Part 6 (1/2)
”And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.”
”How many are you, then,” said I, ”If they two are in heaven?”
Quick was the little Maid's reply, ”O Master! we are seven.”
”But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, ”Nay, we are seven!”
POEMS BY MARY HOWITT
THE VOICE OF SPRING
I am coming, I am coming!
Hark! the honey bee is humming; See, the lark is soaring high In the blue and sunny sky, And the gnats are on the wing Wheeling round in airy ring.
Listen! New-born lambs are bleating, And the cawing rooks are meeting In the elms--a noisy crowd.
All the birds are singing loud, And the first white b.u.t.terfly In the suns.h.i.+ne dances by.
Look around you, look around!
Flowers in all the fields abound, Every running stream is bright, All the orchard trees are white, And each small and waving shoot Promises sweet autumn fruit.
BIRDS IN SUMMER
How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Flitting about in each leafy tree; In the leafy trees so broad and tall, Like a green and beautiful palace hall, With its airy chambers light and boon, That open to sun and stars and moon; That open to the bright blue sky, And the frolicsome winds as they wander by.
They have left their nests on the forest bough; Those homes of delight they need not now; And the young and the old they wander out, And traverse their green world round about; And hark! at the top of this leafy hall, How one to the other in love they call!
”Come up! Come up!” they seem to say, ”Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway.”
”Come up! come up! for the world is fair Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air.”
And the birds below give back the cry, ”We come, we come to the branches high.”
How pleasant the lives of the birds must be, Living in love in a leafy tree!
And away through the air what joy to go, And to look on the green, bright earth below!
How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Skimming about on the breezy sea, Cresting the billows like silvery foam, Then wheeling away to its cliff-built home!
What joy it must be to sail, upborne, By a strong free wing, through the rosy morn, To meet the young sun, face to face, And pierce, like a shaft, the boundless s.p.a.ce!
To pa.s.s through the bowers of the silver cloud; To sing in the thunder hall aloud; To spread out the wings for a wild, free flight With the upper cloud-wings,--oh, what delight!
Oh, what would I give, like a bird, to go, Right on through the arch of the sun-lit bow, And see how the water-drops are kissed Into green and yellow and amethyst.
How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Wherever it listeth, there to flee; To go, when a joyful fancy calls, Das.h.i.+ng down 'mong the waterfalls; Then wheeling about, with its mate at play, Above and below, and among the spray, Hither and thither, with screams as wild As the laughing mirth of a rosy child.
What joy it must be, like a living breeze, To flutter about 'mid the flowering trees;
Lightly to soar, and to see beneath, The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, And the yellow furze, like fields of gold, That gladdened some fairy region old!
On the mountain tops, on the billowy sea, On the leafy stems of a forest tree, How pleasant the life of a bird must be!