bear a 
 melancholy man, but never a melancholy child. 
 Into whatever quagmire the former sinks, he may 
 raise his eyes either to the realm of reason, or to 
 that of hope ; but the little child sinks and perishes 
 in a single black poison-drop of the present time. 
 Only imagine a child conducted to the scaffold, — 
 Cupid in a German coffin, — or fancy a butterfly 
 crawling like a caterpillar, with his four wings pulled 
 off, and you will feel what I mean. 
 
136 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 TO MY CHILDEEN SLEEPING. 
 
 What holy calmness brooded o’er the nest, 
 
 Where four — and each a treasure — sleeping lay, 
 Treasures in caskets of frail human clay, 
 
 But fair, though frail, by Beauty’s seal impressed. 
 The long, dark eyelashes on Willie’s cheek • 
 Tempered the damask blush that mantled there, 
 
 But sleep could scarce subdue the ardent air 
 Where all the day’s past feelings clearly speak. 
 
 On Francis’ saint-like paleness, halcyon Peace 
 Had left the impression of his latest prayer ; 
 
 And they who paused to gaze — few could forbear — 
 Felt holy thoughts and heavenly hopes increase. 
 Bend o’er the couch of childhood, — ’t will control , 
 Passion’s wild storm, and purify thy soul. 
 
 Arthur’s luxuriant curls, and front of snow, 
 
 Where darkly delicate his eyebrows shone, 
 
 His loving face that sculpture well might own, 
 
 Where healthful joy diffused its purest glow, 
 
 By Clarence’s softer elegance were laid ; 
 
 Whose bended neck confiding love portrayed ; 
 
A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON. 
 
 137 
 
 So droops the slight laburnum, fond to blend 
 Where the rich clusters of the lilac tend. 
 
 But in the inmost chamber one reclines, 
 
 A single bird within her downy nest ; 
 
 A pearl detached, — too precious for the rest : 
 Round no fond neck her polished arm entwines, 
 Lovely and lone, this sweeter blossom lies, 
 
 Just lent to earth, — but ripening for the skies. 
 
 A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, 
 
 AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS. 
 
 Thou happy, happy elf ! 
 
 (But stop, — first let me kiss away that tear !) 
 
 Thou tiny image of myself ! 
 
 (My love, he ’s poking peas into his ear !) 
 
 Thou merry, laughing sprite ! 
 
 With spirits feather light, 
 
 Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, 
 (Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin !) 
 
138 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Thou little tricksy Puck ! 
 
 With antic toys so funnily bestuck, 
 
 Light as the singing bird that wings the air, 
 
 (The door ! the door ! he ’ll tumble down the stair !) 
 
 Thou darling of thy sire ! 
 
 (Why, Jane, he ’ll set his pinafore afire !) 
 
 Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
 
 In love’s dear chain so strong and bright a link, 
 
 Thou idol of thy parents. (Hang the boy ! 
 
 There goes my ink !) 
 
 Thou cherub, — but of earth ; 
 
 Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale, 
 
 In harmless sport and mirth, 
 
 (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail !) 
 
 Thou human humming-bee extracting honey 
 From every blossom in the world that blows, 
 Singing in youth’s Elysium ever sunny, 
 
 (Another tumble, — that ’s his precious nose !) 
 
 Thy father’s pride and hope ! 
 
 (He ’ll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) 
 With pure heart newly stamped from nature’s mint, 
 (Where did he learn that squint ?) 
 
A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON. 
 
 139 
 
 Thou young domestic dove ! 
 
 (He ’ll have that jug off with another shove !) 
 Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! 
 
 (Are those torn clothes his best ?) 
 
 Little epitome of man ! 
 
 (He ’ll climb upon the table, that ’s his plan !) 
 Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, 
 (He ’s got a knife !) 
 
 Thou enviable being ! 
 
 No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, 
 Play on, play on, 
 
 My elfin John ! 
 
 Toss the light ball, — bestride the stick, 
 
 (I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) 
 With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, 
 Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk 
 With many a lamb-like frisk, 
 
 (He ’s got the scissors, snipping at your gown !) 
 
 Thou pretty opening rose ! 
 
 (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) 
 Balmy, and breathing music like the south, 
 
 (He really brings my heart into my mouth !) 
 Fresh as the moon, and brilliant as its star, 
 
 (I wish that window had an iron bar !) 
 
140 
 
 ' PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, 
 
 (I ’ll tell you what, my love, 
 
 I cannot write unless he ’s sent above !) 
 
 THE GYPSY CHILD. 
 
 He sprung to life in a crazy tent, 
 
 Where the cold wind whistled through many a rent 
 Rude was the voice, and rough were the hand's, 
 That soothed his wailings and swathed his bands, 
 
 No tissue of gold, no lawn was there, 
 
 No snowy robe for the new-born heir ; 
 
 But the mother wept, and the father smiled, 
 
 With heart-felt joy o’er the gypsy child. 
 
 4 
 
 He grows like the young oak, healthy and broad, 
 With no home but the forest, no bed but the sward ; 
 Half naked, he wades in the limpid stream 
 Or dances about in the scorching beam. 
 
 The dazzling glare of the banquet sheen 
 Hath never fallen on him, I ween : 
 
THE GYPSY CHILD. 
 
 141 
 
 But fragments are spread, and the wood-fire piled, 
 And sweet is the meal of the gypsy child. 
 
 He wanders at large, while the maidens admire 
 His raven hair and his eyes of fire ; 
 
 They mark his cheek’s rich tawny hue, 
 
 With the deep carnation flushing through ; 
 
 He laughs aloud, and they covet his teeth, 
 
 All pure and white as their own pearl-wreath ; 
 And the courtly dame and damsel mild 
 Will turn to gaze on the gypsy child. 
 
 Up with the sun, he is roving along, 
 
 Whistling to nymic the blackbird’s song, 
 
 He wanders at nightfall to startle the owl, 
 
 And is baying again to the watch-dog’s howl, 
 
 His limbs are unshackled, his spirit is bold, 
 
 He is free from the evils of fashion and gold ; 
 
 His dower is scant, and his life is wild, 
 
 But kings might envy the gypsy child. 
 
 7 
 
142 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 TIRED OF PLAY. 
 
 Tired of play ! Tired of play ! 
 
 What hast thou done this livelong day ? 
 
 The birds are hushed, and so is the bee ; 
 
 The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; 
 
 The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, 
 And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves 
 Twilight gathers, and day is done, — 
 
 How hast thou spent it, restless one ! 
 
 Playing ? But what hast thou done beside 
 To tell thy mother at eventide ? 
 
 What promise of morn is left uubroken ? 
 
 What kind word to thy playmate spoken ? 
 Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven? 
 How with thy faults has duty striven ? 
 
 What hast thou learned by field and hill 
 By greenwood path, and by singing rill ? 
 
 There will come an eve to a longer day, 
 
 That will find thee tired, — but not of play ! 
 And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, 
 
 With drooping limbs and aching brow, 
 
TIRED OF PLAY. 
 
 143 
 
 And wish the shadows would faster creep, 
 
 And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 
 
 Well were it then if thine aching brow 
 Were as free from sin and shame as now ! 
 
 Well for thee, if thy lip could tell 
 A tale like this, of a day spent well. 
 
 If thine open hand hath relieved distress, — 
 
 If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness, — 
 
 If thou hast forgiven the sore offence, — 
 
 And humbled thy heart with penitence, — 
 
 If Nature’s voices have spoken to thee 
 With their holy meanings eloquently, — 
 
 If every creature hath won thy love, 
 
 From the creeping worm to the brooding dove, 
 If never a sad, low-spoken word 
 Hath plead with thy human heart unheard, — 
 Then, when the night steals on, as now, 
 
 It will bring relief to thine aching brow, 
 
 And with joy and peace at the thought of rest, 
 Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother’s breast. 
 
 “ Where children are, there is the Golden age.” 
 
 Novalis. 
 
144 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 There is a reaper whose name is Death, 
 
 And, with his sickle keen, 
 
 He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 
 
 And the flowers that grow between. 
 
 Shall I have naught that is fair, saith he, 
 
 Have naught but the bearded grain ? 
 
 Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me 
 I will give them all back again. 
 
 He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
 
 He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
 
 It was for the Lord of Paradise 
 He bound them in his sheaves. 
 
 “ My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,” 
 
 The Reaper said, and smiled : 
 
 “ Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
 
 Where he was once a child. 
 
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 145 
 
 “ They all shall bloom in fields of light, 
 Transplanted by my care, 
 
 And saints, upon their garments white, 
 These sacred blossoms wear.” 
 
 And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 
 The flowers she most did love ; 
 
 She knew she should find them all again 
 In the fields of light above. 
 
 There is nothing innocent or good, that dies and 
 is forgotten. Let us hold to that faith. An infant, 
 a prattling child, dying in its cradle, will live again 
 m the better thoughts of those who loved it. When 
 Death strikes down the innocent and young, for 
 
146 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 *- 
 
 every fragile form whose spirit is freed a hundred 
 virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, 
 to walk the world, and bless it with their light. Of 
 every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green 
 graves, some good is born, some gentler nature 
 comes. In the Destroyer’s steps there spring up 
 bright creations that defy his power, and his dark 
 path becomes a way of light to Heaven. 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
 THE LITTLE STEP-SON. 
 
 I have a little step-son, the loveliest thing alive, 
 
 A noble, sturdy boy is he, and yet he ’s only five ; 
 
 His smooth cheek hath a blooming glow, his eyes are 
 black as jet, 
 
 And his lips are like two rose-buds, all tremulous and 
 wet. 
 
 His days pass off in sunshine, in laughter and in 
 song, 
 
 As careless as a summer-rill that sings itself along ; 
 
THE LITTLE STEP-SON. 
 
 147 
 
 For like a pretty fairy-tale, that ’s all too quickly told, 
 
 Is the young life of a little one that ’s only five years 
 old. 
 
 He ’s dreaming in his happy couch before the day 
 grows dark. 
 
 lie ’s up with morning’s rosy ray, a singing with the 
 lark ! 
 
 Where’er the flowers are freshest, where’er the grass 
 is green, 
 
 With light locks waving on the wind his fairy form 
 is seen ; 
 
 Amid the whistling March winds, amid the April 
 showers, 
 
 He warbles with the singing-birds, and prattles to 
 the flowers, 
 
 He cares not for the summer heat, he cares not for 
 the cold, — 
 
 My sturdy little step-son, that ’s only five years old. 
 
 How touching ’t is to see him clasp his dimpled hands 
 in prayer, 
 
 And raise his little rosy face, with reverential air ! 
 
 How simple is his eloquence ! how soft his accents 
 fall, 
 
148 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 When pleading with the King of kings to love and 
 bless us all ; 
 
 And when from prayer he bounds away in innocence 
 and joy, 
 
 The blessing of a smiling God goes with the sinless 
 boy. 
 
 A little lambkin of the flock, within the Saviour’s 
 fold 
 
 Is he, my lovely step-son, that ’s only five years old. 
 
 I have not told you of our home, that in the summer 
 hours 
 
 Stands in its simple modesty, half hid among the 
 flowers ; 
 
 I have not said a single word about our mines of 
 wealth, — 
 
 Our treasures are, this little boy, contentment, peace, 
 and health ; 
 
 For e’en a lordly hall to us would be a voiceless place 
 
 Without the gush of his glad voice, the gleams of his 
 bright face : 
 
 And many a courtly pair, I ween, would give their 
 gems and gold 
 
 For a noble, happy boy like ours, some four or five 
 years old. 
 
MORNING. 
 
 149 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 Soft the air and fresh the dew, 
 Fragrance unconsumed, unworn, 
 
 Earth is young and life is new, 
 Childhood's heart is in the morn ; 
 
 Birds, with wing upraised to heaven 
 Music utter hushed too soon, 
 
 Songs to favored morning given, 
 
 All unheard by sultry noon ; 
 
 Softest quiet, sweet repose, 
 
 God's beloved and favored hour, 
 
 For his spirit lives and glows, 
 
 Waking in each wakening flower. 
 
 Such is youth, and this is thine, 
 
 Sweets like morning’s self-revealing, 
 
 Softened dawnings all divine, 
 
 O’er the spirit’s world are stealing ; 
 
 Vigor, never known again, 
 
 Quiet, as no other hath, 
 
 7 * 
 
150 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Thou wilt weep for it in vain, 
 
 When the sun is on thy path ; 
 
 But as sometimes in mid June, 
 Coolness lingers through the day, 
 Bathing the hot brow of noon, 
 Shadowing the dusty way ; 
 
 So mayst thou as life comes on, 
 
 Still the grace of childhood prove, 
 Keeping, though its bloom be gone, 
 All its light, and faith, and love. 
 
 “ I feel dependent for a vigorous and hopeful spirit on now 
 and then a kind word, the merry laugh of a child, or the silent 
 greeting of a flower.” 
 
 Dr. Follen. 
 
 11 A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure.” 
 
 Proverbial Philosophy. 
 
 “I despise the man who can think lightly of his early days. 
 The pranks and plans of infancy are the airy effervescence of 
 uncalculating single-heartedness. They are shed from the young 
 spirit’s beauty, like the sweet perfume of a flower.” 
 
 My Early Days. 
 
THRENODY. 
 
 151 
 
 THRENODY. 
 
 1 Hearts are dust, heart’s loves remain, 
 
 Heart’s love will meet thee again.” 
 
 And whither now, my truant wise and sweet, 
 O, whither tend thy feet ? 
 
 I had the right, few days ago, 
 
 Thy steps to watch, thy place to know ; 
 
 How have I forfeited the right ? 
 
 Hast thou forgot me in a new delight ? 
 
 I hearken for thy household cheer, 
 
 0 eloquent child ! 
 
 Whose voice, an equal messenger, 
 
 Conveyed thy meaning mild. 
 
 What though the pains and joys 
 Whereof it spoke were toys 
 Fitting his age and ken, 
 
 Yet fairest dames and bearded men, 
 
 Who heard the sweet request, 
 
 So gentle, wise, and grave, 
 
 Blended with joy to his behest, 
 
 And let the world’s affairs go by, 
 
 Awhile to share his cordial game, 
 
 01 mend his wicker wagon-frame, 
 
152 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Still plotting how their hungry ear 
 That winsome voice again might hear ; 
 For his lips could well pronounce 
 Words that were persuasions, — 
 Gentlest guardians marked serene 
 His early hope, his liberal mien ; 
 
 Took counsel from his guiding eyes 
 To make this wisdom earthly wise. 
 
 Ah, vainly do these eyes recall 
 The school-march, each day’s festival, 
 When every morn my bosom glowed. 
 To watch the convoy on the road ; 
 
 The babe in willow wagon closed, 
 With rolling eyes and face composed ; 
 With children forward and behind, 
 Like cupids studiously inclined ; 
 
 And he, the chieftain, paced beside, 
 The centre of the troop allied, 
 
 With sunny face of sweet repose, 
 
 To guard the babe from fancied foes. 
 The little captain innocent 
 Took the eye with him as he went ; 
 Each village senior paused to scan 
 And speak the lovely caravan. 
 
THRENODY. 
 
 153 
 
 From the window I look out 
 To mark thy beautiful parade, 
 
 Stately marching in cap and coat 
 To some tune by fairies played ; — 
 
 A music heard by thee alone 
 To works as noble led thee on. 
 
 Now Love and Pride, alas ! in vain, 
 
 Up and down their glances strain. 
 
 The painted sled stands where it stood ; 
 
 The kennel by the corded wood ; 
 
 The gathered sticks to stanch the wall 
 Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall, 
 The ominous hole he dug in the sand, 
 
 And childhood’s castles built or planned ; 
 
 His daily haunts I well discern, — 
 
 The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn, — 
 
 And every inch of garden ground 
 Paced by the blessed feet around, 
 
 From the roadside to the brook 
 Whereinto he loved to look. 
 
 Step the meek birds where erst they ranged ; 
 The wintry garden lies unchanged ; 
 
 The brook into the stream runs on ; 
 
 But the deep-eyed boy is gone. 
 
154 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 HOUSEHOLD TREASURES. 
 
 What are they ? gold and silver ? 
 
 Or what such ore can buy ? 
 
 The pride of silken luxury, — 
 
 Rich robes of Tyrian dye ? 
 
 Or are they daintiest meats 
 Served up on silver fine ? 
 
 Or golden cups o’erbrimmed 
 With rich Sabrucian wine ? 
 
 O no ! they are not these ! or else 
 God help the poor man’s need ! 
 
 Then, sitting ’mid his little ones 
 He would be poor indeed ! 
 
 They are not these, — our household wealth 
 Belongs not to degree, 
 
 It is the love within our souls, — 
 
 The children at our homes ! 
 
 My heart is filled with gladness 
 When I behold how fair, 
 
 How bright are rich men’s children 
 With their thick and golden hair ! 
 
 For I know ’mid countless treasures 
 Gleaned from the East and West 
 These luring, loving human things 
 
HOUSEHOLD TREASURES. 155 
 
 Are still the rich man’s best ! 
 
 But my heart o’erfloweth to mine^eyes, 
 
 And a prayer is on my tongue, 
 
 When I see the poor man’s children — 
 
 The toiling, though the young — 
 
 Gathering with sun-burnt hands 
 The dusty wayside flowers ! 
 
 Alas ! that pastime symboleth 
 Life’s after, darker hours ! 
 
 My heart o’erfloweth to mine eye? 
 
 When I see the poor man stand, 
 
 After his daily work is done, 
 
 With children by the hand : 
 
 And this he kisseth tenderly 
 And that sweet names doth call, 
 
 For I know he hath no treasure 
 Like those dear children small ! 
 
 O children young, I bless ye ! 
 
 Ye keep such love alive ! 
 
 And the home can ne’er he desolate 
 Where love has room to thrive ; 
 
 0 precious household treasures, 
 
 Life’s sweetest, holiest claim, — 
 
 The Saviour blest ye while on earth, — 
 
 1 bless ye in his name ! 
 
0 
 
 156 PICTURES AND FLOWERS- 
 
 THE STAR AND THE FLOWER; 
 
 OR, THE TWO PETS. 
 
 “ Ad ogni uccello 
 Suo nido 6 bello.” 
 
 Ah ! yours, with her light-waving hair, 
 
 That droops to her shoulders of snow, 
 
 And her cheek, where the palest and purest of roses 
 * 
 
 Most faintly and tenderly glow ! 
 
 There is something celestial about her ; 
 
 I never beheld the fair child, 
 
 Without thinking she ’s pluming invisible wings 
 For a region more holy and mild. 
 
 There is so much of pure seraph fire 
 Within the dark depths of her eye, 
 
 That I feel a resistless and earnest desire 
 To hold her for fear she should fly. 
 
 Her smile is as soft as a spirit’s, — 
 
 As sweet as a bird’s is her tone ; 
 
 She is fair as the silvery star of the morn. 
 
 When it gleams through the gray mist alone. 
 
THE STAR AND *THE FLOWER. 
 
 157 
 
 But mine is a simple wild-flower, 
 
 A balmy and beautiful thing, 
 
 That glows with new ^pve and delight every hour, 
 Through the tears and the smiles of sweet spring ! 
 
 Her eyes have the dark brilliant azure 
 Of heaven in a clear summer night, 
 
 And each impulse of frolicksome, infantine joy, 
 Brings a shy little dimple to light. 
 
 Her young soul looks bright from a brow 
 Too fair for earth’s sorrow and shame ; 
 
 Her graceful and glowing lip curls, even now, 
 
 With a spirit no tyrant can tame. 
 
 Then let us no longer compare 
 These tiny pet treasures of ours ; 
 
 For yours shall be loveliest still of the stars, 
 
 And mine shall be fairest of flowers. 
 
 “ Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 
 
 Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
 
 And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
 
 That ope in the month of May. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
158 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 
 THE CHARGE OF INFANTRY. 
 
 » 
 
 Betsey ’s got another baby ! 
 
 Darling, precious little tyke ! 
 Grandma says — and she knows, surely 
 That you never saw its like. 
 
 Is n’t it a beaming beauty, — 
 
 Lying there so sweet and snug ? 
 
 Mrs. Jones, pray stop your scandal ; 
 Darling’s nose is not a pug ! 
 
 Some one says ’t is Pa all over, 
 Whereat Pa turns rather red, 
 
 And, to scan his features, quickly 
 To the looking-glass has fled : 
 
 But recovers his composure, 
 
 When he hears the nurse’s story, 
 Who admits, that of all babies 
 This indeed ’s the crowning glory ! 
 
 Aunt Lucretia says she guesses — 
 
 Says indeed she knows it, poz — 
 
 That ’t will prove to be a greater 
 Man than e’er its father was ; 
 
THE CHARGE OF INFANTRY. 
 
 159 
 
 Proving thus the modern thesis, 
 Held by reverend doctors sage, 
 That in babies, as in wisdom, 
 
 This is a “ progressive ” age. 
 
 Uncle Henry looks and wonders 
 At so great a prodigy ; 
 
 Close and closer still he presses, 
 Thinking something brave to see. 
 Up they hold the babe before him, 
 While they gather in a ring, 
 
 But, alas ! the staggered uncle 
 Vainly* tries his praise to sing. 
 
 As he stares, the lovely infant, 
 Nestling by its mother’s side, 
 Opes its little mouth, and, smiling, 
 
 * Gurgles forth a milky tide. 
 
 Uncle tries to hide his blushes, 
 Looks about to find his hat, 
 Stumbles blindly o’er the cradle, 
 And upsets the startled cat. 
 
160 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Why, O why such awkward blunders ? 
 
 Better far have stayed away, 
 
 Nor have thrust yourself where woman 
 Holds an undisputed sway : 
 
 Do you think that now they ’ll name it, 
 As they meant to, after you ? 
 Wretched mortal ! let me answer, 
 
 You ’re deluded if you do ! 
 
 Round about the noisy women 
 Pass the helpless stranger now, 
 Raptured with each nascent feature, 
 Chin and mouth and eyes and brow ; 
 And for this young bud of promise 
 All neglect the rose in bloom, 
 
 Eldest born, who, quite forgotten, 
 
 Pouts within her lonely room. 
 
 Sound the stage-horn ! ring the cow-bell ! 
 
 That the waiting world may know ; 
 Publish it through all our borders, 
 
 Even unto Mexico. 
 
HOME. 
 
 161 
 
 Seize your pen, O dreaming po$Pl 
 And in numbers smooth as may be, 
 Spread afar the joyful tidings, 
 
 Betsey ’s got another baby ! 
 
 The chicken walks from out its shell, and goes its food to find, 
 While helpless lies for months and years the child of human 
 kind; 
 
 Which yet, by gradual growth, o’ertops all else in strength and 
 mind. 
 
 0, slow of thought ! remember this, — be thankful and resigned. 
 
 Saadi the Persian Poet of Schiraz. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 Thou, whose every hour 
 Is spent in home’s green bower, 
 
 Where love, like golden fruit o’erhanging grows, 
 Where those to thy soul sweet 
 United, circling, meet, 
 
 As lapping leaves which form the entire rose ; 
 Thank thy God well, — soon from this joy thy day 
 
 Passes away. 
 
162 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Thou, f¥om whose household nooks 
 Peep forth gay gleaming, looks, 
 
 Those “ fairy heads ” shot up from opening flowers, 
 With wondrous perfume filled 
 The fresh, the undistilled, 
 
 The overflowing bliss that childhood showers 
 Praise him who gave, and at whose word their stay 
 
 Passes away. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM KING JOHN. Act III 
 
 King Philip . You are as fond of grief as of your 
 child. 
 
 Constance, He talks to me that never had a son. 
 Grief fills the room up of my absent child, 
 
 Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me ; 
 
 Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
 Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 
 
 Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ; 
 
 Then, have I reason to be fond of grief. 
 
OUR BIRTHDAYS. 
 
 163 
 
 OUR BIRTHDAYS. 
 
 What different dooms our birthdays bring ! 
 
 For instance, this little manikin thing 
 Survives to wear many a wrinkle ; 
 
 While that little .craft is cast away 
 In its very first trip to Babbicome Bay, 
 
 And expires without even a twinkle. 
 
 What different lots our stars accord ! 
 
 This babe to be hailed and wooed as a Lord ! 
 
 And that to be shunned like a leper ! 
 
 One to the world’s wine, honey, and corn, 
 Another, like Colchester native, born 
 To its vinegar, only, and pepper. 
 
 And the other sex, — the tender, — the fair, — 
 What wide reverses of fate are there, 
 
 Whilst Margaret, charmed by the Bulbul rare, 
 In a garden of Gul reposes, — 
 
 Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street, 
 Till — think of that, who finds life so sweet ! — 
 She hates the smell of roses ! 
 
164 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 FROM THE LIST OF “DAILY TRIALS.” 
 
 Children, with drums 
 Strapped round them by the fond paternal ass, 
 Peripatetics with a blade of grass 
 Between their thumbs. 
 
 O. W. Holmes. 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE GOSSAMER. 
 
 A sunbeam was playing through flowers that hung 
 Round a casement, that looked to the day, 
 
 And its bright touch wakened a child, who sung 
 As it woke, and began its play ; 
 
 And it played with the gossamer beam that shed 
 Its fairy brightness around its head : 
 
 O, ’t was sweet to see that child so fair, 
 
 At play with the dazzling things of air. 
 
THE BABY’S COMPLAINT. 
 
 165 
 
 O, never was a lovelier plaything seen, 
 
 To childhood’s simplicity given, 
 
 It seemed like a delicate link between 
 The creatures of earth and heaven : 
 
 But the sunbeam was crossed by an angry cloud, 
 
 And the gossamer died in the shadowy shroud, 
 
 And the child looked sad, when the bright things fled, 
 And its smile was gone, — and its tears were shed. 
 
 0 gentle child, in thy infant play, 
 
 An emblem of life hast thou seen ; 
 
 For joys are like sunbeams, — more ' fleeting than 
 they, 
 
 And sorrows cast shadows between ; 
 
 And friends that in moments of brightness are won, 
 Like gossamer, only are seen — in the sun. 
 
 O, many a lesson of sadness may 
 Be learned, from a joyous child at play. 
 
 THE BABY’S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Now, I suppose you think because you never see 
 me do anything but feed and sleep, that I have a 
 8 
 
166 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 very nice time of it. Let me tell that you are mis- 
 taken, and that I am tormented half to death, though 
 I never say anything about it. How should you 
 like every morning to have a pin put through your 
 dress into your skin, and to have to bear it all day 
 until your clothes were taken off at night? How 
 should you like to be held so near the fire that 
 your eyes were half scorched out of your head, 
 while the nurse was reading a novel ? How should 
 you like to have a great fly on your nose, and not 
 know how to take aim at him with your little fat, 
 
 useless fingers ? How should you like to tire 
 
 yourself out crawling away across the carpet, to 
 pick up a pretty button or pin, and have it snatched 
 away as soon as you begin to enjoy it? I tell you 
 it is enough to ruin any baby’s temper ! How 
 should you like to have your mamma stay at a 
 party till you were as hungry as a little cub, and 
 be left to the mercy of a nurse, who trotted you 
 up and down till every bone in your body ached? 
 How should you like when your mamma dressed you 
 all up pretty to take the nice fresh air, to spend the 
 afternoon in some smoky kitchen, while she gossips 
 with some of her cronies ? How should you like 
 
GOOD LIFE, LONG LIFE. 
 
 167 
 
 to have your toes tickled by all the little children 
 who insisted on seeing “ baby’s feet ” ? How should 
 you like to have a dreadful pain under your apron, 
 and have e^rybody call you a 66 cross little thing,” 
 when you could not speak to tell what was the 
 matter with you ? How should you like to crawl to 
 the top of the stairs (just to look about a little) 
 and pitch heels over head from the top to the bot- 
 tom ? . . . . * 
 
 GOOD LIFE, LONG LIFE. 
 
 Extract from an Ode Pindaric. Author born 1754. 
 
 A lily of a day 
 Is fairer far in May ; 
 
 Although it fall and die that night, 
 
 It was the plant and flower of light ! 
 
 In small proportions we just beauties see ; 
 
 And in short measures life may perfect be. 
 
168 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 THE CHILD’S EEVEEIE. 
 
 The idea of the following lines was really expressed by 
 little boy five years old. # 
 
 0, 1 long to lie, dear mother, 
 
 On the cool and fragrant grass, 
 
 With naught but the sky above my head, 
 
 And the shadowing clouds that pass. 
 
 And I want the bright, bright sunshine, 
 
 All round about my bed, 
 
 I will close my eyes, and God will think 
 Your little boy is dead ! 
 
 Then Christ will send an angel 
 To take me up to him ; 
 
 He will bear me, slow and steadily, 
 
 Far through the ether dim. 
 
 « 
 
 He will gently, gently lay me 
 Close to the Saviour’s-side, 
 
 And when I ’m sure that we ’re in heaven, 
 
 My eyes I ’ll open wide. 
 
THE CHILD’S REVERIE. 
 
 1G9 
 
 And I ’ll look among the angels 
 That stand about the throne, 
 
 Till I find my sister Mary, 
 
 For I know she must be one. 
 
 And when I find her, mother, 
 
 We will go away alone, 
 
 And I will tell her how we Ve mourned, 
 
 All the while she has been gone ! 
 
 0, 1 shall be delighted 
 
 To hear her speak again, — 
 
 Though I know she ’ll ne’er return to us, — 
 To ask her would be vain ! 
 
 So I ’ll put my arms around her, 
 
 And look into her eyes, 
 
 And remember all I said to her, 
 
 And all her sweet replies. 
 
 And then I ’ll a^: the angel 
 To take me back to you, — 
 
 He ’ll bear me, slow and steadily, 
 
 Down through the ether blue. 
 
170 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 And you ’ll only think, -dear mother, 
 
 I have been out at play, 
 
 And have gone to sleep, beneath a tree. 
 This sultry summer day. 
 
 THE CHILDLESS. 
 
 When I think upon the childless, 
 How I sorrow for the gloom 
 That pervades the silent chambers 
 Of the still and joyless home ! 
 They do not hear the gleesome sound 
 Of infant voices sweet, 
 
 The gush of fairy laughter, 
 
 Or the tread of tiny feet. 
 
 Their hand the little shSiing head 
 Can never fondly press, 
 
 They never on the coral lip 
 Imprint a warm caress ; 
 
THE CHILDLESS. 
 
 171 
 
 They never hear a lisping tongue 
 Pronounce their name in prayer, 
 Or watch beside the cradle 
 Of a slumberer calm and fair. 
 
 Their age is dull and lonely ; 
 
 In the solemn hour of death 
 No fond and weeping offspring 
 Receive the parting breath ; 
 
 And they feel the hollow nothingness 
 Of honors, lands, and name, 
 Knowing that those who love them not 
 The heritage must claim. 
 
 Thus I sorrowed for the childless ; 
 
 But erelong, in happier mood, 
 
 I thought how Providence o’erruies 
 Each earthly thing for good. 
 
 With the pleasures of the parent 
 Their lot I had compared, 
 
 But dwelt not on the trials 
 
 And the troubles they were spared. 
 
172 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 They know not what it is to stand 
 An infant sufferer by, — 
 
 To mark the crimson-fevered cheek, 
 The bright and restless eye ; 
 
 And feel that in that feeble breast, 
 That form of fragile make, 
 
 Their happiness is garnered up, 
 Their earthly hopes at stake. 
 
 They know not, as the mind unfolds, 
 How hard it is to win 
 The little heart to cling to good, 
 
 And shun the ways of sin : 
 
 They reck not of the awful charge, 
 Amid a world of strife, 
 
 To train a tenant for the skies, 
 
 An heir of endless life. 
 
 They see not the small coffin laid 
 Beneath the heavy sod, 
 
 Striving to school their bursting hearts 
 To bear the stroke of God ; 
 
THE CHILDLESS. 
 
 173 
 
 Then turning to the dreary home, 
 Once gay with childish mirth, 
 
 To view the silent nursery, — 
 
 The sad, deserted hearth. 
 
 Yet, is it not a blessed thought 
 That we have one above 
 
 Who deals to us our varied gifts 
 With such impartial love ? 
 
 Let not another’s favored lot 
 Our anxious minds molest ; 
 
 God knows alike his need and ours, 
 And judges for the best. 
 
 He wisely with some shadowy cloud 
 O’erspreads our brightest day ; 
 
 He kindly cheers our deepest gloom 
 With some benignant ray ; 
 
 And we may safely rest on Him, 
 Whose loving mercy lies 
 
 Not only in the good he sends, 
 
 But that which he denies. 
 
 8 * 
 
174 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 CHILDHOOD’S GUARDIAN ANGELS. 
 
 O’er wayward childhood would’st thou hold firm rule, 
 And sun thee in the light of happy faces. 
 
 Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces, 
 And in thine own heart let them first keep school, 
 For as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
 Heaven’s starry globe, and there sustains it ; — so 
 Do these upbear the little world below 
 Of Education — Patience, Love, and Hope. 
 Methinks I see them grouped in seemly show, 
 
 The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope, 
 
 And robes that, touching as adown they flow, 
 Distinctly blend like snow embossed in snow ; 
 
 O part them never ! If hope prostrate he, 
 
 Love too will sink and die. 
 
 But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive 
 From her own life that Hope is yet alive ; 
 
 And bending o’er, with soul-transfusing eyes, 
 
 And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, 
 
 Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies : 
 Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to 
 Love. 
 
TO A STEP-CHILD. 
 
 175 
 
 Yet haply there will come a weary day, 
 
 When overtasked at length 
 Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. 
 Then with a statue’s smile, a statue’s strength, 
 Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loath, 
 And both supporting does the work of both. 
 
 TO A STEP-CHILD. 
 
 Tnou art not mine ; the golden locks that cluster 
 Round thy broad brow, — 
 
 Thy blue eyes, with their soft and liquid lustre, 
 And cheek of snow, — 
 
 E’en the strange sadness on thy infant features, 
 Blending with love, 
 
 Are hers, whose mournful eyes seem sadly bending 
 On her lost love. 
 
 Thou art not mine ; upon thy sweet lip lingers 
 Thy mother’s smile, 
 
 And while I press thy soft and baby fingers 
 In mine the while, — - 
 
176 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 In thy deep eyes, so trustfully upraising 
 Their light to mine, 
 
 I deem the spirit of thy mother gazing • 
 
 To my soul’s shrine. 
 
 They ask me, with their meek and soft beseeching, 
 
 A mother’s care ; 
 
 They ask a mother’s kind and patient teaching, — 
 
 A mother’s prayer. 
 
 Not mine, — yet dear to me, — fair, fragrant blossom 
 Of a fair tree, 
 
 Crushed to the earth in life’s first glorious summer, 
 Thou art dear to me, 
 
 Child of the lost, the buried, and the sainted, 
 
 I called thee mine, 
 
 Till fairer still, with tears and sin untainted. 
 
 Her home be thine. 
 
PICTURES OF MEMORY. 
 
 177 
 
 THE YOUNGEST. 
 
 I rocked her in the cradle, 
 
 And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest ; 
 What fireside circle hath not felt the charm 
 Of that sweet tie ? The youngest ne’er grew old. 
 The fond endearment of our earlier days 
 We keep alive in them, and when they die, 
 
 Our youthful joys we bury with them. 
 
 PICTURES OF MEMORY. 
 
 Among the beautiful pictures 
 That hang on Memory’s wall 
 Is one of a dim old forest, 
 
 That seemeth the best of all. 
 Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 
 Bark with the mistletoe, 
 
 Not for the violets golden, 
 
 That sprinkle the vale below ; 
 
178 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Not for the milk-white lilies, 
 
 That lean from the fragrant hedge, 
 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, 
 
ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN. 
 
 179 
 
 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. 
 
 ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN. 
 
 I saw where in the shroud did lurk 
 A curious frame of Nature’s work. 
 
 A floweret crushed in the bud, 
 
 A nameless piece of babyhood, 
 
 Was in her cradle-coffin lying : 
 
 Extinct with scarce the sense of dying : 
 
 So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb 
 For darker closets of the tomb ! 
 
180 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 She did but ope an eye, and put 
 A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 
 For the long dark ; ne’er more to see 
 Through glasses of mortality. 
 
 Riddle of destiny, who can show 
 What thy short visit meant, or know 
 Wliat thy errand here below ? 
 
 Shall we say, that Nature blind 
 Checked her hand, and changed her mind, 
 
 Just when she had exactly wrought 
 A finished pattern without fault ? 
 
 - Could she flag, or could she tire, 
 
 Or lacked she the Promethean fire 
 
 (With her nine moons’ long workings sickened) 
 
 That should thy little limbs have quickened ? 
 
 Limbs so firm, they seemed to assure 
 
 Life of health, and days mature : 
 
 Woman’s self in miniature ! 
 
 Limbs so fair, they might supply 
 (Themselves now but cold imagery) 
 
 The sculptor to lay beauty by, 
 
 « Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry, 
 
 That babe or mother,* one must die ; 
 
 So in mercy left the stock, 
 
 And cut the branch ; to save the shock 
 
ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN. 181 
 
 Of young years widowed ; and the pain, 
 
 When single state comes back again 
 To the lone man, who, reft of wife, 
 Thenceforward drags a maimed life ? 
 
 The economy of Heaven is dark ; 
 
 And wisest clerks have missed the mark, 
 
 Why human buds, like this, should fall, 
 
 More brief than fly ephemeral, 
 
 That has his day ; while shrivelled crones 
 Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ; 
 
 And crabbed use the conscience sears 
 In sinners of an hundrecfryears. 
 
 Mother’s prattle, mother’s kiss, 
 
 Baby fond, thou ne’er wilt miss, 
 
 Rites, which custom does impose, 
 
 Silver bells and baby clothes ; 
 
 Coral redder than those lips, 
 
 Which pale death did late eclipse ; 
 
 Music framed for infant’s glee, 
 
 Whistle never tuned for thee ; 
 
 Though thou want’st not, thou shalt have them, 
 Loving hearts were they which gave them. 
 
 Let not one be missing ; nurse, 
 
182 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 See them laid upon the hearse 
 Of infant slain by doom perverse. 
 Why should kings and nobles have 
 Pictured trophies to them grave ; 
 And we, churls, to thee deny 
 Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, 
 
 A more harmless vanity ? 
 
 “THE CHILD IS ^FATHER OF THE MAN.” 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 A rainbow in. the sky ; 
 
 So was it when my life began ; 
 
 So is it now I am a man ; 
 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 
 The child is Father of the Man ; 
 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
DEATH OF AN INFANT. 
 
 183 
 
 DEATH OF AN INFANT. 
 
 A host of angels flying, 
 
 Through cloudless skies impelled, w 
 Upon the earth beheld 
 A pearl of beauty lying, 
 
 Worthy to glitter bright 
 In Heaven’s vast halls of light. 
 
 They saw, with glances tender, 
 
 An infant newly born, 
 
 O’er whom life’s earliest morn 
 Just cast its opening splendor : 
 
 Virtue it could not know, 
 
 Nor vice, nor joy, nor woe. 
 
 The blest angelic legion 
 Greeted its birth above, 
 
 And came, with looks of love, 
 From Heaven’s enchanting region ; 
 Bending their winged way 
 To where the infant lay ! 
 
 * 
 
184 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 They spread their pinions o’er it, — 
 That little pearl which shone 
 With lustre all its own, — 
 
 And then on high they bore it, 
 Where glory has its birth ; — 
 
 But left the shell on earth. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM MACBETH. Act IV. 
 
 Malcolm. Macduff. Enter Rosse. 
 
 JRosse. Your castle is surprised ; your wife and babes 
 Savagely slaughtered : to relate the manner 
 Were, on the quarry of these murdered deer, 
 
 To add the death of you. 
 
 Malcolm . Merciful Heaven ! 
 
 What, man ! ne’er pull your hat upon your brows ; 
 Give sorrow words : the grief, that does not speak, 
 Whispers the o’erfraught heart, and bids it break. 
 
 Macduff. My children too ? — All my pretty ones ? 
 Did you say, all ? O, hell-kite ! — All ! 
 
THE TOWN AND COUNTRY CHILD. 
 
 185 
 
 • Rosse, Wife, children, servants, all that could be 
 found. 
 
 Malcolm . Be comforted : 
 
 Let ’& make us med’cines of our great revenge, 
 
 To cure this deadly grief. 
 
 Macduff. He has no children ! 
 
 THE TOWN AND COUNTRY CHILD. 
 
 Child of the country ! free as air 
 Art thou, and as the sunshine fair ; 
 
 Born, like the lily, where the dew 
 Lies odorous when the day is new ; 
 
 Fed ’mid the May-flowers like the bee,' 
 Nursed to sweet music on the knee,- 
 Lulled in t he breast to that glad tune 
 Which wi ads make ’mong the woods of June : 
 I sing of thee ; — ’t is sweet to sing 
 Of such a fair and gladsome thing. 
 
 Child of the town** ! for thee I sigh ; 
 
 A gilded roof ’s thy golden sky, 
 
186 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 A carpet is thy daisied sod, 
 
 A narrow street thy boundless road, 
 
 Thy rushing deer ’s the clattering tramp 
 Of watchmen, thy best light ’s a lamp, — 
 Through smoke, and not through trellised vines 
 And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines ; 
 
 I sing of thee in sadness ; where 
 Else is wreck wrought in aught so fail’ ? 
 
 Child of the country ! thy small feet 
 Tread on strawberries red and sweet ; 
 
 With thee I wander forth to see 
 The flowers which most delight the bee ; 
 
 The bush o’er which the throstle sung 
 In April, while she nursed her young ; 
 
 The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where 
 She bred her twins, the timorous hare ; 
 
 The knoll, wrought o’er with wild blue-bells, 
 Where brown bees build their balmy cells ; 
 
 The green-wood stream, the shady pool, 
 
 Where trouts leap when the day is cool ; 
 
 The shilfa’s nest that seems to be 
 A portion of the sheltering tree, — 
 
 And other marvels which my verse 
 Can find no language to rehearse. 
 
THE TOWN AND COUNTRY CHILD. 
 
 187 
 
 Child of the town ! for thee, alas ! 
 
 Glad nature spreads nor flowers nor grass ; 
 Birds build no nests, nor in the sun 
 Glad streams come singing as they run ; 
 
 A May-pole is thy blossomed tree, 
 
 A beetle is thy murmuring bee ; 
 
 Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where 
 Thy poulterer dwells, beside thy hare ; 
 
 Thy fruit is plucked, and by the pound 
 Hawked clamorous all the city round ; 
 
 No roses, twin-born on the stalk, 
 
 Perfume thee in thy evening walk ; 
 
 No voice of birds, — but to thee comes 
 The mingled din of cars and drums, 
 
 And startling cries, such as are rife 
 When wine and wassail waken strife. 
 
 Child of the country ! on the lawn 
 I see thee like the bounding fawn, 
 
 Blithe as the bird which tries its wing 
 The first time on the wings of Spring ; 
 Bright as the sun when from the cloud 
 He comes as cocks are crowing loud ; 
 
 Now running, shouting, ’mid sunbeams, 
 
 Now groping trouts in lucid streams, 
 
188 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Now spinning like a mill-wheel round, 
 
 Now hunting echo’s empty sound, 
 
 Now climbing up some tall old tree 
 For climbing sake. ’T is sweet to thee 
 To sit where birds can sit alone, 
 
 Or share with thee thy venturous throne. 
 
 Child of the town and bustling street, 
 What woes and snares await thy feet ; 
 
 Thy paths are paved for five long miles, 
 
 Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles ; 
 Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, 
 
 Winch shrouds thee like a mourning cloak ; 
 And thou art cabined and confined 
 At once from sun, and dew, and wind. 
 
 Fly from the town, sweet child ! for health 
 Is happiness, and strength, and wealth. 
 
 There is a lesson in each flower, 
 
 A story in each stream and bower ; 
 
 On every herb on which you tread 
 Are written words which, rightly read, 
 
 Will lead you from earth’s fragrant sod 
 To hope, and holiness, and God. 
 
EXTRACT FROM “ TWO APRIL MORNINGS.” 189 
 
 EXTEACT FEOM “TWO APEIL MOENINGS.” 
 
 u A picture is a silent poem, a poem a speaking picture.” 
 
 Simonides. 
 
 And turning from the path, I met, 
 
 Beside the churchyard yew, 
 
 A blooming girl, whose hair was wet 
 With points of morning dew. 
 
 A basket on her head she bare ; 
 
 Her brow was smooth and white : 
 
 To see a child so very fair, 
 
 It was a pure delight ! 
 
 No fountain from its rocky cave 
 E’er tripped with foot so free ; 
 
 She seemed as happy as a wave 
 That dances on the sea. 
 
 9 
 
190 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM “SEASONS OF PRAYER.” 
 
 * *• 
 
 There are smiles and tears in the mother’s eyes, 
 For her new-born infant beside her lies. 
 
 O, hour of bliss ! when the heart o’erflows 
 With rapture a mother only knows : — 
 
 Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer ; 
 
 Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care. 
 
 INNOCENT CHILD AND SNOW-WHITE 
 FLOWER. 
 
 Innocent child and snow-white flower ! 
 
 Well are ye paired in your opening hour. 
 Thus should the pure and the lovely meet, 
 Stainless with stainless, and sweet with sweet. 
 White as those leaves, just blown apart, 
 
 Are the folds of thy own young heart ; 
 
 Guilty passion and cankering care 
 Never have left their traces there. 
 
INNOCENT CHILD AND SNOW-WHITE FLOWER. 191 
 
 Artless one ! though thou gazest now, 
 
 O’er the white blossom with earnest brow, 
 Soon will it tire thy childish eye, 
 
 Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by. 
 
 Throw it aside in thy weary hour, 
 
 Throw to the ground the fair white flower. 
 Yet, as thy tender years depart, 
 
 Keep that white and innocent heart. 
 
 THE EARLY DEAD. 
 
 Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, 
 
 In life’s happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, 
 Ere sin threw a blight o’er the spirit’s young bloom, 
 Or earth had profaned what was meant for the 
 skies. 
 
 Death chilled the fair fountain, ere sorrow had 
 stained it; 
 
 ’T was frozen in all the pure light of its course, 
 And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has un- 
 chained it, 
 
 To water that Eden where first was its source. 
 
192 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Weep not for those, — in their spring-time they flew 
 
 r 
 
 To that land where the wings of the soul are un- 
 furled ; 
 
 And now, like the stars beyond evening’s cold dew, 
 Look radiantly down on the tears of this world. 
 
 THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 
 
 Ah ! not for thee was woven 
 That wreath of joy and woe, 
 
 That crown of thorns and flowers 
 "Which all must wear below. 
 
 We bend in sadness o’er thee, 
 
 Yet feel that thou art blest, 
 
 Loved one ! so early summoned 
 To enter into rest. 
 
 E’en now thy bright young spirit 
 From earthly life is free ; 
 
 Now hast thou met that Saviour, 
 Who smiled on such as thee. 
 
MY BOY. 
 
 193 
 
 E’en now art thou rejoicing, 
 Unsullied as thou art, 
 
 In the blest vision promised 
 Unto the pure in heart. 
 
 Thou Father of our spirits, 
 
 We can but look to thee ! 
 
 Though chastened, not forsaken 
 Shall we thy children be. 
 
 We take the cup of sorrow 
 As did thy blessed Son ; 
 
 Teach us to say with Jesus, 
 
 “ Thy will, not ours, be done*” 
 
 MY BOY. 
 
 “ There is even a happiness 
 That makes the heart afraid.” 
 
 Hood. 
 
 One more new claimant for 
 Human fraternity, 
 
 Swelling the flood that sweeps 
 On to eternity. 
 
194 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 I who have filled the cup 
 Tremble to think of it ; 
 
 For be it what it may, 
 
 I must yet drink of it. 
 
 Room for him into 
 Ranks of humanity ; 
 
 Give him a place in your 
 Kingdom of vanity ! 
 
 Welcome the stranger 
 With kindly affection ; 
 
 Hopefully, trustfully, 
 
 Not with dejection. 
 
 See, in his waywardness, 
 How his fist doubles ; 
 Thus pugilistical, 
 
 Daring life’s troubles. 
 Strange that the neophyte 
 Enters existence 
 In such an attitude, 
 Feigning resistance. 
 
MY BOY. 
 
 195 
 
 Could he but have a glimpse 
 Into futurity, 
 
 Well might he fight against 
 Further maturity : 
 
 Yet does it seem to me 
 As if his purity 
 Were against sinfulness 
 Ample security. 
 
 Incomprehensible, 
 Budding immortal, 
 Thrust all amazedly, 
 Under life’s portal ; 
 Born to a destiny 
 Clouded in mystery, 
 Wisdom itself cannot 
 Guess at its history. 
 
 Something too much of this 
 Timon-like croaking ; 
 
 See his face wrinkle now, 
 Laughter-provoking. 
 
 tr 
 
196 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Now he cries lustily, — 
 
 Bravo, my hearty one ! 
 
 Lungs like an orator 
 Cheering his party on. 
 
 Look how his merry eyes 
 Turn to me pleadingly ! 
 
 Can we help loving him, — 
 Loving exceedingly ? 
 
 Partly with hopefulness, 
 
 Partly with fears ; 
 
 Mine, as I look at him, 
 
 Moisten with tears. 
 
 Now then to find a name ; — 
 Where shall we search for it ? 
 
 Turn to his ancestry, 
 
 Or to the Church for it ? 
 
 Shall we endow with 
 Title heroic, 
 
 After some warrior, 
 
 Poet, or stoic ? 
 
 
MY BOY. 
 
 197 
 
 One Aunty says he will 
 Soon “ lisp in numbers,” 
 Turning his thoughts to rhyme, 
 E’en in his slumbers ; 
 
 Watts rhymed in babyhood, 
 
 No blemish spots his fame, — 
 Christen him even so ; 
 
 Young Mr. Watt ’s his name. 
 
 Some young children sported among the tombs, 
 and hid from each other with laughing faces. They 
 had an infant with them, and had laid it down asleep 
 upon a child’s grave, in a little bed of leaves. Little 
 Nell drew near and asked one of them whose grave 
 it was. The child answered that was not its name : 
 it was a garden, — his brother’s. It was greener, 
 he said, than all the other gardens, and the birds 
 loved it better because he had been used to feed 
 them. When he had done speaking, he looked at 
 her with a smile, and kneeling down and nestling for 
 a moment with his cheek against the turf, bounded 
 merrily away. 
 
 Master Humphrey’s Clock. 
 
198 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 THE MODEL BABY. 
 
 It is the image of its father, unless it is the very 
 picture of its mother. It is the best-tempered little 
 thing in the world, never crying but in the middle 
 of the night, or screaming but when it is being 
 washed. It is astonishing how quiet it is whilst 
 feeding. It understands everything, and proves its 
 love for learning by tearing the leaves out of every 
 book, and grasping at the engravings. It is the 
 most wonderful child that was ever seen, and would 
 swallow both its tiny fists, if it was not for a habit 
 of choking. It has a strange hostility for its nurse’s 
 caps and nose, which it will clutch and hold with 
 savage tenacity, if in the least offended. It is very 
 playful, delighting in pulling the tablecloth off, or 
 knocking the china ornaments off the mantel-piece, or 
 upsetting its food on somebody’s lap. It invents a 
 new language of its own, almost before it can speak,' 
 which is perfectly intelligible to its parents, though 
 Greek to every one else. It is not fond of public 
 entertainments, invariably crying before it has been 
 at one five minutes. It dislikes treachery in any 
 
THE MODEL BABY. 
 
 199 
 
 shape, and repels the spoonful of sugar if it fancies 
 there is a powder at the bottom of it. Medicine is 
 its greatest horror, next to cold water. It has no 
 particular love for dress, generally tearing to pieces 
 any handsome piece of finery, lace especially, as 
 soon as it is put on. 
 
 It is the cleverest child that ever was born, and 
 says “ Papa,” or something very like it, when scarce- 
 ly a month old. It takes early to pulling whiskers, 
 preferring those of strangers. It inquires deeply 
 into everything, and is very penetrating in the con- 
 struction of a drum, the economy of a work-box, or 
 the anatomy of a doll, which it likes all the better 
 without any head or arms. 
 
 It has an intuitive hatred of a doctor, and fights 
 with all its legs, and hands, and first teeth, against 
 his endearments. In fact, there never was a child 
 like it, and the Model Baby proves this by surviv- 
 ing the thousand and one experiments of rival 
 grannies and mothers-in-law, and outliving, to the 
 athletic age of kilts and bare legs, the villanous 
 compounds of Godfrey and Dalby, and the whole 
 poison-chest of elixirs, carminatives, cordials, and 
 pills, which babies are physically heir to. 
 
200 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 THE OPEN WINDOW. 
 
 The old house by the lindens 
 Stood silent in the shade, 
 
 And on the gravel pathway, 
 
 The light and shadow played. 
 
 • 
 
 I saw the nursery windows 
 Wide open to the air, 
 
 But the faces of the children 
 They were no longer there. 
 
 The large Newfoundland house-dog 
 Was standing by the door, 
 
 He looked for his little playmates, 
 Who would return no more. 
 
 They walked not under the lindens, 
 They played not in the hall, 
 
 But shadow, and silence, and sadness 
 Were hanging over all. 
 
THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 
 
 201 
 
 The birds sang in the branches 
 With sweet, familiar tone, 
 
 But the voices of the children 
 Will be heard in dreams alone. 
 
 And the boy, who walked beside me, 
 He could not understand 
 # Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 
 
 I pressed his soft, warm hand. 
 
 THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 
 
 The snow had begun in the gloaming, 
 And busily all the night 
 Had been heaping field and highway 
 With a silence deep and white. 
 
 Every pine, and fir, and hemlock 
 Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 
 And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
 Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 
 
202 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 From sheds, new roofed with Carrara, 
 Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow, 
 
 The rails were softened to swan’s down, — 
 And still fluttered down the snow. 
 
 I stood and watched by the window 
 The noiseless work of the sky, 
 
 And the sudden flurries of snow-birds 
 Like brown leaves whistling by. 
 
 I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
 Where a little headstone stood, 
 
 How the flakes were folding it gently, 
 
 As did robins the babes in the wood. 
 
 Up spoke our own little Mabel, 
 
 Saying, “ Father, who makes it snow ? ” 
 And I told of the good All-father 
 Who cares for us all below. 
 
 Again I looked at the snow-fall, 
 
 And thought of the leaden sky 
 That arched o’er our first great sorrow, 
 When that mound was heaped so high. 
 
TWO YEARS OLD. 
 
 203 
 
 I remembered the gradual patience 
 That fell from that cloud like snow, 
 Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
 The scar of that deep-stabbed woe. 
 
 And again to the child I whispered, 
 
 “ The snow that husheth all, 
 
 Darling, the merciful Father 
 Alone can make it fall ! ” 
 
 Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her, 
 And she, kissing back, could not know 
 That my kiss was given to her sister 
 Folded close under deepening snow. 
 
 TWO YEARS OLD. 
 
 Playing on the carpet near me 
 Is a little cherub girl ; 
 
 And her presence, much I fear me, 
 Sets my senses in a whirl ; 
 
204 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 For a book is near me lying, 
 
 Full of grace philosophizing, 
 
 And I own I ’m vainly trying 
 There my thoughts to hold ; 
 
 But, in spite of my essaying, 
 
 They will evermore be straying 
 To that cherub near me playing, 
 
 Only two years old. 
 
 With her hair so long and flaxen, 
 And her sunny eyes of blue, 
 
 And her cheek # so plump and waxen, 
 She is charming to the view. 
 
 Then her voice, to all who hear it, 
 Breathes a sweet entrancing spirit. 
 
 O, to be forever near it, 
 
 Is a joy untold ; 
 
 For ’t is ever sweetly telling 
 To my heart, with rapture swelling, 
 Of affection inly dwelling, — 
 
 Only two years old. 
 
 With a new delight I ’m hearing 
 
 O O 
 
 All her sweet attempts at words, 
 
TWO YEARS OLD. 
 
 205 
 
 In their melody endearing, 
 
 Sweeter far than any bird’s ; 
 
 And the musical mistaking 
 Which her baby lips are making, 
 
 For my heart a charm is waking, 
 Firmer in its hold 
 
 Than the charm so rich and glowing, 
 From the Roman’s lip o’erflowing ; 
 Then she gives a look so knowing, — 
 Only two years old. • 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Now her ripe and honeyed kisses 
 (Honeyed, ripe, for me alone) 
 
 Thrill my soul with varied blisses 
 Yenus never yet hath known, — 
 When her twining arms are round me, 
 All domestic joy hath crowned me, 
 And a fervent spell hath bound me, 
 Never to grow cold. 
 
 O, there ’s not, this side of Aiden, 
 Aught with loveliness so laden, 
 
 As my little cherub maiden 
 Only two years old. 
 
206 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 LITTLE GEORGE’S STORY. 
 
 My Aunt Libby patted me on the head the other 
 day, and said, “ George, my boy, this is the happiest 
 part of your life.” I guess Aunt Libby don’t know 
 much. I guess she never worked a week to make 
 a kite, and the first time she went to fiy it got the 
 tail hitched in a tall tree, whose owner would n’t 
 let her climb up to disentangle it. I guess she 
 never broke one of the runners of her sled some 
 Saturday afternoon when it was prime coasting. I 
 guess she never had to give her biggest marbles to 
 a great lubberly boy, because he would thrash her 
 
 if she did n’t I guess she never had him twitch 
 
 off her best cap, and toss it into a mud-puddle. I 
 guess she never had to give her humming-top to 
 quiet the baby, and had the paint all sucked off. I 
 guess she never saved all her coppers a whole winter 
 to buy a trumpet, and then was told she must not 
 
 blow it, because it would make a noise ! No, 
 
 my Aunt Libby don’t know much. How should she ? 
 she never was a boy ! 
 
THE BIKD’S-NEST IN THE MOON. 
 
 207 
 
 THE BIRD’S-NEST IN THE MOON. 
 
 u Love, on this earth the only mean thou art, 
 
 Whereby we hold intelligence with heaven, 
 
 And it is thou that only dost impart 
 The good that to mortality is given. 
 
 0 sacred bond, by time thou art not broken ! 
 
 0 thing divine, by angels to be spoken! ” 
 
 Drayton. 
 
 I love to go to the Moon.* I never shake off 
 sublunary cares and sorrows so completely as when 
 I am fairly landed on that beautiful island. A man 
 in the Moon may see Castle Island, the city of 
 Boston, the ships in the harbor, the silver waters of 
 our little Archipelago, all lying as it were at his feet. 
 There you may be at once social and solitary ; social 
 because you see the busy world before you, and 
 solitary, because there is not a single creature on the 
 island, except a few feeding cows, to disturb your 
 repose. I was there last summer, and was surveying 
 the scene with my usual emotions, when my attention 
 
 * Moon Island, in Boston Harbor. 
 
208 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 was attracted by the whirring wings of a little spar- 
 row, whom, in walking, I had frightened from her 
 nest. This bird, as is well known, always builds its 
 nest on the ground. I have seen their nests in the 
 middle of a comhill, curiously placed in the centre 
 of the five green stalks, so that it was difficult, at 
 hoeing time, to dress the hill without burying the 
 nest. This sparrow had built her nest beneath a 
 little tuft of grass more rich and thick set than the 
 rest of the herbage around it. I cast a careless 
 glance at the nest, saw the soft down that lined its 
 internal part, the four little speckled eggs which en- 
 closed the parent’s hope. I marked the multitude 
 of cows that were feeding around it, one tread of 
 whose cloven feet would crush both bird and progeny 
 into ruin. I could not but reflect on the precarious 
 condition to which the creature had committed her 
 most tender hopes. A cow is seeking a bite of grass ; 
 she steps aside to gratify that appetite ; she treads 
 on the nest, and destroys the offspring of the defence- 
 less bird. 
 
 As I came away from the island, I reflected that 
 this bird’s situation, in her humble, defenceless nest, 
 might be no unapt emblem of man in this precarious 
 
THE BIRD’S-NEST IN THE MOON. 
 
 209 
 
 world of uncertainty and sorrow. We are impelled 
 by some of the tenderest instincts of our nature to 
 form the conjugal connection ; we build our nest, 
 committing to it the soft deposits of our gentlest 
 affections. But where do we build this nest? Are 
 we any wiser than the foolish bird ? No, — the nest 
 is on the ground of terrestrial calamities, and a 
 thousand invisible dangers are roving around. We 
 are doubled in wedlock , and multiplied in children , 
 and stand but a broader mark for the cruel arrows 
 of death and destruction which are shot from every 
 side. What are diseases, in their countless forms, 
 accidents by flood and fire, the seductions of tempta- 
 tion, and even half the human species themselves, 
 but so many huge cows feeding around our nest, and 
 ready, every moment, to crush our dearest hopes, 
 with the most careless indifference, beneath their 
 brutal tread ? Sometimes, as we sit at home, we can 
 see the calamity coming at a distance. We hear 
 the breathing of the vast monster ; we mark its 
 wavering path, — now looking towards us in a direct 
 line, — now capriciously turning for a moment aside. 
 We see the swing of its dreadful horns, the savage 
 rapacity of its brutal appetite; we behold it ap- 
 
210 
 
 PICTURES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 proaching nearer and nearer, and it passes within 
 a hair-breadth of our ruin, leaving us to the sad 
 reflection that another and another are still behind. 
 Poor bird ! Our situations are exactly alike. Thy 
 choicest comforts come entwined with pain; and no 
 sooner is thy callow-young developed, than thou feel- 
 est all the cares that distract a parent’s heart. — 
 How often hast thou been driven from thy nest! 
 How often hast thou fluttered thy wings in agony, 
 and taken up the wail of sorrow as if thy children 
 were already lost. The other evening I walked into 
 the chamber where my children were sleeping. There 
 was Willie with the clothes half kicked down, his 
 hands thrown carelessly over his head, tired with 
 play, now resting in repose ; there was Jamie with 
 his balmy breath and rosy cheeks, sleeping and 
 looking like innocence itself. There was Bessie, 
 who has just begun to prattle, and runs daily 
 with tottering steps and lisping voice to ask her 
 father to toss her into the air. As I looked 
 upon these sleeping innocents, I could not but re- 
 gard them as so many little birds which I must 
 fold under my wing, and protect if possible, in se- 
 curity in my nest. But when I thought of the huge 
 
THE BIRD S-NEST IN THE MOON. 
 
 211 
 
 cows that were feeding around them ; the ugly hoofs 
 that might crush them into ruin ; in short, when I 
 remembered the bird’s-nest in the moon, I trembled 
 and wept. But why weep ? Is there not a special 
 Providence in the fall of a sparrow ? It is very 
 possible that the nest which I saw was not in so 
 ^precarious a situation as it appeared to be. Perhaps 
 some providential instinct led the bird to build her 
 fragile house in the ranker grass, which the kine 
 never bite, and, of course, on which they would not 
 be likely to tread ; perhaps some kind impulse may 
 guide that species so as not to tread even on a bird’s 
 nest. There is a merciful God, whose care and 
 protection extend over all his works, who takes care 
 of the sparrow’s children and of mine. The very 
 hairs of our head are all numbered . 
 
 “ Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones ; for 
 I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold the 
 face of my Father.” 
 
 Christ.