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Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin; (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck !

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that rings the air,

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the

stair!)

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 bright a link,

Thou idol of thy parents; - (Drat the boy! There goes my ink.)

Thou cherub, but of earth;

Fit playfellow for fairies, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his 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!)
Thy father's pride and hope !

(He'll break that mirror with that skippingrope!)

With pure heart newly stamped from nature's

mint,

(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove !

(He'll have that ring off with another shove,) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest !

(Are these torn clothes his best ?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan,) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning

life,

(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being !

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

Play on, play on,

My elfin John !

Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk !

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose !

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)

Balmy and breathing music like the south,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

THOMAS HOOD.

THE LOST HEIR.

"O where, and O where

Is my bonnie laddie gone?" - OLD SONG.

ONE day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry

That chilled my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,

Bedaubed with grease and mud.
She turned her East, she turned her West,
Staring like Pythoness possest,
With streaming hair and heaving breast,
As one stark mad with grief.

"O Lord! O dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild !

Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying lost-looking child? Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which way

A Child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay.

I am all in a quiver-get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab! You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab.

The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed Motherly eyes,

Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little dirt-pies.

I wonder he left the court, where he was better off than all the other young boys, With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys.

When his Father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one,

He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the inguns not done!

La bless you, good folks, mind your own concarns, and don't be making a mob in the street;

O Sergeant M'Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat?

Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs; Saints forbid! but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes by the priggs;

He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair;

And his trousers considering not very much | Why, there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the

patched, and red plush, they was once his

Father's best pair.

young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin

as sin!

His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the But let me get him home, with a good grip of

tub, or that might have gone with the rest;

But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast.

He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sewed in, and not quite so much jagged at the brim.

With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, ard not a fit, and you'll know by that if it's him.

And then he has got such dear winning waysbut O, I never, never shall see him no more!

O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death's door!

Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny!

And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many.

And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us all, and, drat him! made a seize of our hog.

It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he's such a blunderin' drunken old dog; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown,

And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town.

Billy - where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers! I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they 'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers.

Or maybe he's stole by some chimbly-sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not,

And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketched, and the chimbly 's red hot.

O, I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on his face.

For he's my darlin' of darlin's, and if he don't soon come back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place.

I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and wouldn't I hug him and kiss him!

Lawk! I never knew what a precious he was but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him.

his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!

THOMAS HOOD.

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

COME back, come back together,
All ye fancies of the past,
Ye days of April weather,
Ye shadows that are cast

By the haunted hours before !
Come back, come back, my Childhood;
Thou art summoned by a spell
From the green leaves of the wildwood,
From beside the charmed well,
For Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore !

The fields were covered over
With colors as she went;
Daisy, buttercup, and clover
Below her footsteps bent;

Summer shed its shining store ;
She was happy as she pressed them
Beneath her little feet;

She plucked them and caressed them;
They were so very sweet,
They had never seemed so sweet before,
To Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.

How the heart of childhood dances

Upon a sunny day !
It has its own romances,
And a wide, wide world have they!
A world where Phantasie is king,

Made all of eager dreaming;
When once grown up and tall -
Now is the time for scheming
Then we shall do them all!

Do such pleasant fancies spring
For Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore ?

She seems like an ideal love,
The poetry of childhood shown,
And yet loved with a real love,
As if she were our own,

A younger sister for the heart;
Like the woodland pheasant,
Her hair is brown and bright;
And her smile is pleasant,
With its rosy light.
Never can the memory part

With Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.

Did the painter, dreaming
In a morning hour,
Catch the fairy seeming
Of this fairy flower ?

Winning it with eager eyes
From the old enchanted stories,
Lingering with a long delight
On the unforgotten glories
Of the infant sight?

Giving us a sweet surprise
In Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore ?
Too long in the meadow staying,
Where the cowslip bends,
With the buttercups delaying
As with early friends,

Did the little maiden stay.

Sorrowful the tale for us;

We, too, loiter mid life's flowers,

A little while so glorious,

So soon lost in darker hours.

All love lingering on their way, Like Red Riding Hood, the darling,

The flower of fairy lore.

LÆTITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.

Now ponder well, you parents dear,
The words which I shall write;

A doleful story you shall hear,

In time brought forth to light:

A gentleman, of good account,
In Norfolk lived of late,

Whose wealth and riches did surmount
Most men of his estate.

Sore sick he was, and like to die,
No help then he could have;
His wife by him as sick did lie,
And both possessed one grave.
No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kind;

In love they lived, in love they died,
And left two babes behind :

The one a fine and pretty boy,

Not passing three years old;

The other a girl, more young than he, And made in beauty's mould.

The father left his little son,

As plainly doth appear,

When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred pounds a year,

And to his little daughter Jane
Five hundred pounds in gold,
To be paid down on marriage-day,
Which might not be controlled;
But if the children chanced to die
Ere they to age should come,
Their uncle should possess their wealth,
For so the will did run.

"Now, brother," said the dying man, "Look to my children dear; Be good unto my boy and girl, No friends else I have here." With that bespake their mother dear, "O brother kind," quoth she, "You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or misery.

"And if you keep them carefully,
Then God will you reward;
If otherwise you seem to deal,
God will your deeds regard."
With lips as cold as any stone

She kissed her children small: "God bless you both, my children dear," With that the tears did fall.

Their parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes,

And brings them home unto his house,
And much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a day,
But, for their wealth, he did devise

To make them both away.

He bargained with two ruffians strong,
Which were of furious mood,

That they should take these children young,
And slay them in a wood.

He told his wife, and all he had

He did the children send

To be brought up in fair London,
With one that was his friend.

Away then went these pretty babes,
Rejoicing at that tide,
Rejoicing with a merry mind,

They should on cock-horse ride;
They prate and prattle pleasantly,
As they rode on the way,

To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives' decay,

So that the pretty speech they had Made Murder's heart relent;

And they that undertook the deed Full sore they did repent.

Yet one of them, more hard of heart,
Did vow to do his charge,
Because the wretch that hired him
Had paid him very large.

The other would not agree thereto,
So here they fell at strife;
With one another they did fight,
About the children's life;
And he that was of mildest mood
Did slay the other there,
Within an unfrequented wood;
While babes did quake for fear.

He took the children by the hand
When tears stood in their eye,

And bade them come and go with him,

And look they did not cry;
And two long miles he led them on,
While they for food complain :

"Stay here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread When I do come again."

These pretty babes, with hand in hand,

Went wandering up and down, But nevermore they saw the man Approaching from the town. Their pretty lips with blackberries Were all besmeared and dyed, And when they saw the darksome night They sate them down and cried.

Thus wandered these two pretty babes Till death did end their grief;

In one another's arms they died,

As babes wanting relief.

No burial this pretty pair

Of any man receives,

Till robin redbreast, painfully,

Did cover them with leaves.

And now the heavy wrath of God

Upon their uncle fell;

Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house,

His conscience felt an hell.

His barns were fired, his goods consumed,

His lands were barren made;

His cattle died within the field,

And nothing with him stayed.

And, in the voyage of Portugal,

Two of his sons did die;

And, to conclude, himself was brought To extreme misery.

He pawned and mortgaged all his land

Ere seven years came about;

And now, at length, this wicked act
Did by this means come out :

The fellow that did take in hand
These children for to kill

Was for a robber judged to die,
As was God's blessed will;
Who did confess the very truth,
The which is here expressed;
Their uncle died while he, for debt,

In prison long did rest.

You that executors be made,
And overseers eke,

Of children that be fatherless,
And infants mild and meek,
Take you example by this thing,
And yield to each his right,
Lest God with such-like misery
Your wicked minds requite.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

ANONYMOUS

A LITTLE in the doorway sitting,
The mother plied her busy knitting;
And her cheek so softly smiled,
You might be sure, although her gaze
Was on the meshes of the lace,

Yet her thoughts were with her child.

But when the boy had heard her voice,
As o'er her work she did rejoice,
His became silent altogether;
And slyly creeping by the wall,
He seized a single plume, let fall
By some wild bird of longest feather;
And, all a-tremble with his freak,
He touched her lightly on the cheek.

O, what a loveliness her eyes
Gather in that one moment's space,
While peeping round the post she spies
Her darling's laughing face !
O, mother's love is glorifying,
On the cheek like sunset lying;
In the eyes a moistened light,
Softer than the moon at night!

THOMAS BURBIDGE

THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN.

Down the dimpled greensward dancing
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy,
Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing,

Love's irregular little levy.

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter,

How they glimmer, how they quiver !

Sparkling one another after,

Like bright ripples on a river.

Tipsy band of rubious faces,
Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit,
Make your mocks and sly grimaces
At Love's self, and do not fear it.

GEORGE DARLEY.

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 the 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.

THE MOTHER'S HEART.

WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,
My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years,
And natural piety that leaned to heaven;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,
Yet patient to rebuke when justly given;
Obedient, easy to be reconciled,

And meekly cheerful; such wert thou, my child!

Not willing to be left - still by my side, Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying;

Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide Through the dark room where I was sadly lying;

Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered cheek.

O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade, And bending weakly to the thunder-shower; Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind,

And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind!

Then THOU, my merry love, - bold in thy glee,
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glan-
cing,

Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,
Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth!

Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy, Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth;

Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy, And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth;

And many a mirthful jest and mock reply
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye.

And thine was many an art to win and bless, The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming;

The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress, The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming! Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reached its bound.

At length THOU camest, - thou, the last and least, Nicknamed "the Emperor" by thy laughing brothers,

Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast, And thou didst seek to rule and sway the

others,
Mingling with every playful infant wile
A mimic majesty that made us smile.

And O, most like a regal child wert thou !
An eye of resolute and successful scheming!
Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow,
Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dream
ing;

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