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Climb a tree, or scale a wall,
Without any fear to fall.
If he get a hurt or bruise,
To complain he must refuse.
Though the anguish and the smart
Go unto his little heart,
He must have his courage ready,
Keep his voice and visage steady,
Brace his eyeballs stiff as drum,
That a tear may never come,
And his grief must only speak
From the color in his cheek.
This and more he must endure,
Hero he in miniature !
This and more must now be done,
Now the breeches are put on.
LADY MOON. – Milncs. LADY Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving ?
Over the sea.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving ?
All who love me.
Are you not tired with rolling, and never
Resting to sleep?
Why look so pale, and so sad, as forever
Wishing to weep?
Ask me not this, little child, if you love me;
You are too bold;
I must obey my dear Father above me,
And do as I 'm told.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving ?
Over the sea. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All who love me.
THE ORPHAN BROTHER, — Miss Lamb.
O, HUSH, my little baby brother;
Sleep, my love, upon my knee; What though, dear child, we've lost our mother,
That can never trouble thee.
You are but ten weeks old to-morrow;
What can you know of our loss?
The house is full enough of sorrow, —
Little baby, don't be cross.
Peace, cry not so, my dearest love;
Hush, my baby bird, lie still; — He's quiet now, he does not move;
Fast asleep is little Will.
My only solace, only joy,
Since the sad day I lost my mother,
Is nursing her own Willy boy,
My little orphan brother.
When wise Ulysses, from his native coast
Long kept by wars, and long by tempests tost,
Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone,
To all his friends, and e'en his queen, unknown;
Changed as he was with age, and toils, and cares,
Furrowed his reverend face, and white his hairs;
In his own palace forced to ask his bread,
Scorned by those slaves his former bounty fed,
THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.
Forgot of all his own domestic crew;
The faithful dog alone his master knew;
Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay,
Like an old servant, now cashiered, he lay
And, though e'en then expiring on the plain,
Touched with resentment of ungrateful man,
And longing to behold his ancient lord again.
Him when he saw, he rose, and crawled to meet, -
'T was all he could, - and fawned, and kissed his feet,
Seized with dumb joy; then, falling by his side,
Owned his returning lord, looked up, and died.
THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR. - Southey.
“And wherefore do the poor complain?"
The rich man asked 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 wrapt and coated well,
And yet we were a-cold.
We met an old bareheaded man,
His locks were few and white;
I asked him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night.
'T was bitter 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 begged loud and bold; I asked her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold.
She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick abed;
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 asked her why she loitered there,
When the night-wind was so chill; She turned her head and bade the child.
That screamed behind, be still.
She told us that her husband served,
A soldier, far away,
And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.
I turned me to the rich man then,
For silently stood he; -, “You asked me why the poor complain,
And these have answered thee."
CLEANLINESS. — Miss Lamb.
COME, my little Robert, near, —
Fie! 'vhat filthy hands are here!
Who that e'er could understand
The rare structure of a hand,
With its branching fingers fine,
Work itself of hands divine,
Strong yet delicately knit,
For ten thousand uses fit,
Overlaid with so clear skin
You may see the blood within,
And the curious palm disposed
In such lines some have supposed
You may read the fortunes there
By the figures that appear, —
Who this hand would choose to cover
With a crust of dirt all over,
Till it looked in hue and shape
Like the forefoot of an ape?
Man or boy, that works or plays
In the fields or the highways,
May, without offence or hurt,
From the soil contract a dirt,
Which the next clear spring or river
Washes out and out forever;
But to cherish stains impure,
Soil deliberate to endure,
On the skin to fix a stain
Till it works into the grain,
Argues a degenerate mind,
Sordid, slothsul, ill-inclined,
Wanting in that self-respect
Which does virtue best protect.