The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 43

CXXVII

_THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY_

The noon was shady, and soft airs Swept Ouse's silent tide, When, 'scaped from literary cares, I wander'd on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race, And high in pedigree,-- (Two nymphs adorn'd with every grace That spaniel found for me,)

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, Now starting into sight, Pursued the swallow o'er the meads With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd His lilies newly blown; Their beauties I intent survey'd, And one I wish'd my own.

With cane extended far I sought To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escaped my eager hand.

_Beau_ mark'd my unsuccessful pains With fix'd considerate face, And puzzling set his puppy brains To comprehend the case.

But, with a chirrup clear and strong, Dispersing all his dream, I thence withdrew, and follow'd long The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I return'd; _Beau_ trotted far before, The floating wreath again discern'd, And plunging, left the sh.o.r.e.

I saw him with that lily cropp'd, Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd The treasure at my feet.

Charm'd with the sight, 'The world,' I cried, 'Shall hear of this thy deed; My dog shall mortify the pride Of man's superior breed;

'But chief myself I will enjoin, Awake at duty's call, To show a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives me all.'

_W. Cowper_

CXXVIII

_AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST_

Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said, When piping winds are hush'd around, A small note wakes from underground, Where now his tiny bones are laid.

No more in lone or leafless groves, With ruffled wing and faded breast, His friendless, homeless spirit roves; Gone to the world where birds are blest!

Where never cat glides o'er the green, Or school-boy's giant form is seen; But love, and joy, and smiling Spring Inspire their little souls to sing!

_S. Rogers_

CXXIX

_BAUCIS AND PHILEMON_

In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality.

It happen'd on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguis'd in tatter'd habits went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the stroller's canting strain, They begg'd from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win; But not a soul would take them in.

Our wandering saints, in woful state, Treated at this unG.o.dly rate, Having through all the village past, To a small cottage came at last Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pa.s.s the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what is wonderful!) they found 'Twas still replenish'd to the top, As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.

The good old couple were amaz'd, And often on each other gaz'd; For both were frightened to the heart, And just began to cry, 'What ar't!'

Then softly turn'd aside to view Whether the lights were burning blue.

'Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints,' the hermits said; 'No hurt shall come to you or yours: But for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drown'd; Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes.'

They scarce had spoke when fair and soft The roof began to mount aloft, Aloft rose every beam and rafter, The heavy wall climb'd slowly after; The chimney widen'd and grew higher.

Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fasten'd to a joist; Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increas'd by new intestine wheels; The jack and chimney, near allied, Had never left each other's side: The chimney to a steeple grown, The jack would not be left alone; But up against the steeple rear'd, Became a clock, and still adhered.

The groaning chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail, along the wall; There stuck aloft in public view, And with small change a pulpit grew.

The cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees, The hermits then desired the host To ask for what he fancied most.

Philemon, having paus'd awhile, Return'd them thanks in homely style: 'I'm old, and fain would live at ease; Make me the parson, if you please.'

Thus happy in their change of life Were several years this man and wife.

When on a day, which prov'd their last, Discoursing on old stories past, They went by chance, amidst their talk, To the churchyard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cried out, 'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!'

'Sprout!' quoth the man; 'what's this you tell us?

I hope you don't believe me jealous!

But yet, methinks, I feel it true; And really yours is budding too-- Nay,--now I cannot stir my foot; It feels as if 'twere taking root.'

Description would but tire my muse; In short, they both were turn'd to yews.

_J. Swift_

Cx.x.x

_LULLABY FOR t.i.tANIA_

_First Fairy_

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

_Chorus_

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.

_Second Fairy_

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

_Chorus_