Part 1 out of 3
Proofreaders from images provided by Internet Archive Children's Library
and the University of Florida
Note: Images of the original pages are available through the Florida
Board of Education, Division of Colleges and Universities,
PALMM Project, 2001. (Preservation and Access for American and
British Children's Literature, 1850-1869.) See
THE YOUTH'S CORONAL
BY HANNAH FLAGG GOULD
Author of "Poems," etc., etc.
Whate'er the good instruction may reveal,
The head must _take_, before the heart can _feel_.
TO THE YOUTH OF MY COUNTRY.
In preparing the following pages, my aim has been, to produce a book
alike entertaining and instructive;--one which, in the reading, should
afford an amusement to the mind, pleasant as the spring-blossoms on the
tree; and, in its influences on the heart in after life, be like the
good fruits that succeed and ripen, to refresh and nourish us, when the
vernal season is over and gone, and the voices of the singing-birds are
lost in the distance.
Choosing an appropriate title for such a presentation, I have borrowed
my idea from the words of the wise king of Israel:--"Hear the
instruction of thy father, and forsake not the law of thy mother; for
they shall be an ornament of grace unto thy head," &c., and other
Scripture passages of similar figurative meaning; for, though often
given in a sportive way, it is my design that no moral shall be
conveyed in the volume, but such as a good and judicious parent would
wish a child to imbibe.
Accept, then, my young Friends, this new CORONAL of the little flowers
of poesy which I have woven for you. When you shall have examined and
scented it, and found no thorn to pierce--no juice or odor to poison you
in its whole circle, wear it for the giver's sake; and enjoy it and
profit by its healthful influences, for your own.
Gladly would I feel assured that, in some future years,--when I shall
have done with earthly flowers, and you will be engaged in the busy
scenes and arduous duties of mature life,--the import of these leaves
may from time to time arise to your memory, in all its dewy freshness,
like the fragrance which the summer-breeze wafts after us, from the
lilies and violets we have passed and left far behind us, in our morning
rambles. Then, if not to-day, you will be convinced that I was--as now I
Your true Friend,
H. F. GOULD.
Newburyport, Mass., August, 1850.
The Sale of the Water-Lily
The Humming-Bird's Anger
The Butterfly's Dream
The Boy and the Cricket
The Stricken Bird
The Young Sportsman
The Pebble and the Acorn
The Grasshopper and the Ant
The Rose-Bud of Autumn
Frost, the Winter-Sprite
The Lost Kite
The Summer-Morning Ramble
The Disobedient Skater Boys
Winter and Spring
The Envious Lobster
The Crocus' Soliloquy
The Bee, Clover, and Thistle
Poor Old Paul
The Sea-Eagle's Fall
The Two Thieves
The Mocking Bird
The Silk-Worm's Will
Kit with the Rose
The Captive Butterfly
The Dissatisfied Angler Boy
The Stove and Grate-Setter
Song of the Bees
Summer is Come
The Old Cotter and his Cow
The Speckled One
The Blind Musician
The Lame Horse
The Mushroom's Soliloquy
The Lost Nestlings
The Bat's Flight by Daylight
David and Goliath
Escape of the Doves
Edward and Charles
The Mountain Minstrel
The Veteran and the Child
The Dying Storm
The Little Traveller
=The Sale of the Water-Lily=
And these would sometimes come, and cheer
The widow with a song,
To let her feel a neighbor near,
And wing an hour along.
A pond, supplied by hidden springs,
With lilies bordered round,
Was found among the richest things,
That blessed the widow's ground.
She had, besides, a gentle brook,
That wound the meadow through,
Which from the pond its being took,
And had its treasures too.
Her eldest orphan was a son;
For, children she had three;
She called him, though a little one,
Her hope for days to be.
And well he might be reckoned so;
If, from the tender shoot,
We know the way the branch will grow;
Or, by the flower, the fruit.
His tongue was true, his mind was bright;
His temper smooth and mild:
He was--the parent's chief delight--
A good and pleasant child.
He'd gather chips and sticks of wood
The winter fire to make;
And help his mother dress their food,
Or tend the baking cake.
In summer time he'd kindly lead
His little sisters out,
To pick wild berries on the mead,
And fish the brook for trout.
He stirred his thoughts for ways to earn
Some little gain; and hence,
Contrived the silver pond to turn.
In part, to silver pence.
He found the lilies blooming there
So spicy sweet to smell,
And to the eye so pure and fair,
He plucked them up to sell.
He could not to the market go:
He had too young a head,
The distant city's ways to know;
The route he could not tread.
But, when the coming coach-wheels rolled
To pass his humble cot,
His bunch of lilies to be sold
Was ready on the spot.
He'd stand beside the way, and hold
His treasures up to show,
That looked like yellow stars of gold
Just set in leaves of snow.
"O buy my lilies!" he would say;
"You'll find them new and sweet:
So fresh from out the pond are they,
I haven't dried my feet!"
And then he showed the dust that clung
Upon his garment's hem,
Where late the water-drops had hung,
When he had gathered them.
And while the carriage checked its pace,
To take the lilies in,
His artless orphan tongue and face
Some bright return would win.
For many a noble stranger's hand,
With open purse, was seen,
To cast a coin upon the sand,
Or on the sloping green.
And many a smiling lady threw
The child a silver piece;
And thus, as fast as lilies grew,
He saw his wealth increase.
While little more--and little more,
Was gathered by their sale,
His widowed mother's frugal store
Would never wholly fail.
For He, who made, and feeds the bird,
Her little children fed.
He knew her trust: her cry he heard;
And answered it with bread.
And thus, protected by the Power,
Who made the lily fair,
Her orphans, like the meadow flower,
Grew up in beauty there.
Her son, the good and prudent boy,
Who wisely thus began,
Was long the aged widow's joy;
And lived an honored man.
He had a ship, for which he chose
"The LILY" as a name,
To keep in memory whence he rose,
And how his fortune came.'
He had a lily carved, and set,
Her emblem, on her stem;
And she was called, by all she met,
A beauteous ocean gem.
She bore sweet spices, treasures bright;
And, on the waters wide,
Her sails as lily-leaves were white:
Her name was well applied.
Her feeling owner never spurned
The presence of the poor;
And found that all he gave returned
In blessings rich and sure.
The God who by the lily-pond
Had drawn his heart above,
In after life preserved the bond
Of grateful, holy love.
=The Humming-Bird's Anger=
"Small as the humming-bird is, it has great courage and violent
passions. If it find a flower that has been deprived of its honey, it
will pluck it off, throw it on the ground, and sometimes tear it to
On light little wings as the humming-birds fly,
With plumes many-hued as the bow of the sky,
Suspended in ether, they shine to the light
As jewels of nature high-finished and bright.
Their vision-like forms are so buoyant and small
They hang o'er the flowers, as too airy to fall,
Up-borne by their beautiful pinions, that seem
Like glittering vapor, or parts of a dream.
The humming-bird feeds upon honey; and so,
Of course, 'tis a sweet little creature, you know.
But sweet little creatures have sometimes, they say,
A great deal that's bitter, or sour, to betray!
And often the humming-bird's delicate breast
Is found of a very high temper possessed.
Such essence of anger within it is pent,
'Twould burst did no safety-valve give it a vent.
Displeased, it will seem a bright vial of wrath,
Uncorked by its heat, the offender to scath;
And, taking occasion to let off its ire,
'Tis startling to witness how high it will fire.
A humming-bird once o'er a trumpet-flower hung,
And darted that sharp little member, the tongue,
At once to the nectarine cell, for the sweet
She felt at the bottom most certain to meet.
But, finding some other light child of the air
To rifle its store, had already been there;
And no drop of honey for her to draw up,
Her vengeance broke forth on the destitute cup.
She flew in a passion, that heightened her power;
And cuffing, and shaking the innocent flower,
Its tender corolla in shred after shred
She hastily stripped; then she snapped off its head.
A delicate ruin, on earth as it lay,
That bright little fury went, humming, away,
With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye,
Like some living brilliant, just dropped from the sky.
And since, when that curious bird I behold
Arrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold,
I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite
She has in reserve, though they're now out of sight.
Ye two-footed, beautiful, passionate things,
If plumy or plumeless--without, or with wings,
Beware, lest ye break, in some hazardous hour,
Your vials of wrath, hot, or bitter, or sour!
And would ye but know how at times ye do seem
Transformed to bright furies, or frights in a dream,
Go, stand at the glass--to the painter go sit,
When anger is just at the height of its fit!
=The Butterfly's Dream=
A tulip, just opened, had offered to hold
A butterfly gaudy and gay;
And rocked in his cradle of crimson and gold,
The careless young slumberer lay.
For the butterfly slept;--as such thoughtless ones will,
At ease, and reclining on flowers;--
If ever they study, 'tis how they may kill
The best of their mid-summer hours!
And the butterfly dreamed, as is often the case
With _indolent_ lovers of change,
Who, keeping the body at ease in its place,
Give fancy permission to range.
He dreamed that he saw, what he could but despise,
The swarm from a neighboring hive;
Which, having come out for their winter supplies,
Had made the whole garden alive.
He looked with disgust, as the proud often do,
On the diligent movements of those,
Who, keeping both present and future in view,
Improve every hour as it goes.
As the brisk little alchymists passed to and fro,
With anger the butterfly swelled;
And called them mechanics--a rabble too low
To come near the station he held.
"Away from my presence!" said he, in his sleep,
"Ye humble plebeians! nor dare
Come here with your colorless winglets to sweep
The king of this brilliant parterre!"
He thought, at these words, that together they flew,
And, facing about, made a stand;
And then, to a terrible army they grew,
And fenced him on every hand.
Like hosts of huge giants, his numberless foes
Seemed spreading to measureless size:
Their wings with a mighty expansion arose,
And stretched like a veil o'er the skies.
Their eyes seemed like little volcanoes, for fire,--
Their hum, to a cannon-peal grown,--
Farina to bullets was rolled in their ire,
And, he thought, hurled at him and his throne.
He tried to cry quarter! his voice would not sound,
His head ached--his throne reeled and fell;
His enemy cheered, as he came to the ground,
And cried, "King Papilio, farewell!"
His fall chased the vision--the sleeper awoke,
The wonderful dream to expound;
The lightning's bright flash from the thunder-cloud broke,
And hail-stones were rattling around.
He'd slumbered so long, that now, over his head,
The tempest's artillery rolled;
The tulip was shattered--the whirl-blast had fled,
And borne off its crimson and gold.
'Tis said, for the fall and the pelting, combined
With suppressed ebullitions of pride.
This vain son of summer no balsam could find,
But he crept under covert and died!
=The Boy and the Cricket=
At length I have thee! my brisk new-comer,
Sounding thy lay to departing summer;
And I'll take thee up from thy bed of grass,
And carry thee home to a house of glass;
Where thy slender limbs, and the faded green
Of thy close-made coat, can all be seen.
For I long to know if the cricket _sings_,
Or _plays_ the tune with his gauzy wings;--
To bring that shrill-toned pipe to light
Which kept me awake so long last night,
That I told the hours by the lazy clock,
Till I heard the crow of the noisy cock;
When, tossing and turning, at length I fell
In a sleep so strange, that the dream I'll tell.
Methought, on a flowery bank I lay,
By a beautiful stream; and watched the play
Of the sparkling wavelets, that fled so fast,
I could not number them as they passed.
But I marked the things which they carried by;
And a neat little skiff first caught my eye.
'Twas woven of reeds, and its sides were bound
By a tender vine, that had clasped it round;
And spreading within, had made it seem
A basket of leaves, borne down the stream.
And the skiff had neither a sail nor oar;
But a bright little boy stood up, and bore,
On his outstretched hands, a wreath so gay,
It looked like a crown for the Queen of May.
And while he was going, I heard him sing,
"O seize the garland of passing _Spring!_"
But I dared not reach, for the bank was steep;
And he bore it away, to the far off deep!
There came, then, a lady;--her eye was bright--
She was young and fair, and her bark was light;
Its mast was a living tree, that spread
Its boughs for a sail, o'er the lady's head.
And some of its fruits had just begun
To flush, on the side that was next the sun;
And some with the crimson streak were stained;
While others their size had not yet gained.
In passing she cried, "Oh! who can insure
The fruits of _Summer_ to get mature?
For, fast as the waters beneath me flowing,
Beyond recall, I'm going! I'm going!"
I turned my eye, and beheld another,
That seemed as she might be Summer's mother.
She looked more grave; while her cheek was tinged
With a deeper brown; and her bark was fringed
With the tasselled heads of the wheaten sheaves
Along its sides; and the yellow leaves,
That had covered the deck concealed a throng
Of _Crickets!_--I knew by their choral song.
And at _Autumn's_ feet lay the golden corn,
While her hands were raised, to invert a horn
That was filled with a sweet and mellow store,
And the purple clusters were hanging o'er.
She bade me seize on the fruit that should last
When the harvest was gone, and Autumn had past.
But, when I had paused to make the choice,
I saw no bark! and I heard no voice!
Then I looked on a sight that chilled my blood!
'Twas a mass of ice, where an old man stood
On his frozen float; while his shrivelled hand
Had clenched, as a staff by which to stand,
A whitened branch that the blast had broke
From the lifeless trunk of an aged oak.
The icicles hung from the naked limb,
And the old man's eye was sunken and dim.
But his scattering locks were silver bright,
His beard with gathering frost was white;
The tears congealed on his furrowed cheek,
His garb was thin, and the winds were bleak.
He faintly uttered, while drawing near,
"_Winter_, the death of the short-lived year,
Can yield thee nought, as I downward tend
To the boundless sea, where the Seasons end!
But I trust from others, who've gone before,
Thou'st clothed thy form, and supplied thy store
And now, what tidings am I to bear
Of thee--for I shall be questioned there?"
I asked my mother, who o'er me bent,
What all this show of the Seasons meant?
She said 'twas a picture of Life, I saw;
And the useful moral myself must draw!
I woke, and found that thy song was stilled,
And the sun's bright beams my room had filled!
But I think, my Cricket, I long shall keep
In mind the dream of my morning sleep!
Lucy, Lucy, come away!
Never climb for things so high.
Don't you know, the other day,
What fell out with Fanny Spy?
Fanny spied, a loaf of cake,
Wisely set above her reach;
Yet did Fanny think to make
In its tempting side a breach.
When she thought the family
Out of sight and hearing too,
Forth a polished table she
Quickly to the closet drew.
First, she stepped upon a chair;
Then the table--then a shelf;
Thinking she securely there
Might, unnoticed, help herself.
Then she seized a heavy slice,
Leaving in the loaf a cleft
Wider than a dozen mice,
Feasted there all night, had left.
Stepping backward, Fanny slid
On the table's polished face:--
Down she came, with dish and lid,
Silver--glass--and china vase!
In, from every room they rushed,
Thinking all the closet crushed,
By the racket and the fall.
'Mid the uproar of the house,
Fanny, in her shame and fright,
Wished herself indeed a mouse,
But to run and hide from sight.
Yet was she to learn how vain,
Poor and worthless, is a wish.
Wishing could not lull her pain,
Hide her shame, nor mend a dish.
There she lay, but could not speak;
For a tooth had made a pass
Through her lip; and to her cheek
Clung a piece of shivered glass.
From her altered features gushed
Rolling tears, and streaming gore;
While, untasted still, and crushed,
Lay her cake upon the floor.
Then the doctor hurried in:
Fanny at his needle swooned,
As he held her crimson chin,
And together stitched the wound.
Now her face a scar must wear,
Ever till her dying day!
Questioned how it happened there,
What can blushing Fanny say?
=Sudden Elevation; or The Empaled Butterfly=
"Ho!" said the Butterfly, "here am I,
Up in the air, who used to lie
Flat on the ground, for the passers by
To treat with utter neglect!
But none will suspect that I am the same;
With a bright, new coat, and a different name;
The piece of nothingness whence I came
In me they'll never detect.
"That horrible night in the chrysalis,
Which brought me at length to a day like this,
In a form of beauty--a state of bliss,
Was little enough to give
For freedom to range from bower to bower,
To flirt with the buds, and flatter the flower,
And bask in the sunbeams hour by hour,
The envy of all that live.
"Why, this is a world of curious things,
Where those who crawl, and those that have wings,
Are ranked in the classes of beggars, and kings,
No matter how much the worth
May be on the side of those who creep,
Where the vain, the light, and the bold will sweep,
Others from notice, and proudly keep
Uppermost on the earth!
"Many a one that has loathed the sight
Of the piteous worm, will take delight
In welcoming me, as I look so bright
In my new and beautiful dress.
But some I shall pass with a scornful glance,
Some, with an elegant _nonchalance_;
And others will woo me, till I advance
To give them a slight caress."
"Ha, ha!" said the Pin, "you are just the one
Through which I'm commissioned, at once, to run
From back to breast, till, your fluttering done,
Your form may be fairly shown.
And when my point shall have reached your heart,
'T will be as a balm to the wounded part,
To think how you're to be copied by art,
And your beauty will all be known!"
=The Stricken Bird=
Here's the last food your poor mother can bring!
Take it, my suffering brood.
Oh! they have stricken me under the wing;
See, it is dripping with blood!
Fair was the morn, and I wished them to rise,
Enjoying its beauties with me.
The air was all fragrance--all splendor the skies,
While bright shone the earth and the sea.
Little I thought, when so freely I went,
Employing my earliest breath,
To wake them with song, it could be their intent
To pay me with arrows and death!
Fear that my nestlings would feel them forgot,
Helped me a moment to fly;
Else I had given up life on the spot,
Under my murderer's eye.
Yet, I can never brood o'er you again,
Closing you under my breast!
Its coldness would chill you; my blood would but stain
And spoil the warm down of your nest.
Ere the night-coming, your mother will lie,
All motionless, under the tree;
Where, deafened, and silent, I still shall be nigh,
While you will be moaning for me!
=The Young Sportsman=
Harry had a dog and gun;
And he loved to set the one,
Barking, out upon the run,
While he held the other,
Often charged so heavily,
'Twas a dangerous thing to be
With so young a wight as he
Mindless of his mother.
Earnestly she warned her child
To forego a sport so wild;
While he, turning, frowned or smiled,
And away would sidle.
For, to give him short and long,
Harry had a head so strong,
In the right or in the wrong,
It was hard to bridle.
On his gunning madly bent,
Often in his clothes a rent
Told the reckless way he went,
Over hedge and brambles.
Homeward then would Harry slouch,
With his gun and empty pouch,
Looking like a scaramouch
Coming from his rambles.
Sometimes when he scaled a wall,
Headlong there to pitch and fall,
Ratling stones, and gun and all.
Down together tumbled.
Tray would bark to tell the news
Of his master with a bruise,
Hatless, and with grated shoes,
Lying flat and humbled!
Where he saw the bushes stirred,
Harry, sure of hare or bird,
Drew,--and at a flash was heard
Noise like little thunder.
When he ran his game to find,
Disappointment 'mazed his mind;--
Finding he'd but shot the wind,
Dumb he stood with wonder!
Over muddy pool or bog,
Not so nimble as his dog,
When he walked the plank or log,
There his balance losing,
Splash! he went--a rueful plight!
If his face before was white,
'Twas like morning turned to night,
Much against his choosing.
Now, like many a hasty one,
Whether quadruped or gun,
Or a mother's wayward son
Given to disaster,
Harry's gun was rather quick;
And it had a naughty trick,--
It would snap itself, and kick
Fiercely at its master.
So, this snappish habit grew
With a power for him to rue;
Just as all bad habits do
Grow, as age increases.
When, one day, with noise and smoke,
Over-charged, the barrel broke,
Harry's hand the mischief spoke--
It was blown to pieces!
Tray came crouching round, and growled,--
Saw the gore, and whined, and howled,
While his owner groaned and scowled,
And the blood was running.
With the horrors of his state,
And with anguish desperate,
Then poor Harry owned too late,
He was _sick of gunning_!
While his mother bent to mourn
As her froward son was borne,
With his hand all burnt and torn,
Faint and pale, before her,
Harry's pain must be endured,--
And the wound--it might be cured;
But, for fingers uninsured,
There was no restorer!
=The Pebble and the Acorn=
"I am a Pebble! I yield to none!"
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone,
"Nor time nor season can alter me;
I am abiding, while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain;
And the dew has tenderly sought to melt,
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There's none to tell you about my birth,
For I am as old as the big, round earth.
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world, like blades of grass;
And many foot that on me has trod
Is gone from sight, and under the sod!
I am a Pebble! but who art _thou_,
Rattling along from the restless bough?"
The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abashed and mute:
She never before had been so near
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere;
And she felt for a time at loss to know
How to answer a thing so coarse and low.
But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look, or the keen retort,
At length she said, in a gentle tone,
"Since it has happened that I am thrown,
From the lighter element where I grew,
Down to another, so hard and new,
And beside a personage so august,
Abased, I'll cover my head with dust,
And quick retire from the sight of one
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun,
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel
Has ever subdued, or made to feel!"
And soon in the earth she sank away
From the cheerless spot where the Pebble lay.
But 'twas not long ere the soil was broke
By the jeering head of an infant oak!
As it arose, and its branches spread,
The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said,
"Ah, modest Acorn! never to tell
What was enclosed in its simple shell;--
That the pride of the forest was folded up
In the narrow space of its little cup!--
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Which proves that nothing could hide her worth!
And O, how many will tread on me,
To come and admire the beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering towards the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I!
Useless and vain, a cumberer here,
Have I been idling from year to year.
But never, from this, shall a vaunting word
From the humbled Pebble again be heard,
Till something without me or within
Shall show the purpose for which I've been!"
The Pebble could ne'er its vow forget,
And it lies there wrapt in silence yet.
=The Grasshopper and the Ant=
"Ant, look at me!" a young grasshopper said,
As nimbly he sprang from his green, summer-bed,
"See how I'm going to skip over your head,
And could o'er a thousand like you!
Ant, by your motion alone, I should judge
That Nature ordained you a slave and a drudge,
For ever and ever to keep on the trudge,
And always find something to do.
"Oh! there is nothing like having our day--
Taking our pleasure and ease while we may--
Bathing ourselves in the bright, mellow ray
That comes from the warm, golden sun!
Whilst I am up in the light and the air,
You, a sad picture of labor and care,
Still have some hard, heavy burden to bear,
And work that you never get done.
"I have an exercise healthful and good,
For tuning the nerves and digesting the food--
Graceful gymnastics for stirring the blood
Without the _gross purpose of use_
Ant, let me tell you 'tis not _a la mode_
To plod like a pilgrim, and carry a load,
Perverting the limbs that for grace were bestowed,
By such a plebeian abuse!
"While the whole world with provisions is filled,
Who would keep toiling and toiling, to build
And lay in a store for himself, till he's killed
With work that another might do?
Come! drop your budget, and just give a spring;
Jump on a grass-blade, and balance and swing;
Soon you'll be light as a gnat on the wing,
Gay as a grasshopper, too!"
Ant trudged along, while the grasshopper sung,
Minding her business and holding her tongue,
Until she got home her own people among;
But these were her thoughts on the road.
"What will become of that poor, idle one
When the light sports of the summer are done?
And, where is the covert to which he may run
To find a safe winter abode?
"Oh! if I only could tell him how sweet
Toil makes my rest and the morsel I eat,
While hope gives a spur to my little black feet,
He'd never pity my lot!
He'd never ask me my burden to drop,
To join in his folly--to spring, and to hop;
And thus make the ant and her labor to stop,
When time, I am certain, would not.
"When the cold frost all the herbage has nipped,
When the bare branches with ice-drops are tipped,
Where will the grasshopper then be, that skipped
So careless and lightly to-day?
Frozen to death! '_a sad picture_,' indeed,
Of reckless indulgence and what must succeed,
That all his gymnastics can't shelter or feed,
Or quicken his pulse into play!
"I must prepare for a winter to come,
I shall be glad of a home and a crumb,
When my frail form out of doors would be numb,
And I in the snow-storm should die.
Summer is lovely, but soon will be past.
Summer has plenty not always to last.
Summer's the time for the ant to make fast
Her stores for a future supply!"
=The Rose-Bud of Autumn=
Come out--pretty Rose-Bud,--my lone, timid one!
Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun!
For little he does, in these dull autumn hours,
At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers.
His beams, on thy tender young cheek as he plays,
Will give it a blush that no other could raise:
Thy fine silken petals they'll softly unfold,
Thy pure bosom filling with spices and gold!
I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth;
Yet beauty, we know, is the offspring of health;
And health, the fair daughter of freedom! is bright
From drinking the breezes, and feasting on light.
Then, come, little gem, from thy covert look out;
And see what the glad, golden sun is about!
His shafts, do they strike thee, new charms will impart,
Thy form making fairer, and richer, thy heart.
Occasion, sweet Bud, is for thee and for me:
This hour it may give what again ne'er shall be.
O, let not the sunshine of life pass away,
Nor touch both our eye and our heart with its ray!
=Frost, the Winter-Sprite=
The Frost looked forth on a still, clear night,
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley, and over the height
I'll silently take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
That make so much bustle and noise in vain.
But I'll be as busy as they!"
He flew up, and powdered the mountain's crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest
With diamonds and pearls;--and over the breast
Of the quivering Lake he spread
A bright coat of mail that it need not fear
The glittering point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock was rearing its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy crept;
Wherever he breathed--wherever he stepped--
Most beautiful things were seen
By morning's first light!--there flowers and trees,
With bevies of birds, and swarms of bright bees;--
There were cities--temples, and towers; and these,
All pictured in silvery sheen!
But one thing he did that was hardly fair--
He peeped in the cupboard, and, finding there
That none had remembered for him to prepare,
"Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite their rich basket of fruit," said he,
"This burly old pitcher--I'll burst it in three!
And the glass with the water they've left for me
Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!"
Miss Vain was all given to dress--
Too fond of gay clothing; and so,
She'd gad about town
Just to show a new gown,
As a train-band their color to show.
Her head being empty and light,
Whene'er she obtained a new hat,
With pride in her air,
She'd go round, here and there,
For all whom she knew to see that.
Her folly was chiefly in this:
More highly she valued fine looks,
Than virtue or truth,
Or devoting her youth
To usefulness, friendship, or books.
Her passion for show was unchecked;
And therefore, it happened one day,
Arrayed in bright hues,
And with new hat and shoes,
Miss Vain walked abroad for display.
She took the most populous streets.
To cause but aversion in those,
Who saw how she prinked,
And the bystanders winked.
While the boys cried, "Halloo! there she goes!"
It chanced, that, in passing on way,
She came near a pool, and a green
With fence close and high;
And, as Vivy drew nigh,
A donkey stood near it unseen.
He put his mouth over its top,
The moment she came by his place;
And gave a loud bray
In her ear, when, away
She sprang, shrieked, and fell on her face.
She thought she was swallowed alive,
Awhile upon earth lying flat;
And the terrible sound
Seemed to furrow the ground
She embraced in her fine gown and hat.
She gathered herself up, and ran,
Yet heeded not whither or whence,
To flee from the roar,
That continued to pour
Behind her, from over the fence.
In passing a slope near the pool,
She slipped and rolled down to its brim;
The geese gave a shout,
And at length hissed her out
Of the bounds, where they'd gathered to swim.
In turning a corner, she met
Abruptly, the horns of a cow
That mooed, while the cur,
At her heels, turned from her,
And aimed at Miss Vain his "bow-wow."
Then Vivy's bright ribbons and skirt,
As she flew, flirted high on the wind;
The children at play,
Paused to see one so gay,
And all in a flutter behind.
A group of glad schoolboys came by:
Said they, "So it seems, that to-day,
Miss Vain carries marks
At which the dog barks,
And that make sober Long-Ears to bray."
And when, all bedraggled and pale,
Poor Vivy approached her own door,
She went, swift and straight
As a dart, through the gate,
Abhorring the gay gear she wore.
She sat down, and thought of the scene
With humiliation and tears:
The words, and the noise
Of the brutes and the boys
Were echoing still in her ears.
She reasoned, and came at the cause,
Resolving that cause to remove;
And thence, her desire
Was for modest attire,
And her heart and her mind to improve.
And soon, all who knew her before
Remarked on the change and the gain
In mind, and in mien,
And in dress, that were seen
In the once flashy Miss Vivy Vain.
=The Lost Kite=
"My kite! my kite! I've lost my kite!
Oh! when I saw the steady flight,
With which she gained her lofty height,
How could I know, that letting go
That naughty string, would bring so low
My pretty, buoyant, darling kite,
To pass for ever out of sight?
"A purple cloud was sailing by,
With silver fringes, o'er the sky;
And then I thought, it seemed so nigh,
I'd make my kite go up and light
Upon its edge, so soft and bright;
To see how noble, high and proud
She'd look, while riding on a cloud!
"As near her shining mark she drew
I clapped my hands; the line slipped through
My silly fingers; and she flew,
Away! away! in airy play,
Right over where the water lay!
She veered and fluttered, swung and gave
A plunge, then vanished with the wave!
"I never more shall want to look
On that false cloud, or babbling brook;
Nor e'er to feel the breeze that took
My dearest joy, to thus destroy
The pastime of your happy boy.
My kite! my kite! how sad to think
She flew so high, so soon to sink!"
"Be this," the mother said, and smiled,
"A lesson to thee, simple child!
And when by fancies vain and wild,
As that which cost the kite that's lost,
The busy brain again is crossed,
Of shining vapor then beware,
Nor trust thy joys to fickle air.
"I have a darling treasure, too,
That sometimes would, by slipping through
My guardian hands, the way pursue,
From which, more tight than thou thy kite,
I hold my jewel, new and bright,
Lest he should stray without a guide,
To drown my hopes in sorrow's tide!"
=A Summer-Morning Rumble=
Oh! the happy Summer hours.
With their butterflies and flowers,
And the birds among the bowers
With the spices from the trees,
Vines, and lilies, while the bees
Come floating on the breeze,
All the East was rosy red,
When we woke and left our bed;
And to gather flowers we sped,
Gay and early.
Every clover-top was wet,
And the spider's silken net
With a thousand dew-drops set,
Pure and pearly.
With their modest eyes of blue
Were the violets peeping through
Tufts of grasses, where they grew,
Full of beauty,
At the lamb in snowy white,
O'er the meadow bounding light,
And the crow just taking flight,
Grave and sooty.
On our floral search intent,
Still away, away we went,--
Up and down the rugged bent,--
Through the wicket,--
Where the rock with water drops,--
Through the bushes and the copse,--
Where the greenwood pathway stops
In the thicket.
We heard the fountain gush,
And the singing of the thrush;
And we saw the squirrel's brush
In the hedges,
As along his back 't was thrown,
Like a glory of his own.
While the sun behind it, shone
Through its edges.
All the world appeared so fair,
And so fresh and free the air,--
Oh! it seemed that all the care
Belonged to God alone;
And that none beneath his throne,
Need to murmur or to groan
At his station.
Dear little brother Will!
He has leaped the hedge and rill,--
He has clambered up the hill,
Ere the beaming
Of the rising sun, to sweep
With its golden rays the steep,
Till he's tired, and dropped asleep,
See, he threw aside his cap,
And the roses from his lap,
When his eyes were, for the nap,
Wit his sunny curls outspread,
On its fragrant mossy bed,
Now his precious infant head
He is dreaming of his play--
How he rose at break of day,
And he frolicked all the way
On his ramble.
And before his fancy's eye,
He has still the butterfly
Mocking him, where not so high
He could scramble.
In his cheek the dimples dip,
And a smile is on his lip,
While his tender finger-tip
Seems as aiming
At some wild and lovely thing
That is out upon the wing,
Which he longs to catch and bring
Home for taming.
While he thus at rest is laid
In the old oak's quiet shade,
Let's cull our flowers to braid,
Or unite them
In bunches trim and neat,
That for every friend we meet,
We may have a token sweet
To delight them.
'Tis the very crowning art
Of a happy, grateful heart
To others to impart
Of its pleasure.
Thus its joys can never cease,
For it brings an inward peace,
Like an every day increase
Of a treasure.
"Honor and shame from no condition rise.
Act well your part:--there all the honor lies."
The shoemaker sat amid wax and leather,
With lapstone over his knee;
Where, snug in his shop, he defied all weather,
A-drawing his quarters and sole together:
A happy old man was he!
This happy old man was so wise and knowing,
The worth of his time he knew.
He bristled his ends, and he kept them going;
And felt to each moment a stitch was owing,
Until he got round the shoe.
Of every deed that his wax was sealing,
The closing was firm and fast.
The prick of his steel never caused a feeling
Of pain to the toe, and his skill in heeling
Was perfect, and true to the last!
Whenever you gave him a foot to measure.
With gentle and skilful hand,
He took its proportions, with looks of pleasure,
As if you were giving the costliest treasure,
Or dubbing him lord of the land.
And many a one did he save from getting
A fever, or cold or cough:
For many a sole did he save from wetting,
When, whether in water or snow 'twas setting,
His shoeing would keep them off
And when he had done with his making and mending,
With hope and a peaceful breast,
Resigning his awl, as his thread was ending,
He slid from his bench, to the grave descending,
As high as a king to rest!
It snows! it snows! from out the sky
The feathered flakes, how fast they fly,
Like little birds, that don't know why
They're on the chase, from place to place,
While neither can the other trace!
It snows, it snows! a merry play
Is o'er us, on this sombre day.
As dancers in time's airy hall,
That not a moment holds them all,
While some keep up, and others fall,
The atoms shift; then, thick and swift,
They drive along to form the drift,
That weaving up, so dazzling white,
Is rising like a wall of light.
But now the wind comes, whistling loud,
To snatch and waft it, as a cloud,
Or giant phantom in a shroud.
It spreads,--it curls,--it mounts and whirls;
At length a mighty wing unfurls;
And then, away!--but where, none knows,
Or ever will.--It snows! it snows!
To-morrow will the storm be done;
Then out will come the golden sun!
And we shall, we shall see, upon the run
Before his beams, in sparkling streams,
What now a curtain o'er him seems.
And thus, with life it ever goes;--
'Tis shade and shine! It snows, it snows!
Whirlwind, Whirlwind, whither art thou hieing,
Snapping off the flowers young and fair;--
Setting all the chaff and the withered leaves a-flying,--
Tossing up the dust in the air?
"I," said the Whirlwind, "cannot stop for talking!
Give me up your cap, my little man;
And the polished stick, that you will not need for walking.
While you run to catch them, if you can!
"You, pretty maiden--none has time to tell her
I am coming, ere I shall be there.
I will twirl her zephyr--snatch her light umbrella,
Seize her hat, and snarl her glossy hair!"
On went the Whirlwind, showing many capers
One would hardly deem it meet to tell;--
Dusting Judge and Parson--flirting gown and papers,--
Discomposing matron, beau and belle.
"Whisk!" from behind came the long and sweeping feather,
Round the head of old Chanticleer:--
Plumed and plumeless biped felt gust together,
In a way they wouldn't like to hear.
Snug in his arbor sat a scholar, musing
Calmly o'er the philosophic page:
"Flap!" went the leaves of the volume he was using,
Cutting short the lecture of the sage.
"Hey!" said the bookworm, "this I think is taking
Rather too much liberty with me!
Yet I'll not resent it; being bent on making
Use of every thing I hear and see.
"Many, I know, will not their anger stifle,
When as little cause as this, they find
To let it kindle up; but minding every trifle
Is profitless as quarrels with the wind.
"Forth to his business when the Whirlwind sallies,
He is all alive to get it done;--
He on his pathway never lags nor dallies;
But is ever up, and on the run.
"Though ever whirling, never growing dizzy;
Motion gives him buoyancy and power.
All who have known him own that he is busy,
Doing much in half a fleeting hour.
"Oh! there is nothing--when our work's before us,--
Like _despatch;_ for, while our time is brief,
Some sweeping blast may suddenly come o'er us,
Lose our place, and turn another leaf!
"Whirlwind, Whirlwind, though you're but a flurry,
And so odd the business you pursue;--
Though you come on, and are off, in such a hurry,
I have caught a hint; and now adieu!"
=The Disobedient Skater Boys=
Said William to George, "It is New-Year's day!
And now for the pond and the merriest play!
So, on with your cap; and away, away,
We'll off for a frolic and slide,
Be quick--be quick, if you would not be chid
For doing what father and mother forbid;
And under your coat let the skates be hid;
Then over the ice we'll glide."
They're up, and they're off; on their run-away feet
They fasten the skates, when, away they fleet,
Far over the pond, and beyond retreat,
Unconscious of danger near.
But lo! the ice is beginning to bend--
It cracks--it cracks--and their feet descend!
To whom can they look as a helper--a friend?
Their faces are pale with fear.
In their flight to the pond, they had caught the eye
Of a neighboring peasant, who, lingering nigh,
Aware of their danger, and hearing their cry,
Now hastens to give them aid.
As home they are brought, all dripping and cold,
To all who their piteous plight behold,
The worst of the story is plainly told--
Their parents were disobeyed!
=Winter and Spring=
"Adieu!" Father Winter sadly said
To the world, when about withdrawing,
With his old white wig half off his head,
And his icicle fingers thawing;--
"Adieu! I'm going to the rocks and caves,
And must leave all here behind me;
Or perhaps I shall sink in the Northern waves,
So deep that none can find me."
"Good luck! good luck, to your hoary locks!"
Said the gay young Spring, advancing;
"You may take your rest 'mid the caves and rocks,
While I o'er the earth am dancing.
"But there is not a spot where you have trod.
You hard, old clumsy fellow,--
Not a hill, nor a field, nor a single sod,
But I must make haste to mellow.
"I then shall carpet them o'er with grass,
To look so bright and cheering,
That none will regret having let you pass
Far out of sight and hearing.
"The fountains that you locked up so tight,
When I shall give them a sunning,
Will sparkle and play in my warmth and light,
And the streams set off to running.
"I'll speak in the earth to the palsied root,
That under your reign was sleeping;
I'll teach it the way in the dark to shoot,
And draw out the vine to creeping.
"The boughs that you cased so close in ice,
It was chilling e'en to behold them,
I'll deck all over with buds so nice;
My breath can alone unfold them.
"And when all the trees are with blossoms drest,
The bird, with her song so merry,
Will come to the branches to build her nest,
With a view to the future cherry.
"The earth will show by her loveliness,
The wonders that I am doing;
While the skies look down with a smile, to bless
The way that I'm pursuing!"
Said Winter, "Then I would have you learn,
By me, my gay new-comer,
To push off too, when it comes your turn,
And yield your place to Summer!"
I'll tell you now about Tom Tar,
The sailor stout and bold,
Who o'er the ocean roamed so far,
To countries new and old.
Tom was a man of thousands! he
Would ne'er complain nor frown,
Though high and low the wind and sea
Might toss him up and down.
Amid the waters dark and deep,
He had the happy art,
When all around was storm, to keep
Fair weather in his heart.
Though winds were wild, and waves were rough,
He'd always cast about,
And find within he'd calm enough
To stand the storms without.
"For nought," said Tom, "is ever gained
By sighs for what we lack;
Nor can it mend a vessel strained,
To let our temper crack.
"And sure I am, the worst of storms,
That any man should dread,
Is that which in the bosom forms,
And musters to the head."
Serene, and ever self-possessed,
His mess-mates he would cheer,
And often put their fears to rest,
When dangers gathered near.
If on the rocks the ship was cast,
And surges swept the deck,
Tom Tar was ever found the last
Who would forsake the wreck.
And when his only hat and shoes
The waters plucked from him,
Why, these, he felt, were small to lose,
Could he keep up and swim!
Then through the billows, foam, and spray,
That rose on every hand,
He'd, somehow, always find a way
Of getting safe to land.
The secret was, the fear and love
Of Heaven had filled his soul:
His trust was firm in One above,
Howe'er the seas might roll.
And Tom had sailed to many a shore,
And many a wonder seen:
The stories he could tell would more
Than fill a magazine.
He'd seen mankind in every state,
Almost, that man can know;
But envied not the rich and great,
Nor scorned the poor and low.
The monarch in his sight had stood,
Superb, in glittering vest;
The savage, too, that roams the wood,
In skins and feathers dressed.
The tribes of many an isle he knew;
And beasts, and birds, and flowers,
And fruits, of many a shape and hue,
In lands remote from ours.
He'd seen the wide-winged albatros
Her breast in ocean lave;
And bold sea-lions, playing, toss
Their heads above the wave.
He'd seen the dolphin, while his back
Went flashing to the sun,
A swarm of flying fish attack,
And swallow every one!
The porpoise and the spouting whale
Had sported in his view;
And hungry sharks pursued his sail,
As if they'd eat the crew.
And ever, when Tom Tar got home,
The children, at their play,
Were glad to have the Sailor come,
And greet them by the way.
Then, oft, some curious stone, or shell,
The laughing girls and boys
Would find, upon their aprons fell,
To put among their toys.
"These pearly shells," said he, "I found
Where gloomy waters roar:
These polished stones, so smooth and round,
Rough surges washed ashore.
"Though small to us a pebble seems,
'Tis made and marked by One,
Who gave the warmth, and lit the beams
Of yon great shining sun.
"And when these pretty shells I find,
Along the ocean strand,
Their beauteous finish brings to mind
Their Maker's perfect hand.
"When on the wildest shore I'm thrown
And far from human eye,
I think of him who made the stone,
And shell, and sea, and sky.
"For he's my Friend and I am his!
Though strong and cold the blast,
My safest guide I know he is
Where'er my lot is cast."
When Tom passed on, the children said,
"These treasures from afar
He brought us! Blessings on his head!
For he's a good Tom Tar!"
=The Envious Lobster=
A Lobster from the water came,
And saw another, just the same
In form and size; but gayly clad
In scarlet clothing; while she had
No other clothing on her back
Than her old suit of greenish black.
"So ho!" she cried, "'tis very fine!
Your dress was yesterday like mine;
And in the mud below the sea,
You lived, a crawling thing like me.
But now, because you've come ashore,
You've grown so proud, that what you wore--
Your strong old suit of bottle-green,
You think improper to be seen.
"To tell the truth, I don't see why
You should be better dressed than I.
And I should like a suit of red
As bright as yours, from feet to head.
I think I'm quite as good as you,
And might be clothed in scarlet too."
"Will you be _boiled_" her owner said,
"To be arrayed in glowing red?
Come here, my discontented miss,
And hear the scalding kettle hiss!
Will you go in, and there be boiled,
To have your dress, so old and soiled,
Exchanged for one of scarlet hue?"
"Yes," cried the Lobster, "that I'll do,
And twice as much, if needs must be,
To be as gayly clad as she."
Then, in she made a fatal dive,
And never more was seen alive!
Now, if you ever chance to know,
Of one as fond of dress and show
As that vain Lobster, and withal
As envious you'll perhaps recall
To mind her folly, and the plight
In which she reappeared to sight.
She had obtained a bright array,
But for it, thrown her life away!
Her life and death were best untold,
But for the moral they unfold!
=The Crocus' Soliloquy=
Down in my solitude, under the snow,
Where nothing cheering can reach me--
Here, without light to see how I should grow,
I trust to nature to teach me.
I'll not despair, nor be idle, nor frown;
Though locked in so gloomy a dwelling!
My leaves shall shoot up, while my root's running down,
And the bud in my bosom is swelling.
Soon as the frost will get off from my bed,
From this cold dungeon to free me,
I will peer up, with my bright little head;
All will be joyful to see me!
Then from my heart will young petals diverge,
Like rays of the sun from their focus;
When I from the darkness of earth shall emerge,
All complete, as a beautiful CROCUS!
Gayly arrayed in gold, crimson, and green,
When to their view I have risen;
Will they not wonder how one so serene
Came from so dismal a prison?
Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower
A wise little lesson may borrow:--
If patient to-day through the dreariest hour,
We shall come out the brighter to-morrow!
=The Bee, Clover, and Thistle=
A bee from the hive one morning flew,
A tune to the daylight humming;
And away she went o'er the sparkling dew,
Where the grass was green, the violet blue,
And the gold of the sun was coming.
And what first tempted the roving Bee,
Was a head of the crimson clover.
"I've found a treasure betimes!" said she,
"And perhaps a greater I might not see,
If I travelled the field all over.
"My beautiful Clover, so round and red,
There is not a thing in twenty,
That lifts this morning so sweet a head
Above its leaves, and its earthy bed,
With so many horns of plenty!"
The flow'rets were thick which the Clover crowned,
As the plumes in the helm of Hector;
And each had a cell that was deep and round,
Yet it would not impart, as the Bee soon found,
One drop of its precious nectar.
She cast in her eye where the honey lay,
And her pipe she began to measure;
But she saw at once it was clear as day,
That it would not go down one half the way
To the place of the envied treasure.
Said she, in a pet, "One thing I know,"
As she rose, and in haste departed,
"It is not those of the _greatest show,_
To whom for a favor 'tis best to go,
Or that prove most generous-hearted!"
A fleecy flock came into the field;
When one of its members followed
The scent of the clover, till between
Her nibbling teeth its head was seen,
And then in a moment swallowed.
"Ha, ha!" said the Bee, as the Clover died,
"Her fortune's smile was fickle!
And now I can get my wants supplied
By a homely flower, with a rough outside.
And even with scale and prickle!"
Then she flew to one, that, by man and beast
Was shunned for its stinging bristle;
But it injured not the Bee in the least;
And she filled her pocket, and had a feast,
From the bloom of the purple Thistle.
The generous Thistle's life was spared
In the home where the Bee first found her,
Till she grew so old she was hoary-haired,
And her snow-white locks with the silk compared,
As they shone where the sun beamed round her.
[Footnote 1: The clover-floret is so small and deep in its tube,
that the bee cannot reach the honey at the bottom.]
=Poor Old Paul=
Poor old Paul! he has lost a foot;
And see him go hobbling along,
With the stump laced up in that clumsy boot,
Before the gathering throng!
And now, as he has to pass so many,
And suffer the gaze of all,
If each would only bestow a penny,
'Twere something for poor old Paul.
His cheek is wan, and his garb is thin;
His eye is sunken and dim;
He looks as if the winter had been
Making sad work with him.
While he is trying to hide the tatter,
Mark how his looks will fall!
Nobody needs to ask the matter
With poor, old, hungry Paul.
All that he has in his dingy sack
Is morsels of bread and meat,--
The leavings, to burden his aged back,
Which others refused to eat.
So now I am sure, you will all be willing
To part with a sum so small
As each will spare, who makes up a shilling
To comfort him--Poor old Paul!
=The Sea-Eagle's Fall=
An Eagle, on his towering wing,
Hung o'er the summer sea;
And ne'er did airy, feathered king
Look prouder there than he.
He spied the finny tribes below,
Amid the limpid brine;
And felt it now was time to know
Whereon he was to dine.
He saw a noble, shining fish
So near the surface swim,
He felt at once a hungry wish
To make a feast of him.
Then straight he took his downward course;
A sudden plunge he gave;
And, pouncing, seized, with murderous force,
His tempter in the wave.
He struck his talons firm and deep,
Within the slippery prize,
In hope his ruffian grasp to keep,
And high and dry to rise.
But ah! it was a fatal stoop,
As ever monarch made;
And, for that rash--that cruel swoop,
He soon most dearly paid!
The fish had too much gravity
To yield to this attack.
His feet the eagle could not free
From off the scaly back.
He'd seized on one too strong and great;
His mastery now was gone!
And on, by that preponderant weight,
And downward, he was drawn.
Nor found he here the element
Where he could move with grace;
And flap, and dash, his pinions went,
In ocean's wrinkled face.
They could not bring his talons out,
His forfeit life to save;
And planted thus, he writhed about
Upon his gaping grave.
He raised his head, and gave a shriek,
To bid adieu to light:
The water bubbled in his beak--
He sank from human sight!
The children of the sea came round,
The foreigner to view.
To see an airy monarch drowned,
To them was something new
Some gave a quick, astonished look,
And darted swift away;
While some his parting plumage shook,
And nibbled him for prey.
O! who that saw that bird at noon
So high and proudly soar,
Could think how awkwardly--how soon,
He'd fall to rise no more?
Though glory, majesty, and pride
Were his an hour ago,
Deprived of all, that eagle died,
For stooping once too low!
Now, have you ever known or heard
Of biped, from his sphere
Descending, like that silly bird
To buy a fish so dear?
=The Two Thieves=
A lady, they called her Miss Mouse,
In a slate-colored dress, like a Quaker,
Once lived in a snug little house,
Of which she herself was the maker.
There lived in another close by,
A dame, whom they called Lady Kitty;
But that she was stationed so nigh,
Miss Mouse often thought a great pity.
For she, though so soberly clad,
And never inclined to ill-speaking,
Had often a fancy to gad,
Or more than her own might be seeking.
She did not then like to be scanned,
Or questioned respecting her duty,
When some little theft she had planned,
Or seen coming home with her booty.
So modest she was, and so shy,
Although an inveterate sinner,
She'd nip out her part of the pie
Before it was brought up to dinner.
She held that 'twas folly to ask