FUR AND FEATHER

“Men are brethren of each other, One in flesh and one in food; And a sort of foster brother Is the litter, or the brood, Of that folk in fur or feather, Who, with men together, Breast the wind and weather.”

A Robin Redbreast in a cage Puts all Heaven in a rage. A skylark wounded on the wing Doth make a cherub cease to sing. He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men.

There was a Knight of Bethlehem, Whose wealth was tears and sorrows; His men-at-arms were little lambs, His trumpeters were sparrows. His castle was a wooden cross, On which he hung so high; His helmet was a crown of thorns, Whose crest did touch the sky.

Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life, and bade thee feed By the stream and o’er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Little lamb, I’ll tell thee; Little lamb, I’ll tell thee: He is callèd by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild, He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee! Little lamb, God bless thee!

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright In the forest of the night, What immortal hand or eye Framed thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burned that fire within thine eyes? On what wings dared he aspire? What the hand dared seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? When thy heart began to beat, What dread hand formed thy dread feet? What the hammer, what the chain, Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dared thy deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And water’d heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?

I had a dove, and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving; O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied With a silken thread of my own hands’ weaving. Sweet little red feet! why should you die— Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why? You lived alone in the forest tree, Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me? I kiss’d you oft and gave you white peas; Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! For Summer’s nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun; Our thrushes now are silent, Our swallows flown away,— But Robin’s here in coat of brown, And scarlet breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year. Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian princes, But soon they’ll turn to ghosts; The leathery pears and apples Hang russet on the bough; It’s Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, ’Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And what will this poor Robin do? For pinching days are near. The fireside for the cricket, The wheatstack for the mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house. The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow,— Alas! in winter dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer.

It was a black Bunny, with white in its head, Alive when the children went cosy to bed— O early next morning that Bunny was dead! When Bunny’s young master awoke up from sleep, To look at the creatures young master did creep, And saw that this black one lay all of a heap. “O Bunny, what ails you? What does it import That you lean on one side, with your breath coming short? For I never before saw a thing of the sort!” They took him so gently up out of his hutch, They made him a sick-bed, they loved him so much; They wrapped him up warm; they said, Poor thing, and such; But all to no purpose. Black Bunny he died, And rolled over limp on his little black side; The grown-up spectators looked awkward and sighed. While, as for those others in that congregation, You heard voices lifted in sore lamentation; But three-year-old Baby desired explanation: At least, so it seemed. Then they buried their dead In a nice quiet place, with a flag at his head; “Poor Bunny!”—in large print—was what the flag said. Now, as they were shovelling the earth in the hole, Little Baby burst out, “I don’t like it!”—poor soul! And bitterly wept. So the dead had his dole. That evening, as Babe she was cuddling to bed, “The Bunny will come back again,” Baby said, “And be a white bunny, and never be dead!”

Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Every day, and every night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white. Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslips eat, They will make it very sweet. Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine.

Bird of the wilderness, Blythesome and cumberless[22], Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place— O to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O’er fell and fountain sheen, O’er moor and mountain green, O’er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow’s rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place— O to abide in the desert with thee!