OTHER LITTLE CHILDREN

Dark brown is the river, Golden is the sand. It flows along forever With trees on either hand. Green leaves a-floating, Castles of the foam, Boats of mine a-boating— Where will all come home? On goes the river And out past the mill, Away down the valley, Away down the hill. Away down the river, A hundred miles or more, Other little children Shall bring my boats ashore.

Come, my little Robert, near— Fie! what filthy hands are here! Who, that e'er could understand The rare structure of a hand, With its branching fingers fine, Work itself of hands divine, Strong, yet delicately knit, For ten thousand uses fit, Overlaid with so clear skin You may see the blood within,— Who this hand would choose to cover With a crust of dirt all over, Till it look'd in hue and shape Like the forefoot of an ape! Man or boy that works or plays In the fields or the highways, May, without offence or hurt, From the soil contract a dirt Which the next clear spring or river Washes out and out for ever— But to cherish stains impure, Soil deliberate to endure, On the skin to fix a stain Till it works into the grain, Argues a degenerate mind, Sordid, slothful, ill-inclined, Wanting in that self-respect Which does virtue best protect. All-endearing cleanliness, Virtue next to godliness, Easiest, cheapest, needfull'st duty, To the body health and beauty; Who that's human would refuse it, When a little water does it?

The Boy from his bedroom window Look'd over the little town, And away to the bleak black upland Under a clouded moon. The moon came forth from her cavern. He saw the sudden gleam Of a tarn in the swarthy moorland; Or perhaps the whole was a dream. For I never could find that water In all my walks and rides: Far-off, in the Land of Memory, That midnight pool abides. Many fine things had I glimpse of, And said, "I shall find them one day." Whether within or without me They were, I cannot say.

"I have no name, I am but two days old." What shall I call thee? "I happy am, Joy is my name." Sweet joy befall thee! Pretty joy! Sweet joy but two days old! Sweet joy I call thee. Thou dost smile, I sing the while. Sweet joy befall thee!

When the sun has left the hill-top And the daisy fringe is furled, When the birds from wood and meadow In their hidden nests are curled, Then I think of all the babies That are sleeping in the world. There are babies in the high lands And babies in the low, There are pale ones wrapped in furry skins On the margin of the snow, And brown ones naked in the isles Where all the spices grow. And some are in the palace On a white and downy bed, And some are in the garret With a clout beneath their head, And some are on the cold hard earth, Whose mothers have no bread. O little men and women, Dear flowers yet unblown— O little kings and beggars Of the pageant yet unshown— Sleep soft and dream pale dreams now, To-morrow is your own.

Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he, laughing, said to me: "Pipe a song about a lamb." So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again." So I piped; he wept to hear. "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, Sing thy songs of happy cheer." So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. "Piper, sit thee down and write, In a book, that all may read."— So he vanished from my sight, And I plucked a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen; And I stained the water clear And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

Birdies with broken wings, Hide from each other; But babies in trouble Can run home to mother.

I remember, I remember, The house where I was born; The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now I often wish the 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! 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 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy.

Sporting through the forest wide; Playing by the waterside; Wandering o'er the heathy fells; Down within the woodland dells; All among the mountains wild, Dwelleth many a little child! In the baron's hall of pride; By the poor man's dull fireside: 'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean, Little children may be seen, Like the flowers that spring up fair, Bright and countless everywhere! In the far isles of the main; In the desert's lone domain; In the savage mountain-glen, 'Mong the tribes of swarthy men; Whereso'er the sun hath shone On a league of people'd ground, Little children may be found! Blessings on them! they in me Move a kindly sympathy, With their wishes, hopes, and fears; With their laughter and their tears; With their wonder so intense, And their small experience! Little children, not alone On the wide earth are ye known, 'Mid its labours and its cares, 'Mid its sufferings and its snares; Free from sorrow, free from strife, In the world of love and life, Where no sinful thing hath trod— In the presence of your God, Spotless, blameless, glorified— Little children, ye abide!

"Where do the stars grow, little Garaine? The garden of moons is it far away? The orchard of suns, my little Garaine, Will you take us there some day?" "If you shut your eyes," quoth little Garaine, "I will show you the way to go To the orchard of suns and the garden of moons And the field where the stars do grow. "But you must speak soft," quoth little Garaine "And still must your footsteps be, For a great bear prowls in the field of stars, And the moons they have men to see. "And the suns have the Children of Signs to guard, And they have no pity at all—— You must not stumble, you must not speak, When you come to the orchard wall. "The gates are locked," quoth little Garaine, "But the way I am going to tell! The key of your heart it will open them all And there's where the darlings dwell!"

My noble, lovely, little Peggy, Let this my First Epistle beg ye, At dawn of morn, and close of even, To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. In double duty say your prayer: Our Father first, then Notre Père. And, dearest child, along the day, In every thing you do and say, Obey and please my lord and lady, So God shall love and angels aid ye. If to these precepts you attend, No second letter need I send, And so I rest your constant friend.

Toys, and treats, and pleasures pass Like a shadow in a glass, Like the smoke that mounts on high, Like a noonday's butterfly. Quick they come and quick they end, Like the money that I spend; Some to-day, to-morrow more, Short, like those that went before. Mother, fold me to your knees! How much should I care for these— Little joys that come and go! If you did not love me so? And when things are sad or wrong, Then I know that love is strong; When I ache, or when I weep, Then I know that love is deep. Father, now my prayer is said, Lay your hand upon my head! Pleasures pass from day to day, But I know that love will stay. While I sleep it will be near; I shall wake and find it here; I shall feel it in the air When I say my morning prayer. Maker of this little heart! Lord of love I know thou art! Little heart! though thou forget, Still the love is round thee set.

Brown eyes, straight nose; Dirt pies, rumpled clothes. Torn books, spoilt toys: Arch looks, unlike a boy's; Little rages, obvious arts; (Three her age is), cakes, tarts; Falling down off chairs; Breaking crown down stairs; Catching flies on the pane; Deep sighs—cause not plain; Bribing you with kisses For a few farthing blisses. Wide-a-wake; as you hear, "Mercy's sake, quiet, dear!" New shoes, new frock; Vague views of what's o'clock When it's time to go to bed, And scorn sublime for what is said. Folded hands, saying prayers, Understands not nor cares— Thinks it odd, smiles away; Yet may God hear her pray! Bed gown white, kiss Dolly; Good night!—that's Polly, Fast asleep, as you see, Heaven keep my girl for me!

What can lambkins do All the keen night through? Nestle by their woolly mother The careful ewe. What can nestlings do In the nightly dew? Sleep beneath their mother's wing Till day breaks anew. If in field or tree There might only be Such a warm soft sleeping-place Found for me!

All the bells of heaven may ring, All the birds of heaven may sing, All the wells on earth may spring, All the winds on earth may bring All sweet sounds together; Sweeter far than all things heard, Hand of harper, tone of bird, Sound of woods at sundawn stirred, Welling water's winsome word, Wind in warm, wan weather. One thing yet there is that none Hearing, ere its chime be done Knows not well the sweetest one Heard of man beneath the sun, Hoped in heaven hereafter; Soft and strong and loud and light, Very sound of very light, Heard from morning's rosiest height, When the soul of all delight Fills a child's clear laughter. Golden bells of welcome rolled Never forth such note, nor told Hours so blithe in tones so bold, As the radiant month of gold Here that rings forth heaven. If the golden-crested wren Were a nightingale—why, then Something seen and heard of men Might be half as sweet as when Laughs a child of seven.

The world's a very happy place, Where every child should dance and sing, And always have a smiling face, And never sulk for anything. I waken when the morning's come, And feel the air and light alive With strange sweet music like the hum Of bees about their busy hive. The linnets play among the leaves At hide-and-seek, and chirp and sing; While, flashing to and from the eaves, The swallows twitter on the wing. And twigs that shake, and boughs that sway; And tall old trees you could not climb; And winds that come, but cannot stay, Are singing gayly all the time. From dawn to dark the old mill-wheel Makes music, going round and round; And dusty-white with flour and meal, The miller whistles to its sound. The brook that flows beside the mill, As happy as a brook can be, Goes singing its old song until It learns the singing of the sea. For every wave upon the sands Sings songs you never tire to hear, Of laden ships from sunny lands Where it is summer all the year. And if you listen to the rain Where leaves and birds and bees are dumb, You hear it pattering on the pane Like Andrew beating on his drum. The coals beneath the kettle croon, And clap their hands and dance in glee; And even the kettle hums a tune To tell you when it's time for tea. The world is such a happy place That children, whether big or small, Should always have a smiling face And never, never sulk at all.

When at home alone I sit And am very tired of it, I have just to shut my eyes To go sailing through the skies— To go sailing far away To the pleasant Land of Play; To the fairy land afar Where the Little People are; Where the clover-tops are trees, And the rain-pools are the seas, And the leaves like little ships Sail about on tiny trips; And above the daisy tree Through the grasses, High o'erhead the Bumble Bee Hums and passes. In that forest to and fro I can wander, I can go; See the spider and the fly, And the ants go marching by Carrying parcels with their feet Down the green and grassy street. I can in the sorrel sit Where the ladybird alit. I can climb the jointed grass; And on high See the greater swallows pass In the sky, And the round sun rolling by Heeding no such thing as I. Through the forest I can pass Till, as in a looking-glass, Humming fly and daisy tree And my tiny self I see, Painted very clear and neat On the rain-pool at my feet. Should a leaflet come to land Drifting near to where I stand, Straight I'll board that tiny boat Round the rain-pool sea to float. Little thoughtful creatures sit On the grassy coasts of it; Little things with lovely eyes See me sailing with surprise. Some are clad in armour green— (These have sure to battle been!) Some are pied with ev'ry hue, Black and crimson, gold and blue; Some have wings and swift are gone:— But they all look kindly on. When my eyes I once again Open and see all things plain; High bare walls, great bare floor; Great big knobs on drawer and door; Great big people perched on chairs, Stitching tucks and mending tears, Each a hill that I could climb, And talking nonsense all the time— O dear me, That I could be A sailor on the rain-pool sea, A climber in the clover-tree, And just come back, a sleepy-head, Late at night to go to bed.

Baby, see the flowers! Baby sees Fairer things than these, Fairer though they be than dreams of ours. Baby, hear the birds! Baby knows Better songs than those, Sweeter though they sound than sweetest words. Baby, see the moon! Baby's eyes Laugh to watch it rise, Answering light with love and night with noon. Baby, hear the sea! Baby's face Takes a graver grace, Touched with wonder what the sound may be. Baby, see the star! Baby's hand Opens, warm and bland, Calm in claim of all things fair that are. Baby, hear the bells! Baby's head Bows as ripe for bed, Now the flowers curl round and close their cells. Baby, flower of light, Sleep and see Brighter dreams than we, Till good day shall smile away good night.

The rosy mouth and rosy toe Of little baby brother, Until about a month ago Had never met each other; But nowadays the neighbours sweet, In every sort of weather, Half way with rosy fingers meet, To kiss and play together.

And when,—its force expended, The harmless storm was ended, And as the sunrise splendid Came blushing o'er the sea— I thought, as day was breaking, My little girls were waking, And smiling and making A prayer at home for me.

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray; And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor,— The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. "To-night will be a stormy night— You to the town must go: And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow." "That, father, will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon— The minster-clock has just struck two; And yonder is the moon." At this the father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;—and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At daybreak on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept—and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet!" When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the low stone wall: And then an open field they crossed; The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came. They follow from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! —Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

O, say, what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy? What are the blessings of the sight? O tell your poor blind boy! You talk of wondrous things you see; You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he Make either day or night? My day and night myself I make, Whene'er I sleep or play, And could I always keep awake, With me 'twere always day. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know. Then let not what I cannot have My peace of mind destroy; Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy!