Chapter X: Part I: Poems of Youth and Age (6)

And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little child in the manger lay, The Child that would be King one day Of a kingdom not human, but divine.

His mother, Mary of Nazareth, Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King; The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete; The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone; Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

LULLABY IN BETHLEHEM

There hath come an host to see Thee, Baby dear, Bearded men with eyes of flame And lips of fear, For the heavens, they say, have broken Into blinding gulfs of glory, And the Lord, they say, hath spoken In a little wondrous story, Baby dear.

There have come three kings to greet Thee, Baby dear, Crowned with gold, and clad in purple, They draw near. They have brought rare silks to bind Thee, At Thy feet, behold, they spread them, From their thrones they sprang to find Thee, And a blazing star hath led them, Baby dear.

I have neither jade nor jasper, Baby dear, Thou art all my hope and glory, And my fear, Yet for all the gems that strew Thee, And the costly gowns that fold Thee, Yea, though all the world should woo Thee, Thou art mine--and fast I hold Thee, Baby dear.

Henry Howarth Bashford [1880-

A CHILD'S SONG OF CHRISTMAS

My counterpane is soft as silk, My blankets white as creamy milk. The hay was soft to Him, I know, Our little Lord of long ago.

Above the roofs the pigeons fly In silver wheels across the sky. The stable-doves they cooed to them, Mary and Christ in Bethlehem.

Bright shines the sun across the drifts, And bright upon my Christmas gifts. They brought Him incense, myrrh, and gold, Our little Lord who lived of old.

Oh, soft and clear our mother sings Of Christmas joys and Christmas things. God's holy angels sang to them, Mary and Christ in Bethlehem.

Our hearts they hold all Christmas dear, And earth seems sweet and heaven seems near, Oh, heaven was in His sight, I know, That little Child of long ago.

Marjorie L. C. Pickthall [1883-1922]

JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS

Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill! Mighty glad I ain't a girl--ruther be a boy, Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by Fauntleroy! Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake-- Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache! 'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me, But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat; First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at! Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide, 'Long comes the grocery cart an' we all hook a ride! But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross, He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss, An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!" But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man, I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan, As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle, Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile! But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show, Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd know That Buff'lo Bill and cow-boys is good enough for me! Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be!

And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still, His eyes they keep a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?" The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum! But I am so perlite an' 'tend so earnestly to biz, That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!" But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me When jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be!

For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes an' toys, Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys; So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's an' q's, An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, an' don't wear out yer shoes; Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men, An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again; But, thinking of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree, Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!

Eugene Field [1850-1895]

A VTSTT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly, That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

Clement Clarke Moore [1779-1863]

CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS

Come, bring with a noise, My merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing; While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free; And drink to your hearts' desiring.

With the last year's brand Light the new block, and For good success in his spending, On your psaltries play, That sweet luck may Come while the log is a-tending.

Drink now the strong beer, Cut the white loaf here, The while the meat is a-shredding; For the rare mince-pie And the plums stand by To fill the paste that's a-kneading.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY

This is the month, and this the happy morn Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-ta To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside; and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

See how from far, upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet! O run, prevent them with thy humble ode And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel choir From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.

THE HYMN It was the winter wild While the heaven-born Child All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to Him Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing and amorous clouds dividing; And waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

No war, or battle's sound Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high uphung; The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by.

But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kissed, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean-- Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlightened world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.

The shepherds on the lawn Or ere the point of dawn Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet As never was by mortal finger strook-- Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

Nature, that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed; The helmed Cherubim And sworded Seraphim Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn choir With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.

Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set And the well-balanced world on hinges hung; And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow; And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.

For if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; And speckled vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.

But wisest Fate says No; This must not yet be so; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychained in sleep The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;

With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: The aged Earth aghast With terror of that blast Shall from the surface to the centre shake, When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.

And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day The old Dragon under ground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

The oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

The lonely mountains o'er And the resounding shore A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale Edged with poplar pale The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated earth And on the holy hearth The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat.

Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-battered god of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn: In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove, or green, Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest; Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrelled anthems dark The sable stoled sorcerers bear his worshiped ark.

He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyen; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew.

So, when the sun in bed Curtained with cloudy red Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave: And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

But see! the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest teemed star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.

John Milton [1608-1674]

FAIRYLAND

THE FAIRY BOOK

In summer, when the grass is thick, if mother has the time, She shows me with her pencil how a poet makes a rhyme, And often she is sweet enough to choose a leafy nook, Where I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook.

In winter, when the corn's asleep, and birds are not in song, And crocuses and violets have been away too long, Dear mother puts her thimble by in answer to my look, And I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook.

And mother tells the servants that of course they must contrive To manage all the household things from four till half-past five, For we really cannot suffer interruption from the cook, When we cuddle close together with the happy Fairybook.

Norman Gale [1862-

FAIRY SONGS

I From "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"

Over hill, over dale, Through bush, through brier, Over park, over pale, Through flood, through fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green: The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favors, In those freckles live their savors: I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

II From "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"

You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong; Come not near our fairy queen.

Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby.

Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence! Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail, do no offence.

Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good-night, with lullaby.

III From "The Tempest"

Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Court'sied when you have, and kissed,-- The wild waves whist,-- Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. Hark, hark! Bow, wow, The watch-dogs bark: Bow, wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!

IV From "The Tempest"

Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

QUEEN MAB From "The Satyr"

This is Mab, the Mistress-Fairy, That doth nightly rob the dairy And can hurt or help the churning, As she please without discerning.

She that pinches country wenches If they rub not clean their benches, And with sharper nails remembers When they rake not up their embers: But if so they chance to feast her, In a shoe she drops a tester.

This is she that empties cradles, Takes out children, puts in ladles: Trains forth old wives in their slumber With a sieve the holes to number; And then leads them from her burrows, Home through ponds and water-furrows.

She can start our Franklins' daughters, In their sleep, with shrieks and laughters: And on sweet Saint Anna's night Feed them with a promised sight, Some of husbands, some of lovers, Which an empty dream discovers.

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]

THE ELF AND THE DORMOUSE

Under a toadstool crept a wee Elf, Out of the rain, to shelter himself.

Under the toadstool sound asleep, Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap.

Trembled the wee Elf, frightened, and yet Fearing to fly away lest he get wet.

To the next shelter--maybe a mile! Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile,

Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two. Holding it over him, gayly he flew.

Soon he was safe home, dry as could be. Soon woke the Dormouse--"Good gracious me!

"Where is my toadstool?" loud he lamented. --And that's how umbrellas first were invented.

Oliver Herford [1863-1935]

"OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR HEADS?"

Oh! where do fairies hide their heads, When snow lies on the hills, When frost has spoiled their mossy beds, And crystallized their rills? Beneath the moon they cannot trip In circles o'er the plain; And draughts of dew they cannot sip, Till green leaves come again.

Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells They plunge beneath the waves, Inhabiting the wreathed shells That lie in coral caves. Perhaps, in red Vesuvius Carousals they maintain; And cheer their little spirits thus, Till green leaves come again.

When they return, there will be mirth And music in the air. And fairy wings upon the earth, And mischief everywhere. The maids, to keep the elves aloof, Will bar the doors in vain; No key-hole will he fairy-proof When green leaves come again.

Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]

FAIRY SONG From "Amyntas"

We the Fairies, blithe and antic, Of dimensions not gigantic, Though the moonshine mostly keep us, Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter, Stolen kisses much completer, Stolen looks are nice in chapels, Stolen, stolen be your apples.

When to bed the world is bobbing, Then's the time for orchard-robbing; Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling Were it not for stealing, stealing.

Translated by Leigh Hunt from the Latin of Thomas Randolph [1605-1635]

DREAM SONG

I come from woods enchaunted, Starlit and pixey-haunted, Where 'twixt the bracken and the trees The goblins lie and take their ease By winter moods undaunted.

There down the golden gravel The laughing rivers travel; Elves wake at nights and whisper low Between the bracken and the snow Their dreamings to unravel.

Twisted and lank and hairy, With wanton eyes and wary, They stretch and chuckle in the wind, For one has found a mermaid kind, And one has kissed a fairy.

They know no melancholy, But fashion crowns of holly, And gather sleep within the brake To deck a kingdom when they wake, And bless the dreamer's folly.

Ah! would that I might follow The servants of Apollo! But it is sweet to heap the hours With quiet dreams and poppy-flowers, Down in the pixies' hollow.

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

FAIRY SONG

Shed no tear! O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core. Dry your eyes! O, dry your eyes! For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies,-- Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead! 'Mong the blossoms white and red,-- Look up, look up! I flutter now On this flush pomegranate bough. See me! 'tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill,-- Shed no tear! O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Adieu, adieu--I fly--adieu! I vanish in the heaven's blue,-- Adieu, adieu!

John Keats [1795-1821]

QUEEN MAB

A little fairy comes at night, Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown, With silver spots upon her wings, And from the moon she flutters down.

She has a little silver wand, And when a good child goes to bed She waves her hand from right to left, And makes a circle round its head.

And then it dreams of pleasant things, Of fountains filled with fairy fish, And trees that bear delicious fruit, And bow their branches at a wish:

Of arbors filled with dainty scents From lovely flowers that never fade; Bright flies that glitter in the sun, And glow-worms shining in the shade:

And talking birds with gifted tongues, For singing songs and telling tales, And pretty dwarfs to show the way Through fairy hills and fairy dales.

But when a bad child goes to bed, From left to right she weaves her rings, And then it dreams all through the night Of only ugly horrid things!

Then lions come with glaring eyes, And tigers growl, a dreadful noise, And ogres draw their cruel knives, To shed the blood of girls and boys.

Then stormy waves rush on to drown, Or raging flames come scorching round, Fierce dragons hover in the air, And serpents crawl along the ground.

Then wicked children wake and weep, And wish the long black gloom away; But good ones love the dark, and find The night as pleasant as the day.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW A Midsummer Legend

"And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?" "I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The midsummer night to see!"

"And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Low?" "I saw the glad sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow."

"And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill?" "I heard the drops of the water made, And the ears of the green corn fill."

"Oh, tell me all, my Mary-- All--all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies Last night on the Caldon-Low!"

"Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen, mother of mine: A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine.

"And their harp-strings rang so merrily To their dancing feet so small; But, oh! the words of their talking Were merrier far than all!"

"And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say?" "I'll tell you all, my mother, But let me have my way.

"Some of them played with the water, And rolled it down the hill; 'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill.

"'For there has been no water Ever since the first of May; And a busy man will the miller be At the dawning of the day!

"'Oh! the miller, how he will laugh, When he sees the mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, Till the tears fill both his eyes!'

"And some they seized the little winds, That sounded over the hill, And each put a horn into his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill:

"'And there,' said they, 'the merry winds go Away from every horn; And they shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow's corn:

"'Oh, the poor blind widow-- Though she has been blind so long, She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands tall and strong!'

"And some they brought the brown linseed And flung it down the Low: 'And this,' said they, 'by the sunrise In the weaver's croft shall grow!

"'Oh, the poor lame weaver! How will he laugh outright When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night!'

"And then outspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin: 'I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 'And I want some more to spin.

"'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth And I want to spin another-- A little sheet for Mary's bed, And an apron for her mother!'

"With that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free; And then on the top of the Caldon-Low There was no one left but me.

"And all on the top of the Caldon-Low The mists were cold and gray, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay.

"But, coming down from the hill-top, I heard, afar below, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go!

"And I peeped into the widow's field, And, sure enough, was seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn All standing stout and green.

"And down the weaver's croft I stole, To see if the flax were sprung; And I met the weaver at his gate With the good news on his tongue!

"Now, this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see; So, prithee, make my bed, mother, For I'm tired as I can be!"

Mary Howitt [1799-1888]

THE FAIRIES

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.

High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. If any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

William Allingham [1824-1889]

THE FAIRY THRALL

On gossamer nights when the moon is low, And stars in the mist are hiding, Over the hill where the foxgloves grow You may see the fairies riding. Kling! Klang! Kling! Their stirrups and their bridles ring, And their horns are loud and their bugles blow, When the moon is low.

They sweep through the night like a whistling wind, They pass and have left no traces; But one of them lingers far behind The flight of the fairy faces. She makes no moan, She sorrows in the dark alone, She wails for the love of human kind, Like a whistling wind.

"Ah! why did I roam where the elfins ride, Their glimmering steps to follow? They bore me far from my loved one's side, To wander o'er hill and hollow. Kling! Klang! Kling! Their stirrups and their bridles ring, But my heart is cold in the cold night-tide, Where the elfins ride."

Mary C. G. Byron [1861-

FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES

Farewell, rewards and fairies! Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they. And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late, for cleanliness, Finds sixpence in her shoe?

Lament, lament, old abbeys, The fairies' lost command! They did but change priests' babies, But some have changed your land; And all your children sprung from thence, Are now grown Puritanes; Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your demains.

At morning and at evening both You merry were and glad; So little care of sleep or sloth These pretty ladies had; When Tom came home from labor, Or Ciss to milking rose, Then merrily merrily went their tabor And nimbly went their toes.

Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain; But since of late, Elizabeth, And later, James came in, They never danced on any heath As when the time hath been.

By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession; Their songs were Ave-Maries, Their dances were procession. But now, alas! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas; Or farther for religion fled; Or else they take their ease.

A tell-tale in their company They never could endure; And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth, was punished sure; It was a just and Christian deed To pinch such black and blue: Oh, how the Commonwealth doth need Such justices as you!

Richard Corbet [1582-1635]

THE FAIRY FOLK

Come cuddle close in daddy's coat Beside the fire so bright, And hear about the fairy folk That wander in the night. For when the stars are shining clear And all the world is still, They float across the silver moon From hill to cloudy hill.

Their caps of red, their cloaks of green, Are hung with silver bells, And when they're shaken with the wind Their merry ringing swells. And riding on the crimson moth, With black spots on her wings, They guide them down the purple sky With golden bridle rings.

They love to visit girls and boys To see how sweet they sleep, To stand beside their cosy cots And at their faces peep. For in the whole of fairy-land They have no finer sight Than little children sleeping sound With faces rosy bright.

On tip-toe crowding round their heads, When bright the moonlight beams, They whisper little tender words That fill their minds with dreams; And when they see a sunny smile, With lightest finger tips They lay a hundred kisses sweet Upon the ruddy lips.

And then the little spotted moths Spread out their crimson wings, And bear away the fairy crowd With shaking bridle rings. Come, bairnies, hide in daddy's coat, Beside the fire so bright-- Perhaps the little fairy folk Will visit you to-night.

Robert Bird [1867-

THE FAIRY BOOK

When Mother takes the Fairy Book And we curl up to hear, 'Tis "All aboard for Fairyland!" Which seems to be so near.

For soon we reach the pleasant place Of Once Upon a Time, Where birdies sing the hour of day, And flowers talk in rhyme;

Where Bobby is a velvet Prince, And where I am a Queen; Where one can talk with animals, And walk about unseen;

Where Little People live in nuts, And ride on butterflies, And wonders kindly come to pass Before your very eyes;

Where candy grows on every bush, And playthings on the trees, And visitors pick basketfuls As often as they please.

It is the nicest time of day-- Though Bedtime is so near,-- When Mother takes the Fairy Book And we curl up to hear.

Abbie Farwell Brown [1875-1927]

THE VISITOR

The white goat Amaryllis, She wandered at her will At time of daffodillies Afar and up the hill: We hunted and we holloa'd And back she came at dawn, But what d'you think had followed?-- A little, pagan Faun!

His face was like a berry. His ears were high and pricked: Tip-tap--his hoofs came merry As up the path he clicked; A junket for his winning We set in dairy delf; He eat it--peart and grinning As Christian as yourself!

He stayed about the steading A fortnight, say, or more; A blanket for his bedding We spread beside the door; And when the cocks crowed clearly Before the dawn was ripe, He'd call the milkmaids cheerly Upon a reedy pipe!

That fortnight of his staying The work went smooth as silk: The hens were all in laying, The cows were all in milk; And then--and then one morning The maids woke up at day Without his oaten warning,-- And found he'd gone away.

He left no trace behind him; But still the milkmaids deem That they, perhaps, may find him With butter and with cream: Beside the door they set them In bowl and golden pat, But no one comes to get them-- Unless, maybe, the cat.

The white goat Amaryllis, She wanders at her will At time of daffodillies, Away up Woolcombe hill; She stays until the morrow, Then back she comes at dawn; But never--to our sorrow-- The little, pagan Faun.

Patrick R. Chalmers [18

THE LITTLE ELF

I met a little Elf-man, once, Down where the lilies blow. I asked him why he was so small, And why he didn't grow. He slightly frowned, and with his eye He looked me through and through. "I'm quite as big for me," said he, "As you are big for you."

John Kendrick Bangs [1862-1922]

THE SATYRS AND THE MOON

Within the wood behind the hill The moon got tangled in the trees. Her splendor made the branches thrill And thrilled the breeze.

The satyrs in the grotto bent Their heads to see the wondrous sight. "It is a god in banishment That stirs the night."

The little satyr looked and guessed: "It is an apple that one sees, Brought from that garden of the West-- Hesperides."

"It is a cyclops' glaring eye." "A temple dome from Babylon." "A Titan's cup of ivory." "A little sun."

The tiny satyr jumped for joy, And kicked hoofs in utmost glee. "It is a wondrous silver toy-- Bring it to me!"

A great wind whistled through the blue And caught the moon and tossed it high; A bubble of pale fire it flew Across the sky.

The satyrs gasped and looked and smiled, And wagged their heads from side to side, Except their shaggy little child, Who cried and cried.

Herbert S. Gorman [1893-

THE CHILDREN

THE CHILDREN

When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, The little ones gather around me, To bid me good night and be kissed; Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in their tender embrace! Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on my face!

And when they are gone, I sit dreaming Of my childhood too lovely to last,-- Of joy that my heart will remember, While it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin, When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within.

All my heart grows as weak as a woman's, And the fountain of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony, Where the feet of the dear ones must go,-- Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;-- Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households; They are angels of God in disguise; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still shines in their eyes; Those truants from home and from heaven,-- They have made me more manly and mild; And I know now how Jesus could liken The kingdom of God to a child.

I ask not a life for the dear ones, All radiant, as others have done, But that life may have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the sun; I would pray God to guard them from evil, But my prayer would bound back to myself;-- Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended, I have banished the rule and the rod I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of God: My heart is the dungeon of darkness Where I shut them for breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction; My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn, To traverse its threshold no more; Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones That meet me each morn at the door! I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green, and the flowers That are brought every morning for me.

I shall miss them at morn and at even, Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tread of their delicate feet. When the lessons of life are all ended, And death says: "The school is dismissed!" May the little ones gather around me, To bid me good night and be kissed!

Charles Monroe Dickinson [1842-1924]

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR

Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

LAUS INFANTIUM

In praise of little children I will say God first made man, then found a better way For woman, but his third way was the best. Of all created things, the loveliest And most divine are children. Nothing here Can be to us more gracious or more dear. And though, when God saw all his works were good, There was no rosy flower of babyhood, 'Twas said of children in a later day That none could enter Heaven save such as they.

The earth, which feels the flowering of a thorn, Was glad, O little child, when you were born; The earth, which thrills when skylarks scale the blue, Soared up itself to God's own Heaven in you; And Heaven, which loves to lean down and to glass Its beauty in each dewdrop on the grass,-- Heaven laughed to find your face so pure and fair, And left, O little child, its reflex there.

William Canton [1845-

THE DESIRE

Give me no mansions ivory white Nor palaces of pearl and gold; Give me a child for all delight, Just four years old.

Give me no wings of rosy shine Nor snowy raiment, fold on fold, Give me a little boy all mine, Just four years old.

Give me no gold and starry crown Nor harps, nor palm branches unrolled; Give me a nestling head of brown, Just four years old.

Give me a cheek that's like the peach, Two arms to clasp me from the cold; And all my heaven's within my reach, Just four years old.

Dear God, You give me from Your skies A little paradise to hold, As Mary once her Paradise, Just four years old.

Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]

A CHILD'S LAUGHTER

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 then 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 mouth 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.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

SEVEN YEARS OLD

Seven white roses on one tree, Seven white loaves of blameless leaven, Seven white sails on one soft sea, Seven white swans on one lake's lea, Seven white flowerlike stars in Heaven, All are types unmeet to be For a birthday's crown of seven.

Not the radiance of the roses, Not the blessing of the bread, Not the breeze that ere day grows is Fresh for sails and swans, and closes Wings above the sun's grave spread When the starshine on the snows is Sweet as sleep on sorrow shed.

Nothing sweeter, nothing best, Holds so good and sweet a treasure As the love wherewith once blest Joy grows holy, grief takes rest, Life, half tired with hours to measure, Fills his eyes and lips and breast With most light and breath of pleasure;

As the rapture unpolluted, As the passion undefiled, By whose force all pains heart-rooted Are transfigured and transmuted, Recompensed and reconciled, Through the imperial, undisputed, Present godhead of a child.

Brown bright eyes and fair bright head, Worth a worthier crown than this is, Worth a worthier song instead, Sweet grave wise round mouth, full fed With the joy of love, whose bliss is More than mortal wine and bread, Lips whose words are sweet as kisses.

Little hands so glad of giving, Little heart so glad of love, Little soul so glad of living, While the strong swift hours are weaving Light with darkness woven above, Time for mirth and time for grieving, Plume of raven and plume of dove.

I can give you but a word Warm with love therein for leaven, But a song that falls unheard Yet on ears of sense unstirred Yet by song so far from Heaven, Whence you came the brightest bird, Seven years since, of seven times seven.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

CREEP AFORE YE GANG

Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang, Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld Grannie's sang: Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang, Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang.

Creep awa', my bairnie, ye're ower young to learn To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn; Better creepin' cannie, than fa'in' wi' a bang, Duntin' a' your wee brow,--creep afore ye gang.

Ye'll creep, an' ye'll hotch, an' ye'll nod to your mither, Watchin' ilka step o' your wee dousy brither; Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang, An' ye'll be a braw chiel yet,--creep afore ye gang.

The wee birdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee, Folks are sure to tumble, when they climb ower hie; They wha canna walk right are sure to come to wrang, Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang.

James Ballantine [1808-1877]

CASTLES IN THE AIR

The bonnie, bonnie bairn who sits poking in the ase, Glowering in the fire wi' his wee round face, Laughing at the fuffin' lowe--what sees he there? Ha! the young dreamer's bigging castles in the air.

His wee chubby face and his touzie curly pow Are laughing and nodding to the dancing lowe; He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, Glowering at the imps wi' their castles in the air.

He sees muckle castles towering to the moon; He sees little sodgers pu'ing them a' doun; Warlds whommlin' up and doun, bleezing wi' a flare,-- See how he loups as they glimmer in the air!

For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken? He's thinking upon naething, like mony mighty men: A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,-- There are mair folk than him bigging castles in the air.

Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld: His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld; His brow is brent sae braid--O pray that daddy Care Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air!

He'll glower at the fire, and he'll keek at the light; But mony sparkling stars are swallowed up by Night: Aulder e'en than his are glamored by a glare,-- Hearts are broken, heads are turned, wi' castles in the air.

James Ballantine [1808-1877]

UNDER MY WINDOW

Under my window, under my window, All in the Midsummer weather, Three little girls with fluttering curls Flit to and fro together:-- There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with her scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window, Leaning stealthily over, Merry and clear, the voice I hear Of each glad-hearted rover. Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses; And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies, As merry as bees in clover.

Under my window, under my window, In the blue Midsummer weather, Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe, I catch them all together:-- Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with her scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window, And off through the orchard closes; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, They scamper and drop their posies; But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses.

Thomas Westwood [1814?-1888]

LITTLE BELL He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. The Ancient Mariner

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he-- "What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,"-- "Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks-- Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks-- "Bonny bird," quoth she, "Sing me your best song before I go." "Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he.

And the blackbird piped; you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird-- Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow. All for love of that sweet face below, Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And the while the bonny bird did pour His full heart out freely o'er and o'er 'Neath the morning skies. In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine forth in happy overflow From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped and through the glade, Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And from out the tree Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,-- While bold blackbird piped that all might hear-- "Little Bell," piped he.