February the Twenty-seventh Henry Wadsworth Long

fellow, Born 1807

THE TOYS

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd

With hard words and unkiss'd,

His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,

But found him slumbering deep,

With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.

And I, with moan,

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;

For, on a table drawn beside his head,

He had put, within his reach,

A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach
And six or seven shells,

A bottle with bluebells

And two French copper coins, ranged there with

careful art,

To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I pray'd

To God, I wept, and said:

Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,

Not vexing Thee in death,

And Thou rememberest of what toys

We made our joys,

How weakly understood

Thy great commanded good,

Then, fatherly not less

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,

Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,

"I will be sorry for their childishness."

Coventry Patmore

THE REAPER

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.

William Wordsworth

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT

Is there for honest poverty

Wha hings his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by;
We dare be poor for a' that.
For a' that an' a' that,

Our toils obscure, an' a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,-
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, an' a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, —
A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, an' a' that,

Their tinsel show, an' a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that, Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that;

For a' that, an' a' that,

His riband, star, an' a' that; The man of independent mind, He looks an' laughs at a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may, -
As come it will for a' that,

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, an' a' that.

For a' that, an' a' that,

It's comin' yet, for a' that,

When man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brithers be for a' that!

Robert Burns

THE FISHERMEN

Three fishers went sailing out into the west

Out into the west as the sun went down;

Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep;
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;

And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,

And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown;
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,

And the women are watching and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come back to the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,
And good-by to the bar and its moaning.

Charles Kingsley

THE ANGLER'S WISH

I in these flowery meads would be,
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise
I, with my angle, would rejoice,

Sit here, and see the turtle-dove

Court his chaste mate to acts of love;

Or, on that bank, feel the west-wind
Breathe health and plenty; please my mind,
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,
And then washed off by April showers;
Here, hear my Kenna sing a song:
There, see a blackbird feed her young,

Or a laverock build her nest;
Here, give my weary spirits rest,
And raise my low-pitched thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love.

Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice;

Or, with my Bryan and a book,
Loiter long days near Shawford brook;
There sit by him, and eat my meat;
There see the sun both rise and set;
There bid good-morning to next day;
There meditate my time away;

And angle on; and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grave.
Izaak Walton