Part 7 (1/2)
Horatio, of ideal courage vain, Was flouris.h.i.+ng in air his father's cane, And, as the fumes of valour swelled his pate, Now thought himself this hero, and now that; ”And now,” he cried, ”I will Achilles be; My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee!
Now, I'll be Hector, when his angry blade A lane through heaps of slaughter'd Grecians made!
And now my deeds still braver I'll evince, I am no less than Edward the Black Prince.
”Give way, ye coward French!” As this he spoke, And aim'd in fancy a sufficient stroke To fix the fate of Cressy or Poitiers (The Muse relates the Hero's fate with tears), He struck his milk-white hand against a nail, Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail.
Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown, That in the tented field so late was shown?
Achilles weeps, great Hector hangs his head, And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.
ON READING
”And so you do not like to spell, Mary, my dear; oh, very well: 'Tis dull and troublesome, you say, And you would rather be at play.
”Then bring me all your books again, Nay, Mary, why do you complain?
For as you do not choose to read, You shall not have your books indeed.
”So as you wish to be a dunce, Pray go and fetch me them at once; For if you will not learn to spell, 'Tis vain to think of reading well.
”Now, don't you think you'll blush to own, When you become a woman grown, Without one good excuse to plead, That you have never learned to read?”
”Oh, dear mamma,” said Mary then, ”Do let me have my books again; I'll not fret any more indeed, If you will let me learn to read.”
Maria had an aunt at Leeds, For whom she made a purse of beads; 'Twas neatly done, by all allow'd, And praise soon made her vain and proud.
Her mother, willing to repress This strong conceit of cleverness, Said, ”I will show you, if you please, A honeycomb, the work of bees!
”Yes, look within their hive, and then Examine well your purse again; Compare your merits, and you will Admit the insect's greater skill.”
Knit, Dorothy, knit, The sunbeams round thee flit, So merry the minutes go by, go by, While fast thy fingers fly, they fly.
Knit, Dorothy, knit.
Sing, Dorothy, sing, The birds are on the wing, 'Tis better to sing than to sigh, to sigh, While fast thy fingers fly, they fly.
Sing, Dorothy, sing.
HOW TO HEAL A BURN
”Oh, we have had a sad mishap!
As Clara lay in nurse's lap, Too near the fire the chair did stand-- A coal flew out and burnt her hand.
”It must have flown above the guard, It came so quick, and hit so hard; And, would you think it? raised a blister: Oh, how she cried! poor little sister!
”Poor thing! I grieved to see it swell;”
”What will you do to make it well?”
”Why,” said Mamma, ”I really think Some sc.r.a.ped potato, or some ink.
”A little vinegar or brandy, Whichever nurse can find most handy, All these are good, my little daughter, But nothing's better than cold water.”