Page images
PDF
EPUB

THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE.

THE wind bloweth wildly; she stands on the shore;
She shudders to hear it, and will evermore.
The rush of the waves as they rose and they fell,
Evermore to her fancy will sound like a knell !

"When, mother, dear mother, will father return?
His supper is ready, the sticks brightly burn;
His chair is beside them, with dry shoes and coat,
I'm longing to kiss him,-oh, where is the boat?
"Why does he not come with his fish on his arm?
He must want his supper, he cannot be warm;
I'll stroke his cold cheek, with his wet hair I'll play ;
I want so to kiss him,-oh, why does he stay?
Unheeding the voice of that prattler, she stood
To watch the wild war of the tempest and flood;
One little black speck in the distance doth float;
"Tis her world-'tis her life-'tis her fisherman's boat

Her poor heart beats madly 'twixt hope and despair,
She watches his boat with a wild, glassy stare;
Ah! 'tis hid beneath torrents of silvery spray;
Ah! 'tis buried 'mid chasms that yawn for their prey.

Over mountains of horrible waves it is tost;
It is far-it is near-it is safe-it is lost!
The proud waves of ocean unheeding rush on,
But, alas! for the little black speck-it is gone !

Oh! weep for the fisherman's boat; but weep more
For the desolate woman that stands on the shore;
She flies to her home with a shrill cry of pain,
To that home where her loved one returns not again.

All night she sits speechless, her child weeping near,
But no sob shakes her bosom, her eye feels no tear;
In heartbroken, motionless, stupid despair,
She sits gazing on-at his coat and his chair.

Hark! a click of the latch,—a hand opens the door;
'Tis a step-her heart leaps 'tis his step on the floor
He stands there before her all dripping and wet,
But his smile and his kiss have warm life in them yet.

THE SKYLARK.

He is here, he is safe, though his boat is a wreck;
He sinks in his chair, while her arms clasp his neck.
And a sweet little voice in his ear whispers this,-
"Do kiss me, dear father, I long for a kiss."

107

POEMS WRITTEN FOE A CHILD.*

THE SKYLARK.

BIRD of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,

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!

JAMES HOGG, 1772-1835.

*This, as well as "Ranger" (p. 84), are inserted by permission of Messrs. Strahan & Co., as are also some pieces with the signature Taylor, from " Original Poems," and Dr. Macleod's "Trust in God and do the Right" (p. 74).

BISHOP HATTO.

THE summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet;
'Twas a piteous sight to see all around
The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last year's store;
And all the neighbourhood could tell
His granaries were furnished well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,

The poor folk flocked from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.
Then when he saw it could hold no more
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;
And while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the barn and burnt them all.
"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he,
"And the country is greatly obliged to me,
For ridding it in these times forlorn,
Of rats, that only consume the corn."
So then to his palace returned he,
And he sat down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent man,
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
In the morning as he entered the hall,
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he looked there came a man from the farm,
He had a countenance white with alarm;
"My lord, I opened your granaries this morn,
And the rats had eaten all your corn."

Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could be,
"Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he,

BISHOP HATTO.

"Ten thousand rats are coming this way— The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"

"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he,
""Tis the safest place in Germany;

The walls are high, and the shores are steep,
And the stream is strong, and the water deep."
Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away,
And he crossed the Rhine without delay,
And reached his tower, and barred with care
All the windows, doors, and loopholes there.
He laid him down and closed his eyes,
But soon a scream made him arise;
He started, and saw two eyes of flame

On his pillow from whence the screaming came.
He listened and looked; it was only the cat;
But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,
For she sat screaming, mad with fear,
At the army of rats that was drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep,
And they have climbed the shores so steep,
And up the tower their way is bent

To do the work for which they were sent.

They are not to be told by the dozen or score,
By thousands they come, and by myriads and more;
Such numbers have never been heard of before,
Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore.
Down on his knees the Bishop fell,

And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder drawing near

The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.

And in at the windows, and in at the door,

And through the walls helter-skelter they pour

And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor,
From the right and the left, from behind and before,
From within and without, from above and below,
And all at once to the Bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones,
And now they pick the Bishop's bones;
They gnawed the flesh from every limb,

For they were sent to do judgment on him.

109

ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774-1843.

PRAISE TO GOD.

PRAISE to God, immortal praise
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let Thy praise our tongues employ.
For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield;
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's use.
Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain;
Clouds that drop their fattening dews,
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse :
All that Spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich, o'erflowing stores;
These to thee, my God, we owe,
Source whence all our blessings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.
Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the ripening ear;
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit;
Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store;
Though the sickening flocks should fall,
And the herds desert the stall;

Should Thine altered hand restrain
The early and the latter rain,
Blast each opening bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy;

Yet to Thee my soul should raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise;
And when every blessing's flown,
Love Thee for Thyself alone.

BARBAULD (L. A. AIKIN), 1781-1864

« PreviousContinue »