Burton Egbert Stevenson

“ Nobody weighed the threads of care, From which a woman's life is spun. No index tells the mighty worth Of a little baby's quiet breath— A soft, unceasing metronome, Patient and faithful until death. Nobody weighed the baby's soul, For here on earth no weights there be That could avail; God only knows Its value in eternity. Only eight pounds to hold a soul That seeks no angel's silver wing, But shrines it in this human guise, Within so frail and small a thing! Oh, mother! laugh your merry note, Be gay and glad, but don't forget From baby's eyes looks out a soul That claims a home in Eden yet. ”

“ And didst Thou feel quite good in bed, Kissed, and sweet, and Thy prayers said? Thou canst not have forgotten all That it feels like to be small: And Thou know'st I cannot pray To Thee in my father's way— When Thou wast so little, say, Could'st Thou talk Thy Father's way?— So, a little Child, come down And hear a child's tongue like Thy own; Take me by the hand and walk, And listen to my baby-talk. To Thy Father show my prayer (He will look, Thou art so fair) , And say: "O Father, I, Thy Son, Bring the prayer of a little one." ”

“ The women hurry to the shore To watch some distant sail. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Is blowing to a gale. But when he pipes all sweet and low, The piper on the hill, I hear the merry women go With laughter, loud and shrill: "The wind, the wind is coming south 'Twill blow a gentle day." They gather on the meadow-land To toss the yellow hay. The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind, Is blowing south to-day. And in the morn, when winter comes, To keep the piper warm, The little Angels shake their wings To make a feather storm: "The snow, the snow has come at last!" ”

“ The Blackbird and the Thrush, And charming Nightingale, Whose sweet jug sweetly echoes Through every grove and dale; The Sparrow and Tom Tit, And many more, were there: All came to see the wedding Of Jenny Wren, the fair. "O then," says Parson Rook, "Who gives this maid away?" "I do," says the Goldfinch, "And her fortune I will pay: Here's a bag of grain of many sorts, And other things beside; Now happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride!" "And will you have her, Robin, To be your wedded wife?" "Yes, I will," says Robin, "And love her all my life." ”

“ Is it for beauty to forego her wealth? —Yes, but not this alone. Is it to feel our strength— Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more loosely strung? Yes, this, and more; but not— Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twould be! 'Tis not to have our life Mellowed and softened as with sunset glow, A golden day's decline. 'Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirred; And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, The years that are no more. ”

“ She shows Her hues, white lily and pink rose, And in her laughing eyes the snares That hearts entangle unawares. Ah, woe to men if Love should yield His arrows to this girl to wield Even in play, for she would give Sore wounds that none might take and live. Yet no such wanton strain is hers, Nor Leda's child and Jupiter's Is she, though swans no softer are Than whom she fairer is by far. For she was born beside the rill That gushes from Parnassus' hill, And by the bright Pierian spring She shall receive an offering From every youth who pipes a strain Beside his flocks upon the plain. ”

“ Chickens run to mother hen; Piggy curls up in the pen. In the field, all tired with play, Quiet now the lambkins stay. Kittens cuddle in a heap— Baby, too, must go to sleep! Sleep, my baby, while I sing Bed-time news of everything. Now the cows from pasture come; Bees fly home with drowsy hum. Little birds are in the nest, Under mother-bird's soft breast. Over all soft shadows creep— Baby now must go to sleep. Sleep, my baby, while I sing Bed-time news of everything. Sleepy flowers seem to nod, Drooping toward the dewy sod; While the big sun's fading light Bids my baby dear good-night. ”

“ She loves the sacred hearth: she will defend Her gods from desecration of the vile. Fierce, like a wounded tigress, she can rend Whatever may have entered to defile. I see her in the evening by the fire, And in her eyes, illumined from the pile Of blazing logs, a motherly desire Glows like the moulded passion of a rose; Beautiful is her presence in the bower: Her spirit is the spirit of repose. Mankind shall hold her motherhood in awe: Woman is she indeed, and not of those That he with sacramental gold must draw Discreetly to his chamber in the night, Or bind to him with fetters of the law. ”

“ Sure 'tis some angel from above, Or 'tis the Cyprian Queen of Love Attended by the Graces. Or is't not Juno, Heaven's great dame, Or Pallas armed, as on she came To assist the Greeks in fight, Or Cynthia, that huntress bold, Or from old Tithon's bed so cold, Aurora chasing night? No, none of those, yet one that shall Compare, perhaps exceed them all, For beauty, wit, and birth; As good as great, as chaste as fair, A brighter nymph none breathes the air, Or treads upon the earth. 'Tis Dorothee, a maid high-born, And lovely as the blushing morn, Of noble Sidney's race ”

“ The angels of the hour fulfil Their tender ministries, and move From couch to couch in cares of love. They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, The happiest smile of Charlie's life, And lay on baby's lips a kiss, Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss; And, as they pass, they seem to make A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake." My listening heart takes up the strain, And gives it to the night again, Fitted with words of lowly praise, And patience learned of mournful days, And memories of the dead child's ways. His will be done, His will be done! ”

“ Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, Eager to gather them all. Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups; Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow,"— Sing once, and sing it again. Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow ”

“ How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow! And the summers like buds between; And the year in the sheaf—so they come and they go On the River's breast with its ebb and flow, As they glide in the shadow and sheen. There's a magical Isle up the River Time Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a voice as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are staying. And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow— They are heaps of dust, but we loved them so! ”

“ 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,— (Drat 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!) ”

“ There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts" Strange to me are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." ”

“ Dimpled, and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms, In April's fragrant days, How can they walk among the briery tangles, Edging the world's rough ways? These rose-white feet, along the doubtful future, Must bear a mother's load; Alas! since Woman has the heavier burden, And walks the harder road. Love, for a while, will make the path before them All dainty, smooth, and fair,— Will cull away the brambles, letting only The roses blossom there. But when the mother's watchful eyes are shrouded Away from sight of men, And these dear feet are left without her guiding, Who shall direct them then? ”

“ I There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;— Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. II The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose; The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. ”

“ The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled: Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? Oh Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover, She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. ”

“ Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals: Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels! Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, To look up to Him and pray; So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. ”