I'd not be like a butterfly, I may not waste my precious time; Far rather like that patient bee, I'd try to do my Master's work, And if to me 'tis Christ to live, It will be gain to die. THE LAMBS. DEAR little lambs, you never fight, M. A. S. You never growl, nor scratch, nor bite, As dogs and cats so often do; So every body's fond of you. Yet no one teaches you what's right, For we are told, day after day, What's right, what's wrong, to do or say; Are told that God, who lives above, A CHILD'S LAMENTATION. WHO lies beneath this verdant tomb, My mother! The green grass waves above thy bed, My mother! The church-bell tolls upon the breeze, My mother! Sweet is the apple orchard near, Sweet murmurs by the mill-stream clear, My mother! With golden buds the moor is bright, My mother! Thou canst not hear, thou canst not see, My mother! For thee no more the stream shall flow, My mother! How oft beneath the walnut tree, Where first I tried my A, B, C, And strove to reckon one, two, three, My mother! I take my little garden chair, When afternoons are fine and fair, My mother! Ah! no one now, all good and kind, No mellow plum, no juicy pear, Blind Ellen came the other day, My mother! My mother! All, all is chang'd, ee'n puss no more My mother! And weary is the live-long day, No joyous talk, no gladsome play; Oh! would thou hadst not gone away, My mother! I left my father near the stile, King-cups I went to seek the while, Pale was his cheek, and faint his smile, My mother! I strove to coax him forth to play, Last night he took me on his knee, And when to cheer him all I tried, My mother! My mother! My mother! Yet every eve both he and I Come here to talk of things gone by, My mother! There weeds we pluck, and seeds we sow, Which into pretty flow'rets grow, Some azure blue, some white as snow, My mother! And oft we call upon thy name; My mother! Now, now the moaning wind sweeps by, My mother! They tell me thou art gone to God, My mother! And when I raise my searching eyes, I think I see thee in the skies, Till tears blind me as they arise, My mother! Oh! had I wings I'd fly to thee, My mother! Then let me read God's book with care, My mother! |