Crumbs of Pity.
KEEN is the morning, keen and bright, And all the lawn with frost is white; In every bush, in every tree, The birds sit watching warily. Now out, now in, they hop and peer, And cock their cunning heads to hear The chirping of a childish voice: They know it well, and they rejoice When resolutely stepping, comes To scatter here her gift of crumbs, Her round face topped with shining curls, My little laughing girl of girls.
And, O ye soft and feathered things, Readbreasts who flit on fearless wings, Familiar, friendly, boldly shy, Birds of the liquid, trustful eye; Ye sparrows, chattering o'er your food, Linnets, and all the pretty brood Of finches, blackbirds yellow-billed, And thrushes with your music stilled- Since winter's icy breath makes mute The swelling ripple of your flute; Ye, too, ye sable suited rooks,
Timid for all your threatening looks,
Who in solemnity survey
Your twittering colleagues at their play,
Where on the poplar's top you swing,
And desperately claw and cling;
Then, when each bird has pecked its last, And all the fluttering rout is past,
And all the chirping duly dumb,
Swoop down, but rarely find a crumb;— All ye, whose hungry bills are fed By Helen's daily doles of bread, Be not afraid, be not afraid To gather round my rosy maid. Oh, give a kindly thought to her, Your little friend and minister; And, as you watch her, pass the word— "She's but a plump unfeathered bird." So when the day is done, and night Sets all the twinkling stars alight, You'll breathe a bird-wish as you sleep, That One who guards the birds may keep Cosy and safe from every ill,
From winds that bite and frosts that chill, And through the night's long hours defend The birds' unfeathered little friend.
Ye sportive mice that swiftly go Behind the wainscot to and fro, And sometimes to your outlets creep And half pop out and take a peep, Alert, but ready to retreat,
Into a world where cheese smells sweet
Ye quivering, twisting specks of fur With whisking tails and ears astir, We do not grudge you of our store; A little less, a little more,
It matters not, so nibble on
In peace, then like a flash begone.
I cannot bear to bar the house To here and there a tiny mouse. And Helen, if she marks at all Your scamperings from wall to wall, Will smile to hear you frisk and run: "It's mousies, Daddy, having fun." So, Helen, ere at eve you steep Your busy baby-brain in sleep, Your mother takes you on her knee And whispers to you tenderly. You watch her lips, you clasp her hand, And, though you may not understand Each word she says or all that's meant, You listen and you purr assent. And it may chance that on a day
Far hence, to this your thoughts will stray, And in a dream you'll seem to hear The words with all their meaning clear: Ah, then you'll recollect and know What the dear voice said long ago: "My sweet, be sure no gentle thought That from God's love a ray has caught,
No tender childish pity spent On creatures meek and innocent,
No mercy for their lowly lot
Is ever wasted or forgot.
God, who gave children pity, heeds
Such loving thoughts, such gentle deeds: He sets them, gold and clustering gems On angels' brows as diadems,
And looks Himself in pity mild
On bird, and mouse, and little child."
The Fields of Dream.
THE fields are like a tapestry: Afar, they seem one hue, design, But near, what curious tracery, What subtle and what flowing line! Carnations, violets, gentians shine In scrolls outlined by living grass- Those fields where never footsteps pass. A joyous summer, ne'er despoiled By weathers, keeps them aye in bloom; And lovely, lucent roots are coiled Deep in the stems' illumined gloom; Beyond the breath of Death and Doom Those fields extend their parquetries, Their fine and mingled harmonies.
Winged insects, monstrous or minute, Drill through the aromatic air, Creep round the aromatic root; And doves embroider, pair by pair,
The lyric heavens; and storms have there The shapes of Beasts, with horns and scales That feather them, and jewelled tails.
The grasses' soft enamelling
On the enchanted sky is thrown; Like birds in chaste cloisonné wing Great jays and kingfishers, wide flown,
Like winds of blue and emerald blown
Like winds that stir not, but are seen Above the sweet, concerted green.
'Mid mushrooms, bells, and pollen rise Quaint orchids, licking at the air
Like snakes; and snakes with golden eyes And smooth and supple bracelets stare, And amble, jimp and debonnaire, By blond and perfumed roots that beat As hearts, and crawl with living feet!
Fanged, rufous beetles drop and leap, Red vampires, venomous and blind, And earthy griffins, stirred from sleep, Peer out and arch them, serpent-spined, War bloodily, each kind with kind; Yet overhead no tremors pass On the bright symbols of this grass.
O fields where never footsteps pass, Whose roses and whose lilies flow In rhythmic lines; whose patterned grass Is crosst by winds that never blow! O fields I see yet never know,
Stopped by a Mask with orbs of stone, Named Sleep, who holds you as his own!
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