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Posy Ring: A Book of Verse for Children

<h2>V</h2> <h2>HIAWATHA'S BROTHERS</h2> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/3acorns.png" width-obs="100" height-obs="67" alt="decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='poem'> Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers." </div> <div class='signature'>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.</div> [108] <hr style="width: 65%;" />[109] <h2>HIAWATHA'S BROTHERS</h2> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/3acorns.png" width-obs="100" height-obs="67" alt="decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> My Pony </div> <div class='poem'> My pony toss'd his sprightly head, And would have smiled, if smile he could, To thank me for the slice of bread He thinks so delicate and good; His eye is very bright and wild, He looks as if he loved me so, Although I only am a child And he's a real horse, you know. How charming it would be to rear, And have hind legs to balance on; Of hay and oats within the year To leisurely devour a ton; To stoop my head and quench my drouth With water in a lovely pail; To wear a snaffle in my mouth, Fling back my ears, and slash my tail! To gallop madly round a field,— Who tries to catch me is a goose, And then with dignity to yield [110]My stately back for rider's use; To feel as only horses can, When matters take their proper course, And no one notices the man, While loud applauses greet the horse! He canters fast or ambles slow, And either is a pretty game; His duties are but pleasures—oh, I wish that mine were just the same! Lessons would be another thing If I might turn from book and scroll, And learn to gallop round a ring, As he did when a little foal. It must be charming to be shod, And beautiful beyond my praise, When tired of rolling on the sod, To stand upon all-fours and graze! Alas! my dreams are weak and wild, I must not ape my betters so; Alas! I only am a child, And he's a real horse, you know. </div> <div class='signature'>"A."</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> [111] <div class='center'> On a Spaniel, called Beau, Killing a Young Bird (July 15, 1793) </div> <div class='poem'> A Spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, Well fed, and at his ease, Should wiser be than to pursue Each trifle that he sees. But you have kill'd a tiny bird, Which flew not till to-day, Against my orders, whom you heard Forbidding you the prey. Nor did you kill that you might eat, And ease a doggish pain, For him, though chas'd with furious heat You left where he was slain. Nor was he of the thievish sort, Or one whom blood allures, But innocent was all his sport Whom you have torn for yours. My dog! What remedy remains, Since, teach you all I can, I see you, after all my pains, So much resemble Man? </div> <div class='signature'>William Cowper.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> [112] <div class='center'> Beau's Reply </div> <div class='poem'> Sir, when I flew to seize the bird In spite of your command, A louder voice than yours I heard, And harder to withstand. You cried—forbear!—but in my breast A mightier cried—proceed— 'Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest Impell'd me to the deed. Yet much as Nature I respect, I ventur'd once to break, (As you, perhaps, may recollect) Her precept for your sake; And when your linnet on a day, Passing his prison door, Had flutter'd all his strength away, And panting press'd the floor, Well knowing him a sacred thing, Not destin'd to my tooth, I only kiss'd his ruffled wing, And lick'd the feathers smooth. Let my obedience then excuse My disobedience now, Nor some reproof yourself refuse [113]From your aggriev'd Bow-wow; If killing birds be such a crime, (Which I can hardly see,) What think you, Sir, of killing Time With verse address'd to me? </div> <div class='signature'>William Cowper.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Seal Lullaby </div> <div class='poem2'> Oh, hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us, And black are the waters that sparkled so green, The moon o'er the combers, looks downward to find us At rest in the hollows that rustle between. Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow; Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease! The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee, Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas. </div> <div class='signature'>Rudyard Kipling.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Milking Time </div> <div class='poem'> When the cows come home the milk is coming; Honey's made while the bees are humming; Duck and drake on the rushy lake, [114]And the deer live safe in the breezy brake; And timid, funny, pert little bunny Winks his nose, and sits all sunny. </div> <div class='signature'>Christina G. Rossetti.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Thank You, Pretty Cow </div> <div class='poem'> Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Every day and every night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white. Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslip eat, That will make it very sweet. Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine. </div> <div class='signature'>Jane Taylor.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Boy and the Sheep </div> <div class='poem'> "Lazy sheep, pray tell me why In the pleasant field you lie, Eating grass and daisies white, From the morning till the night: Everything can something do; [115]But what kind of use are you?" "Nay, my little master, nay, Do not serve me so, I pray! Don't you see the wool that grows On my back to make your clothes? Cold, ah, very cold you'd be, If you had not wool from me. "True, it seems a pleasant thing Nipping daisies in the spring; But what chilly nights I pass On the cold and dewy grass, Or pick my scanty dinner where All the ground is brown and bare! "Then the farmer comes at last, When the merry spring is past, Cuts my woolly fleece away, For your coat in wintry day. Little master, this is why In the pleasant fields I lie." </div> <div class='signature'>Ann Taylor.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Lambs in the Meadow </div> <div class='poem'> O little lambs! the month is cold, The sky is very gray; You shiver in the misty grass [116]And bleat at all the winds that pass; Wait! when I'm big—some day— I'll build a roof to every fold. But now that I am small I'll pray At mother's knee for you; Perhaps the angels with their wings; Will come and warm you, little things; I'm sure that, if God knew, He'd let the lambs be born in May. </div> <div class='signature'>Laurence Alma Tadema.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Pet Lamb </div> <div class='poem2'> The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied A snow-white mountain-lamb, with a maiden at its side. Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone. With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel, [117]While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal. The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, Seemed to feast, with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook. "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" she said, in such a tone That I almost received her heart into my own. 'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare! I watched them with delight; they were a lovely pair. Now with her empty can the maiden turned away, But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay. Right toward the lamb she looked; and from a shady place, I, unobserved, could see the workings of her face. If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing:— "What ails thee, young one? what? Why pull so at thy cord? [118]Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be; Rest, little young one, rest; what is't that aileth thee? "What is it thou would'st seek? What is wanting to thy heart? Thy limbs, are they not strong? and beautiful thou art. This grass is tender grass, these flowers they have no peers, And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears. "If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,— This beech is standing by,—its covert thou canst gain. For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need'st not fear; The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here. "Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my father found thee first, in places far away. Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none, [119]And thy mother from thy side forevermore was gone. "He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home,— A blessed day for thee!—Then whither would'st thou roam? A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been. "Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; And twice in the day, when the ground was wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk,—warm milk it is, and new. "Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now; Then I'll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony to the plough, My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is cold, Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. "It will not, will not rest! Poor creature, can it be [120]That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee? Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear. "Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there. The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry roar like lions for their prey. "Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; Night and day thou art safe—our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? why pull so at thy chain? Sleep,—and at break of day I will come to thee again!" As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, [121]That but half of it was hers and one half of it was mine. Again and once again did I repeat the song: "Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must belong"; For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own. </div> <div class='signature'>William Wordsworth.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Kitten, and Falling Leaves </div> <div class='poem'> See the kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves—one—two—and three— From the lofty elder tree! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly: one might think From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or fairy hither tending, To this lower world descending, Each invisible and mute, In his wavering parachute. But the kitten, how she starts, [122]Crouches, stretches, paws and darts! First at one and then its fellow, Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now—now one— Now they stop and there are none: What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire! With a tiger-leap, half-way, Now she meets the coming prey; Lets it go as fast and then Has it in her power again. Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjuror; Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart. .        .        .        .        .        .        .        . </div> <div class='signature'>William Wordsworth.</div> <hr style="width: 65%;" />[123] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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