ALEXANDER POPE.

_From "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day."_

_Old Song_

'Tis a dull sight To see the year dying, When winter winds Set the yellow wood sighing: Sighing, O sighing!

When such a time cometh I do retire Into an old room Beside a bright fire: O, pile a bright fire!

And there I sit Reading old things, Of knights and lorn damsels, While the wind sings-- O, drearily sings!

I never look out Nor attend to the blast; For all to be seen Is the leaves falling fast: Falling, falling!

But close at the hearth, Like a cricket, sit I Reading of summer And chivalry-- Gallant chivalry!

Then the clouds part, Swallows soaring between; The spring is alive, And the meadows are green!

I jump up like mad, Break the old pipe in twain, And away to the meadows, The meadows again!

EDWARD FITZGERALD.

_The Barefoot Boy_

Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!

With thy upturned pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy,-- I was once a barefoot boy!

Prince thou art,--the grown-up man Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!

Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye,-- Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his sh.e.l.l, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the groundnut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's cl.u.s.ters shine: Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans!-- For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy,-- Blessings on the barefoot boy!

O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for.

I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides!

Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread,-- Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude!

O'er me like a regal tent, Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire.

I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh as boyhood can!

Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin.

Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it pa.s.ses, barefoot boy!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

_Leolin and Edith_

These had been together from the first, Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers; So much the boy foreran: but when his date Doubled her own, for want of playmates he

Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roll'd His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt Against the rush of the air in the p.r.o.ne swing, Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arranged Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it green In living letters, told her fairy-tales, Show'd her the fairy footings on the gra.s.s, The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, The petty marestail forest, fairy pines, Or from the tiny pitted target blew What looked a flight of fairy arrows aim'd All at one mark, all hitting: make-believes For Edith and himself.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

_From "Aylmer's Field."_

_Going A-Nutting_

No clouds are in the morning sky, The vapors hug the stream,-- Who says that life and love can die In all this northern gleam?

At every turn the maples burn, The quail is whistling free, The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs Are dropping for you and me.

Ho! hilly ho! heigh O!

Hilly ho!

In the clear October morning.

Along our path the woods are bold, And glow with ripe desire; The yellow chestnut showers its gold, The sumachs spread their fire; The breezes feel as crisp as steel, The buckwheat tops are red: Then down the lane, love, scurry again, And over the stubble tread!

Ho! hilly ho! heigh O!

Hilly ho!

In the clear October morning.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

_Whittling_

The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool, The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby; His h.o.a.rded cents he gladly gives to get it, Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it; And in the education of the lad No little part that implement hath had.

His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings A growing knowledge of material things.

Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art, His chestnut whistle and his shingle cart, His elder pop-gun, with its hickory rod, Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad, His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone, Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed, His windmill, raised the pa.s.sing breeze to win, His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin, Or, if his father lives upon the sh.o.r.e, You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"

Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers staunch, And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven Ere long he'll solve you any problem given; Make any gimcrack, musical or mute, A plough, a couch, an organ, or a flute; Make you a locomotive or a clock, Cut a ca.n.a.l, or build a floating-dock, Or lead forth beauty from a marble block;-- Make anything, in short, for sea or sh.o.r.e, From a child's rattle to a seventy-four;-- Make it, said I?--Ay, when he undertakes it, He'll make the thing and the machine that makes it.

And when the thing is made,--whether it be To move on earth, in air, or on the sea; Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide, Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide; Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring, Whether it be a piston or a spring, Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or bra.s.s, The thing designed shall surely come to pa.s.s; For, when his hand's upon it, you may know That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.

JOHN PIERPONT.

_Hunting Song_

Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day; All the jolly chase is here With hawk and horse and hunting-spear!

Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling.

Merrily, merrily mingle they, "Waken, lords and ladies gay."