CXI

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOW-WORM.

A Nightingale that all day long

Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the Glow-worm by his spark:
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent :
"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
"As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song:
For 'twas the selfsame Power Divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify, and cheer the night."
The songster heard this short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.

COWPER.

CXII

ROBIN REDBREAST.

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our thrushes now are silent,

Our swallows flown away,

But Robin's here in coat of brown, And scarlet breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

Robin sings so sweetly
In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts;

The trees are Indian princes,

But soon they'll turn to ghosts; The leathery pears and apples Hang russet on the bough;

Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, "Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

And what will this poor Robin do?

For pinching days are near.

The fire-side for the cricket,

The wheat-stack for the mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house, The frosty ways like iron,

The branches plumed with snow,— Alas! in Winter dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

And a crumb of bread for Robin,

His little heart to cheer.

ALLINGHAM.

CXIII

THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.

Now ponder well, you parents dear,
These words which I shall write;

A doleful story you shall hear,
In time brought forth to light.

A gentleman of good account

In Norfolk dwelled of late, Who did in honour far surmount Most men of his estate.

Sore sick he was, and like to die,
No help his life could save;
His wife by him as sick did lie,

And both possessed one grave.

No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kind;

In love they lived, in love they died,
And left two babes behind.

The one a fine and pretty boy,
Not passing three years old;
The other, a girl more young than he,

And framed in beauty's mould.
The father left his little son,

As plainly doth appear,

When he to perfect age should come,
Three hundred pounds a year.

And to his little daughter Jane,
Five hundred pounds in gold,
To be paid down on marriage-day,
Which might not be controlled:
But if the children chanced to die
Ere they to age should come,
Their uncle should possess their wealth;
For so the will did run.

"Now, brother," said the dying man,

"Look to my children dear;

Be good unto my boy and girl,
No friends else have they here:
To God and you I recommend
My children dear this day;
But little while be sure we have

Within this world to stay.

"You must be father and mother both,
And uncle all in one;

God knows what will become of them,
When I am dead and gone."
With that bespoke their mother dear,
"O brother kind," quoth she,

"You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or misery:

"And if you keep them carefully,

Then God will you reward;

But if

you

otherwise should deal,

God will your deeds regard."

With lips as cold as any stone,

They kissed their children small: "God bless you both, my children dear:" With that their tears did fall.

These speeches then their brother spake
To this sick couple there;
"The keeping of your little ones,
Sweet sister, do not fear:
God never prosper me or mine,
Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children dear
When you are laid in grave."

The parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes,

And brings them straight unto his house,
Where much of them he makes.