Part 2

My youth is but a summer's day: Then like the bee and ant I'll lay A store of learning by; And though from flower to flower I rove, My stock of wisdom I'll improve Nor be a butterfly.

THE GAUDY FLOWER.

Why does my Anna toss her head, And look so scornfully around, As if she scarcely deign'd to tread Upon the daisy-dappled ground?

Does fancied beauty fire thine eye, The brilliant tint, the satin skin? Does the loved glass, in passing by, Reflect a graceful form and thin?

Alas! that form, and brilliant fire, Will never win beholder's love; It may, indeed, make fools admire, But ne'er the wise and good can move.

So grows the tulip, gay and bold, The broadest sunshine its delight Like rubies, or like burnish'd gold, It shows its petals, glossy bright.

But who the gaudy floweret crops, As if to court a sweet perfume! Admired it blows, neglected drops, And sinks unheeded to its doom.

The virtues of the heart may move Affections of a genial kind; While beauty fails to stir our love, And wins the eye, but not the mind.

GEORGE AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP.

His petticoats now George cast off, For he was four years old; His trousers were of nankeen stuff, With buttons bright as gold. "May I," said George, "just go abroad, My pretty clothes to show? May I, mamma? but speak the word;" The answer was, "No, no."

"Go, run below, George, in the court. But go not in the street, Lest boys with you should make some sport, Or gipsies you should meet." Yet, though forbidden, he went out, That other boys might spy, And proudly there he walk'd about, And thought--"How fine am I!"

But whilst he strutted through the street, With looks both vain and pert, A sweep-boy pass'd, whom not to meet, He slipp'd--into the dirt. The sooty lad, whose heart was kind, To help him quickly ran, And grasp'd his arm, with--"Never mind, You're up, my little man."

Sweep wiped his clothes with labour vain, And begg'd him not to cry; And when he'd blacken'd every stain, Said, "Little sir, good-bye." Poor George, almost as dark as sweep, And smear'd in dress and face, Bemoans with sobs, both loud and deep, His well-deserved disgrace.

DEAF MARTHA.

Poor Martha is old, and her hair is turn'd grey, And her hearing has left her for many a year; Ten to one if she knows what it is that you say, Though she puts her poor wither'd hand close to her ear

I've seen naughty children run after her fast, And cry, "Martha, run, there's a bullock so bold;" And when she was frighten'd,--laugh at her at last, Because she believed the sad stories they told.

I've seen others put their mouths close to her ear, And make signs as if they had something to say; And when she said, "Master, I'm deaf, and can't hear," Point at her and mock her, and scamper away.

Ah! wicked the children poor Martha to tease, As if she had not enough else to endure; They rather should try her affliction to ease, And soothe a disorder that nothing can cure.

One day, when those children themselves are grown old, And one may be deaf, and another be lame, Perhaps they may find that some children, as bold, May tease them, and mock them, and serve them the same.

Then, when they reflect on the days of their youth, A faithful account will their consciences keep, And teach them, with shame and with sorrow, the truth, That "what a man soweth, the same shall he reap."

THE LITTLE CRIPPLE'S COMPLAINT.

I'm a helpless cripple child, Gentle Christians, pity me; Once, in rosy health I smiled, Blithe and gay as you can be, And upon the village green First in every sport was seen.

Now, alas! I'm weak and low, Cannot either work or play; Tottering on my crutches, slow, Thus I drag my weary way: Now no longer dance and sing, Gaily, in the merry ring.

Many sleepless nights I live, Turning on my weary bed; Softest pillows cannot give Slumber to my aching head; Constant anguish makes it fly From my heavy, wakeful eye.

And, when morning beams return, Still no comfort beams for me: Still my limbs with fever burn Painful still my crippled knee. And another tedious day Passes slow and sad away.

From my chamber-window high, Lifted to my easy-chair, I the village-green can spy, Once _I_ used to frolic there, March, or beat my new-bought drum; Happy times! no more to come.

There I see my fellows gay, Sporting on the daisied turf, And, amidst their cheerful play, Stopp'd by many a merry laugh; But the sight I scarce can bear, Leaning in my easy-chair.

Let not then the scoffing eye Laugh, my twisted leg to see: Gentle Christians, passing by, Stop awhile, and pity me, And for you I'll breathe a prayer, Leaning in my easy-chair.

NEGLIGENT MARY.

Ah, Mary! what, do you for dolly not care? And why is she left on the floor? Forsaken, and cover'd with dust, I declare; With you I must trust her no more.

I thought you were pleased, as you took her so gladly, When on your birthday she was sent; Did I ever suppose you would use her so sadly? Was that, do you think, what I meant?

With her bonnet of straw you once were delighted, And trimm'd it so pretty with pink; But now it is crumpled, and dolly is slighted: Her nurse quite forgets her, I think.

Suppose now--for Mary is _dolly_ to me, Whom I love to see tidy and fair-- Suppose I should leave you, as dolly I see, In tatters, and comfortless there.

But dolly feels nothing, as you do, my dear, Nor cares for her negligent nurse: If I were as careless as you are, I fear, Your lot, and my fault, would be worse.

And therefore it is, in my Mary, I strive To check every fault that I see: Mary's doll is but waxen--mamma's is alive, And of far more importance than she.

THE SPIDER.

"Oh, look at that great ugly spider!" said Ann; And screaming, she brush'd it away with her fan; "'Tis a frightful black creature as ever can be, I wish that it would not come crawling on me."

"Indeed," said her mother, "I'll venture to say, The poor thing will try to keep out of your way; For after the fright, and the fall, and the pain, It has much more occasion than you to complain.

"But why should you dread the poor insect, my dear? If it _hurt_ you, there'd be some excuse for your fear; But its little black legs, as it hurried away, Did but tickle your arm, as they went, I dare say.

"For _them_ to fear _us_ we must grant to be just, Who in less than a moment can tread them to dust; But certainly _we_ have no cause for alarm; For, were they to try, they could do us no harm.

"Now look! it has got to its home; do you see What a delicate web it has spun in the tree? Why here, my dear Ann, is a lesson for you: Come learn from this spider what patience can do!

"And when at your business you're tempted to play, Recollect what you see in this insect to-day, Or else, to your shame, it may seem to be true, That a poor little spider is wiser than you."

FOR A NAUGHTY LITTLE GIRL.

My sweet little girl should be cheerful and mild, She must not be fretful and cry! Oh! why is this passion? remember, my child, GOD sees you, who lives in the sky.

That dear little face, that I like so to kiss, How alter'd and sad it appears! Do you think I can love you so naughty as this, Or kiss you, all wetted with tears?

Remember, though GOD is in Heaven, my love, He sees you within and without, And always looks down, from His glory above, To notice what you are about.

If I am not with you, or if it be dark, And nobody is in the way, His eye is as able your doings to mark, In the night as it is in the day.

Then dry up your tears and look smiling again, And never do things that are wrong; For I'm sure you must feel it a terrible pain, To be naughty and crying so long.

We'll pray, then, that GOD may your passion forgive, And teach you from evil to fly; And then you'll be happy as long as you live, And happy whenever you die.

THE CHILD'S MONITOR.

The wind blows down the largest tree, And yet the wind I cannot see! Playmates far off, who have been kind, My thought can bring before my mind; The past by it is present brought, And yet I cannot see my thought; The charming rose scents all the air, Yet I can see no perfume there. Blithe Robin's notes how sweet, how clear! From his small bill they reach my ear, And whilst upon the air they float, I hear, yet cannot see a note. When I would do what is forbid, By _something_ in my heart I'm chid; When good, I think, then quick and pat, That _something_ says, "My child, do that:" When I too near the stream would go, So pleased to see the waters flow, That _something_ says, without a sound, "Take care, dear child, you may be drown'd:" And for the poor whene'er I grieve, That _something_ says, "A penny give."

Thus _something_ very near must be, Although invisible to me; Whate'er I do, it sees me still: O then, good Spirit, guide my will.

THE CHATTERBOX.

From morning till night it was Lucy's delight To chatter and talk without stopping: There was not a day but she rattled away, Like water for ever a-dropping.

No matter at all if the subjects were small, Or not worth the trouble of saying, 'Twas equal to her, she would talking prefer To working, or reading, or playing.

You'll think now, perhaps, that there would have been gaps, If she had not been wonderfully clever: That her sense was so great, and so witty her pate, It would be forthcoming for ever;

But that's quite absurd, for have you not heard That much tongue and few brains are connected? That they are supposed to think least who talk most, And their wisdom is always suspected?

While Lucy was young, had she bridled her tongue, With a little good sense and exertion, Who knows, but she might now have been our delight, Instead of our jest and aversion?

JANE AND ELIZA.

There were two little girls, neither handsome nor plain; One's name was Eliza, the other's was Jane: They were both of one height, as I've heard people say, They were both of one age, I believe, to a day.

'Twas fancied by some, who but slightly had seen them, That scarcely a difference was there between them; But no one for long in this notion persisted, So great a distinction there really existed.

Eliza knew well that she could not be pleasing, While fretting and fuming, while sulky or teasing; And therefore in company artfully tried, Not to _break_ her bad habits, but only to _hide_.

So, when she was out, with much labour and pain, She contrived to look almost as pleasant as Jane; But then you might see, that in forcing a smile, Her mouth was uneasy, and ached all the while.

And in spite of her care, it would sometimes befall, That some cross event happen'd to ruin it all; And because it might chance that her share was the worst, Her temper broke loose, and her dimples dispersed.

But Jane, who had nothing she wanted to hide, And therefore these troublesome arts never tried, Had none of the care and fatigue of concealing, But her face always show'd what her bosom was feeling.

At home or abroad there was peace in her smile, A cheerful good nature that needed no guile. And Eliza work'd hard, but could never obtain The affection that freely was given to Jane.

SLEEPY HARRY.

"I do not like to go to bed," Sleepy little Harry said; "Go, naughty Betty, go away, I will not come at all, I say!"

Oh, silly child! what is he saying? As if he could be always playing! Then, Betty, you must come and carry This very foolish little Harry.

The little birds are better taught, They go to roosting when they ought; And all the ducks, and fowls, you know, _They_ went to bed an hour ago.

The little beggar in the street, Who wanders with his naked feet, And has not where to lay his head, Oh, he'd be glad to go to bed.

WASHING AND DRESSING.

Ah! why will my dear little girl be so cross, And cry, and look sulky, and pout? To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss, I can't even kiss her without.

You say you don't like to be wash'd and be dress'd, But would you not wish to be clean? Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast, This face is not fit to be seen.

If the water is cold, and the brush hurts your head, And the soap has got into your eye, Will the water grow warmer for all that you've said? And what good will it do you to cry?

It is not to tease you and hurt you, my sweet, But only for kindness and care, That I wash you, and dress you, and make you look neat, And comb out your tanglesome hair.

I don't mind the trouble, if you would not cry, But pay me for all with a kiss; That's right--take the towel and wipe your wet eye, I thought you'd be good after this.

THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

"But, mamma, now," said Charlotte, "pray, don't you believe That I'm better than Jenny, my nurse? Only see my red shoes, and the lace on my sleeve; Her clothes are a thousand times worse.

"I ride in my coach, and have nothing to do, And the country folks stare at me so; And nobody dares to control me but you Because I'm a lady, you know.

"Then, servants are vulgar, and I am genteel; So, really, 'tis out of the way, To think that I should not be better a deal Than maids, and such people as they."

"Gentility, Charlotte," her mother replied, "Belongs to no station or place; And nothing's so vulgar as folly and pride, Though dress'd in red slippers and lace.

"Not all the fine things that fine ladies possess Should teach them the poor to despise; For 'tis in good manners, and not in good dress, That the truest gentility lies."

THE WOODEN DOLL AND THE WAX DOLL.

There were two friends, a very charming pair, Brunette the brown, and Blanchidine the fair; And she to love Brunette did constantly incline, Nor less did Brunette love sweet Blanchidine. Brunette in dress was neat, yet always plain; But Blanchidine of finery was vain. Now Blanchidine a new acquaintance made-- A little girl most sumptuously array'd, In plumes and ribbons, gaudy to behold, And India frock, with spots of shining gold. Said Blanchidine, "A girl so richly dress'd, Should surely be by everyone caress'd, To play with me if she will condescend, Henceforth 'tis she alone shall be my friend." And so for this new friend in silks adorn'd, Her poor Brunette was slighted, left, and scorn'd. Of Blanchidine's vast stock of pretty toys, A wooden doll her every thought employs; Its neck so white, so smooth, its cheeks so red-- She kiss'd, she fondled, and she took to bed. Mamma now brought her home a doll of wax, Its hair in ringlets white, and soft as flax; Its eyes could open and its eyes could shut; And on it, too, with taste its clothes were put. "My dear wax doll!" sweet Blanchidine would cry-- Her doll of wood was thrown neglected by. One summer's day, 'twas in the month of June, The sun blazed out in all the heat of noon: "My waxen doll," she cried, "my dear, my charmer! What, are you cold? but you shall soon be warmer." She laid it in the sun--misfortune dire! The wax ran down as if before the fire! Each beauteous feature quickly disappear'd, And melting, left a blank all soil'd and smear'd. Her doll disfigured, she beheld amazed, And thus express'd her sorrow as she gazed: "Is it for you my heart I have estranged From that I fondly loved, which has not changed? Just so may change my new acquaintance fine, For whom I left Brunette that friend of mine. No more by outside show will I be lured; Of such capricious whims I think I'm cured: To plain old friends my heart shall still be true, Nor change for every face because 'tis new." Her slighted wooden doll resumed its charms, And wronged Brunette she clasp'd within her arms.

THE BABY'S DANCE.

Dance, little baby, dance up high: Never mind, baby, mother is by; Crow and caper, caper and crow, There, little baby, there you go; Up to the ceiling, down to the ground, Backwards and forwards, round and round: Then dance, little baby, and mother shall sing, While the gay merry coral goes ding-a-ding, ding.

THE PIN.

"Dear me! what signifies a pin! I'll leave it on the floor; My pincushion has others in, Mamma has plenty more: A miser will I never be," Said little heedless Emily.

So tripping on to giddy play, She left the pin behind, For Betty's broom to whisk away, Or some one else to find; She never gave a thought, indeed, To what she might to-morrow need.

Next day a party was to ride, To see an air-balloon! And all the company beside Were dress'd and ready soon: But she, poor girl, she could not stir, For just a pin to finish her.

'Twas vainly now, with eye and hand, She did to search begin; There was not one--not one, the band Of her pelisse to pin! She cut her pincushion in two, But not a pin had slidden through!

At last, as hunting on the floor, Over a crack she lay, The carriage rattled to the door, Then rattled fast away. Poor Emily! she was not in, For want of just--a single pin!

There's hardly anything so small, So trifling or so mean, That we may never want at all, For service unforeseen: And those who venture wilful waste, May woful want expect to taste.

THE COW.

Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Every day and every night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.

Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslips eat; They perhaps will make it sweet.

Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine.

COME AND PLAY IN THE GARDEN.

Little sister, come away, And let us in the garden play, For it is a pleasant day.

On the grass-plat let us sit, Or, if you please, we'll play a bit, And run about all over it.

But the fruit we will not pick, For that would be a naughty trick, And very likely make us sick.

Nor will we pluck the pretty flowers That grow about the beds and bowers, Because you know they are not ours.

We'll take the daisies, white and red, Because mamma has often said That we may gather them instead.

And much I hope we always may Our very dear mamma obey, And mind whatever she may say.

LITTLE GIRLS MUST NOT FRET.

What is it that makes little Emily cry? Come then, let mamma wipe the tear from her eye: There--lay down your head on my bosom--that's right, And now tell mamma what's the matter to-night.

What! Emmy is sleepy, and tired with play? Come, Betty, make haste then, and fetch her away; But do not be fretful, my darling; you know Mamma cannot love little girls that are so.

She shall soon go to bed and forget it all there-- Ah! here's her sweet smile come again, I declare: That's right, for I thought you quite naughty before. Good night, my dear child, but don't fret any more.

THE FIELD DAISY.

I'm a pretty little thing, Always coming with the spring; In the meadows green I'm found, Peeping just above the ground, And my stalk is cover'd flat With a white and yellow hat.

Little Mary, when you pass Lightly o'er the tender grass, Skip about, but do not tread On my bright but lowly head, For I always seem to say, "Surely winter's gone away."

LEARNING TO GO ALONE.

Come, my darling, come away. Take a pretty walk to-day; Run along, and never fear, I'll take care of baby dear: Up and down with little feet, That's the way to walk, my sweet.

Now it is so very near, Soon she'll get to mother dear. There she comes along at last: Here's my finger, hold it fast Now one pretty little kiss, After such a walk as this.

FINERY.

In an elegant frock, trimm'd with beautiful lace, And hair nicely curl'd, hanging over her face, Young Fanny went out to the house of a friend, With a large _little_ party the evening to spend.

"Ah! how they will all be delighted, I guess, And stare with surprise at my handsome new dress!" Thus said the vain girl, and her little heart beat, Impatient the happy young party to meet.

But, alas! they were all too intent on their play To observe the fine clothes of this lady so gay, And thus all her trouble quite lost its design;-- For they saw she was proud, but forgot she was fine.

'Twas Lucy, though only in simple white clad, (Nor trimmings, nor laces, nor jewels, she had,) Whose cheerful good-nature delighted them more Than Fanny and all the fine garments she wore.

'Tis better to have a sweet smile on one's face, Than to wear a fine frock with an elegant lace, For the good-natured girl is loved best in the main, If her dress is but decent, though ever so plain.

GREEDY RICHARD.

"I think I want some pies this morning," Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning; So down he threw his slate and books, And saunter'd to the pastry-cook's.

And there he cast his greedy eyes Round on the jellies and the pies, So to select, with anxious care, The very nicest that was there.

At last the point was thus decided: As his opinion was divided 'Twixt pie and jelly, being loth Either to leave, he took them both.

Now Richard never could be pleased To stop when hunger was appeased, But would go on to eat still more When he had had an ample store.

"No, not another now," said Dick; "Dear me, I feel extremely sick: I cannot even eat this bit; I wish I had not tasted it."

Then slowly rising from his seat, He threw his cheesecake in the street, And left the tempting pastry-cook's With very discontented looks.

Just then a man with wooden leg Met Dick, and held his hat to beg; And while he told his mournful case, Look'd at him with imploring face.

Dick, wishing to relieve his pain, His pockets search'd, but search'd in vain; And so at last he did declare, He had not left a farthing there.

The beggar turn'd with face of grief, And look of patient unbelief, While Richard now his folly blamed, And felt both sorry and ashamed.