And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round
Which he beside the rivulet,
In playing there, had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
"Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about; And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries:
While little Wilhelmine looks up,
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.
"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword, the country round Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby, died;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
"They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
They sin, who tell us love can die
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity;
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions of the earth,
They perish where they have their birth;
But love is indestructible;
Its holy flame forever burneth,
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppress'd,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of love is there.
Oh, when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight?
And is not thy weak work like human schemes
And care on earth employ'd?
Such are young hopes and Love's delightful dreams,
So easily destroy'd!
So does the statesman, while the avengers sleep,
Self-deem'd secure, his wiles in secret lay;
Soon shall destruction sweep
His work away.
Thou busy laborer! one resemblance more
May yet the verse prolong,
For, spider, thou art like the poet poor,
Whom thou hast help'd in song;
Both busily our needful food to win,
We work, as Nature taught, with ceaseless pains,Thy bowels thou dost spin,
THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.
"And wherefore do the poor complain?"
The rich man ask'd of me;
"Come walk abroad with me," I said,
"And I will answer thee."
"Twas evening, and the frozen streets
Were cheerless to behold;
And we were wrapp'd and coated well,
And yet we were a-cold.
We met an old, bareheaded man,
His locks were thin and white;
I ask'd him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night.
The cold was keen indeed, he said,-
But at home no fire had he;
And therefore he had come abroad
To ask for charity.
We met a young, barefooted child,
And she begg'd loud and bold;
I ask'd her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold.
She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick a-bed;
And therefore was it she was sent
Abroad to beg for bread.
We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest;
She had a baby at her back,
And another at her breast.
I ask'd her why she loiter'd there,
When the night-wind was so chill;
She turn'd her head, and bade the child
That scream'd behind, be still;
Then told us that her husband served,
A soldier, far away;
And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.
I turn'd me to the rich man then,
For silently stood he;
"You ask'd me why the poor complain;
And these have answer'd thee!"
My days among the dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the dead; with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instructions with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
FOR A MONUMENT AT OXFORD.
Here Latimer and Ridley in the flames
Bore witness to the truth. If thou hast walk'd
Uprightly through the world, just thoughts of joy
May fill thy breast in contemplating here
Congenial virtue. But, if thou hast swerved
From the straight path of even rectitude,
Fearful in trying seasons to assert
The better cause, or to forsake the worse
Reluctant, when perchance therein enthrall'd,
Slave to false shame, oh! thankfully receive
The sharp, compunctious motions that this spot
May wake within thee, and be wise in time,
And let the future for the past atone.
THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM.
"You are old, Father William," the young man cried;
"The few locks which are left you are gray;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man:
Now tell me the reason, I pray !"
"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,
"I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigor at first,
That I never might need them at last."
"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
"And pleasures with youth pass away,
And yet you lament not the days that are gone;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."
"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,
"I remember'd that youth could not last;
I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past."
"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
"And life must be hastening away;
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."
"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied;
"Let the cause thy attention engage:
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God;
And He hath not forgotten my age."
|