The Whole Family

the whole family
all with white hair and canes
visiting graves

by Matsuo Basho.

One wept whose only child was dead,
New-born, ten years ago.
"Weep not; he is in bliss," they said.
She answered, "Even so,

"Ten years ago was born in pain
A child, not now forlorn.
But oh, ten years ago, in vain,
A mother, a mother was born."

by Alice Meynell.

Motherland's the country
Where I first raised my head,
Where I loved my parents,
Where every stone knows me,
Where I made my home,
Where I first knew God,
Where my ancestors lived,
And left their graves behind them,
Where I grew on bits of bread,
Where I learned to speak my language,
Where I have my friends and family,
Where I've laughed and where I've cried,
Where I dwell with mirth and hope,
Where I one day long to perish.

by Andon Zako Çajupi.

Sans Parents, Sans Amis

Sans parents, sans amis et sans concitoyens,
Oublié sur la terre et loin de tous les miens,
Par les vagues jeté sur cette île farouche,
Le doux nom de la France est souvent sur ma bouche.
Auprès d'un noir foyer, seul, je me plains du sort.
Je compte les moments, je souhaite la mort;
Et pas un seul ami dont la voix m'encourage,
Qui près de moi s'asseye, et, voyant mon visage
Se baigner de mes pleurs et tomber sur mon sein;
Me dise: 'Qu'as-tu donc?' et me presse la main.

by Andre Marie de Chenier.

How Cruel Are The Parents

HOW cruel are the parents
Who riches only prize,
And to the wealthy booby
Poor Woman sacrifice!
Meanwhile, the hapless Daughter
Has but a choice of strife;
To shun a tyrant Father's hate—
Become a wretched Wife.

The ravening hawk pursuing,
The trembling dove thus flies,
To shun impelling ruin,
Awhile her pinions tries;
Till, of escape despairing,
No shelter or retreat,
She trusts the ruthless Falconer,
And drops beneath his feet.

by Robert Burns.

For The Holy Family By Michelangelo

TURN not the prophet's page, O Son! He knew
All that Thou hast to suffer, and hath writ.
Not yet Thine hour of knowledge. Infinite
The sorrows that Thy manhood's lot must rue
And dire acquaintance of Thy grief. That clue
The spirits of Thy mournful ministerings
Seek through yon scroll in silence. For these things
The angels have desired to look into.
Still before Eden waves the fiery sword,—
Her Tree of Life unransomed: whose sad Tree
Of Knowledge yet to growth of Calvary
Must yield its Tempter,—Hell the earliest dead
Of Earth resign,—and yet, O Son and Lord,
The seed o' the woman bruise the serpent's head.

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

From out the front of being, undefiled,
A life hath been upheaved with struggle and pain;
Safe in her arms a mother holds again
That dearest miracle--a new-born child.
To moans of anguish terrible and wild--
As shrieks the night-wind through an ill-shut pane--
Pure heaven succeeds; and after fiery strain
Victorious woman smiles serenely mild.

Yea, shall she not rejoice, shall not her frame
Thrill with a mystic rapture! At this birth,
The soul now kindled by her vital flame
May it not prove a gift of priceless worth?
Some saviour of his kind whose starry fame
Shall bring a brightness to the darkened earth.

by Mathilde Blind.

The Passover In The Holy Family (For A Drawing)

Here meet together the prefiguring day
And day prefigured. “Eating, thou shalt stand,
Feet shod, loins girt, thy road-staff in thine hand,
With blood-stained door and lintel,”—did God say
By Moses' mouth in ages passed away.
And now, where this poor household doth comprise
At Paschal-Feast two kindred families,—
Lo! the slain lamb confronts the Lamb to slay.
The pyre is piled. What agony's crown attained,
What shadow of Death the Boy's fair brow subdues
Who holds that blood wherewith the porch is stained
By Zachary the priest? John binds the shoes
He deemed himself not worthy to unloose;
And Mary culls the bitter herbs ordained.

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

Hinemoa, Tui, Maina,
All of them were born together;
They are quite an extra special
Set of babies--wax and leather.

Every day they took an airing;
Mummy made them each a bonnet;
Two were cherry, one was yellow
With a bow of ribbon on it.

Really, sometimes we would slap them,
For if ever we were talking,
They would giggle and be silly,
Saying, "Mamma, take us walking."

But we never really loved them
Till one day we left them lying
In the garden--through a hail-storm,
And we heard the poor dears crying.

Half-Past-Six said--"You're a mother!
What if Mummy did forget you?"
So I said, "Well, you're their Father.
Get them!" but I wouldn't let you.

by Katherine Mansfield.

After the months of torpor,
Weakness and ache and strain,
After this day's deep drowning
In stormy seas of pain—
To feel your hand, my baby,
Upon my bosom lain!

My little one, my baby,
What woes your touches quell!
It is the Christ-child coming
To save a soul from hell.
Out in the happy gardens
You bring me now to dwell.

My baby—O beloved,
Mine only you shall be,
Even as the soul our Lord's is,
Who died upon the tree.
Have I not won you, dearest,
By pain, as he won me?

So sweet, so soft, so little,
Such a wee helpless flower !
How may I shield you, dear one,
From the world's ruthless power,
And hold you close and warm here,
As now in your first hour?

by Harriet Monroe.

We are your Grand-Parents, the Grown-Ups!
Covered with the cold sweats of the moon and the greensward.
Our dry wines had heart in them!
In the sunshine where there is no deception,
what does man need? To drink.
Myself: To die among barbarous rivers.

We re your Grand-Parents of the fields.
The water lies at the foot of the willows:
see the flow of the moat round the damp castle.
Let us go down to our storerooms;
afterwards, cider or milk.
Myself: To go where the cows drink.

We are your Grand-Parents; here,
take some of the liqueurs in our cupboards;
Tea and Coffee, so rare, sing in our kettles.
Look at the pictures, the flowers.
We are back from the cemetery.
Myself: Ah! To drink all urns dry!

by Arthur Rimbaud.

Where ceaseless Spring her garland twines,
As sweetly shall the loved one rest,
As if beneath the whispering pines
And maple shadows of the West.

Ye mourn, O hearts of home! for him,
But, haply, mourn ye not alone;
For him shall far-off eyes be dim,
And pity speak in tongues unknown.

There needs no graven line to give
The story of his blameless youth;
All hearts shall throb intuitive,
And nature guess the simple truth.

The very meaning of his name
Shall many a tender tribute win;
The stranger own his sacred claim,
And all the world shall be his kin.

And there, as here, on main and isle,
The dews of holy peace shall fall,
The same sweet heavens above him smile,
And God's dear love be over all

by John Greenleaf Whittier.

My little boy is eight years old,
He goes to school each day;
He doesn't mind the tasks they set-
They seem to him but play.
He heads his class at raffia work,
And also takes the lead
At making dinky paper boats—
But I wish that he could read.

They teach him physiology,
And, O, it chills our hearts
To hear our prattling innocent
Mix up his inward parts.
He also learns astronomy
And names the stars by night—
Of course he's very up-to-date,
But I wish that he could write.

They teach him things botanical,
They teach him how to draw,
He babbles of mythology
And gravitation's law;
And the discoveries of science
With him are quite a fad,
They tell me he's a clever boy,
But I wish that he could add.

by Peter McArthur.

A Sheaf Of Snakes Used Heretofore To Be My Seal, The Crest Of Our Poor Family

ADOPTED in God's family and so
Our old coat lost, unto new arms I go.
The Cross—my seal at baptism—spread below
Does, by that form, into an Anchor grow.
Crosses grow Anchors ; bear, as thou shouldest do
Thy Cross, and that Cross grows an Anchor too.
But He that makes our Crosses Anchors thus,
Is Christ, who there is crucified for us.
Yet may I, with this, my first serpents hold ;
God gives new blessings, and yet leaves the old.
The serpent may, as wise, my pattern be ;
My poison, as he feeds on dust, that's me.
And, as he rounds the earth to murder sure,
My death he is, but on the Cross, my cure.
Crucify nature then, and then implore
All grace from Him, crucified there before ;
Then all is Cross, and that Cross Anchor grown ;
This seal's a catechism, not a seal alone.
Under that little seal great gifts I send,
Works, and prayers, pawns, and fruits of a friend.
And may that saint which rides in our great seal,
To you who bear his name,* great bounties deal !

by John Donne.

To My Noble Kinsman Thomas Stanley, Esq. On His Lyrick Poems Composed By Mr. John Gamble.

What means this stately tablature,
The ballance of thy streins,
Which seems, in stead of sifting pure,
T' extend and rack thy veins?
Thy Odes first their own harmony did break:
For singing, troth, is but in tune to speak.

Nor trus thy golden feet and wings.
It may be thought false melody
T' ascend to heav'n by silver strings;
This is Urania's heraldry.
Thy royal poem now we may extol,
As truly Luna blazon'd upon Sol.

As when Amphion first did call
Each listning stone from's den;
And with his lute did form the wall,
But with his words the men;
So in your twisted numbers now you thus
Not only stocks perswade, but ravish us.

Thus do your ayrs eccho ore
The notes and anthems of the sphaeres,
And their whole consort back restore,
As if earth too would blesse Heav'ns ears;
But yet the spoaks, by which they scal'd so high,
Gamble hath wisely laid of UT RE MI.

by Richard Lovelace.

To My Noble Kinsman Thomas Stanley, Esq. On His Lyrick Poem

What means this stately tablature,
The ballance of thy streins,
Which seems, in stead of sifting pure,
T' extend and rack thy veins?
Thy Odes first their own harmony did break:
For singing, troth, is but in tune to speak.

Nor trus thy golden feet and wings.
It may be thought false melody
T' ascend to heav'n by silver strings;
This is Urania's heraldry.
Thy royal poem now we may extol,
As truly Luna blazon'd upon Sol.

As when Amphion first did call
Each listning stone from's den;
And with his lute did form the wall,
But with his words the men;
So in your twisted numbers now you thus
Not only stocks perswade, but ravish us.

Thus do your ayrs eccho ore
The notes and anthems of the sphaeres,
And their whole consort back restore,
As if earth too would blesse Heav'ns ears;
But yet the spoaks, by which they scal'd so high,
Gamble hath wisely laid of UT RE MI.

by Richard Lovelace.

Air -- "The Pride of Caldair"

Once there was a little girl
And her friends loved her dear --
Her parents loved their little one,
She did their hearts cheer.
They loved their little darling,
As with them she did roam,
They called her little Susan,
The pride of their home.

Blue eyes had little Susan,
And light flaxen hair,
And she was a pleasant child to see,
So beautiful and fair.
With her parents she will never more
On earth with them roam --
They loved their little Susan,
The pride of their home.

Her parents had more children,
There were nine of them all --
There are eight of them living,
For God but one called.
The flower of their family
God called to his home,
It was their little Susan,
The pride of their home.

Her friends will not forget her,
Though she died years ago --
It was John H. Moore's daughter,
Her age was four years old.
She is waiting in heaven,
Waiting for her friends to come
And be with their little Susan,
The pride of their home.

by Julia Ann Moore.

One year, two year, three year, four,
Comes a khaki gentleman knocking at the door.
'Any little boys at home, send them out to me
To train them and brain them in battles yet to be.'

When a little boy is born feed him, train him so.
Put him in a cattle pen and wait for him to grow.
When he's nice and plump and dear, and sensible and sweet,
Throw him in the trenches for the great grey rats to eat.
Toss him in the cannon's mouth, cannons fancy best
Tender little boys' flesh that's easy to digest.

Mother rears her family on two pounds ten a week.
Teaches them to wash themselves, teaches them to speak.
Rears them with a heart's love, rears them to be men.
Grinds her fingers to the bone, and then... what then?

But parents who must rear the boys the cannons love to slay,
Also pay for cannons that blow other boys away.
Parsons tell them that their sons have just been blown to bits.
Patriotic parents must all laugh like fits.

Rear the boys for honest men and send them out to die!
Where's the coward father who would dare raise a cry?
Any gentleman's aware folk rear their children for
Blunderers and plunderers to mangle in a war!

Five year, six year, seven year, eight.
'Hurry up you little chaps, the captain's at the gate!'

by Frank Wilmot.

The Legend Of Faith

THEY say the Lord of time and all the worlds,
Came to us once, a feeble, new-born child ;
All-wise, yet dumb ; weak, though omnipotent:
Surely a heaven-sent vision, for it tells
How innocence is godlike. And the Lord
Renews, through childhood, to our world-dimmed eyes,
The half forgotten splendours of the skies.

And because motherhood is sacreder
And purer far than any fatherhood,
White flowers are fairer than red fruit, and sense
Brings some retributive pain ; the virgin queen
Sits 'mid the stars, and cloistered courts are filled
With vain regrets, dead lives, and secret sighs,
And the long pain of weary litanies.

And because we, who stand upon the shore,
See the cold wave sweep up and take with it'.-
White spotless souls, and others lightly soiled,
Yet with no stain God deems indelible :
These are His saints mighty to intercede,
Those in some dim far country tarry, and there
Are purified ; and both are reached by prayer.

And as the faith once given changes not,
But we are weak as water ; yet is life
A process, and where growth is not is death.
God gave His priests infallible power to tell
The true faith as it is, and how it grew :
And lo ! the monstrous cycle shows complete,
And the Church brings the nations to her feet.

by Sir Lewis Morris.

Newlywed's Departure

Chinese vines climb up low hemp plants;
the tendrils cannot stretch very far.
To marry a daughter to a drafted man
is worse than abandoning her by roadside.
"I just did my hair up as a married woman,
haven't even had time to warm the bed for you.
Marry in the evening and depart in the morning,
isn't that too hurried!
You are not going very far,
just to guard the borders at Heyang,
but my status in the family is not yet official.
How can I greet my parents-in-laws?
When my parents brought me up,
they kept me in my room day and night.
When a daughter is married,
she has to stay even if she's wed to a chicken or dog.
Now you are going to the place of death.
A heavy pain cramps my stomach.
I was determined to follow you wherever you went,
then realized that was not proper.
Please don't be hampered by our new marriage;
try to be a good soldier.
When women get mixed up in an army,
I fear, the soldiers' morale will falter.
I sigh, since I'm from a poor family
and it took so long to sew this silk dress.
I will never put this dress on again,
and I'm going to wash off my make-up while you watch.
Look at those birds flying up in the sky,
Big or small they stay in pairs,
but human life is full of mistakes and setbacks.
I will forever wait for your return."

by Du Fu.

Oblivion In Sin

All joy - in the past, irretrievable and evanescent
But in the present - prosperity and despair.
The heart is tired and thirsts in fire at sunset
Of love and passion - its lured by freedom from care.

The heart is tired of prosperitys narrow confines,
Its in despair, in chains, in complete distress...
Despairs to dream, and to trust, and in darkened numbness
It pulses with sadness, in cast of laziness...

And life charms and conjures, and with the trail
Of family weekdays lures somewhere...
To hearts chagrin: it fears with its betrayal
To end its prosperity in sunset hour.

It is empowered with motherhood and with loyalty,
It fears to leave his loved ones like piteous orphans...
But theres no unison, and it beats in loneliness
And life passes, and it might tear the cold coffin.

Oh heart, oh heart! Salvation is in your madness!
While you can burn and beat, burn and keep beating!
Sin braver! May do-gooder come way of mummies:
In sin - oblivion! And there - no bullet or rail can reach me!

Youre loved, sick heart! Youre loved, loved all out!
Love in response! In greeting! Yes, love in ardor!
And be at peace: Live - rightly! And vanquish doubt!
Be joyful, heart: Youre young! Beat loud and harder!

by Igor Severyanin.

Mary,the Christ long slain,passed silently,
Following the children joyous astir
Under the cedrus and the olive tree,
Pausing to let their laughter float to her--
Each voice an echo of a voice more dear,
She saw a little Christ in every face.

Then came another woman gliding near
To watch the tender life which filled the place.
And Mary sought the woman's hand and spoke:
' I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed
With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke
Who bring to thee a child beloved and lost.

' I ,too, have rocked my Little One.
And He was fair !
Oh, fairer than the fairest sun
And , like its rays through amber spun,
His sun-bright hair.
Still I can see it shine and shine.'
Even so, the woman said, 'was mine.'

' His ways were ever darling ways'-
And Mary smiled -
So soft, so clinging ! Glad relays
Of love were all His precious days.
My Little Child !
My vanished star ! My music fled ! '
' Even so was mine,' the woman said.

And Mary whispered : Tell me, thou
Of thine.' And she :
' Oh, mine was rosy as a bough
Blooming with roses, sent, somehow,
To bloom for me !
His balmy fingers left a thrill
Deep in my breast that warms me still. '

Then she gazed down some wilder,darker hour,
And said -when Mary questioned, not knowing :
Who art thou, mother of so sweet a flower?'--
' I am the mother of Iscariot.'

by Eleanor Agnes Lee.

Beside the window I sit alone,
And I watch as the stars come out,
I catch the sweetness of Lucy's tone,
And the mirth of the chorus' shout:
I listen and look on the solemn night,
Whilst they stand singing beneath the light.

Lucy looks just like an early rose
(Somebody else is thinking so),
And every day more fair she grows
(Somebody will not say me no),
And she sings like a bird whose heart is bless'd
(And Somebody thinks of building a nest!)

And now she chooses another tune,
One that was often sung by me:
I do not think that these nights in June
Are half so fine as they used to be,
Or 'tis colder watching the solemn night,
Than standing singing beneath the light.

Lucy, you sing like a silver bell,
Your face is fresh as a morning flower—
Why should you think of the sobs which swell
When leaves fall fast in the autumn bower?
Rather gather your buds and sing your song,
Their perfume and echo will linger long.

I'm grey and grave,—and 'tis quite time too,—
I go at leisure along my ways;
But I know how life appears to you,
I know the words that Somebody says:
As old songs are sweet, and old words true,
So there's one old story that's always new!

There is a grave that you do not know,
A drawer in my desk that you've never seen,
A page in my life that I never show,
A love in my heart that is always green:
Sing out the old song! I fear not the pain,
I sang it once—Lucy, sing it again!

by Isabella Fyvie Mayo.

An Anniversary On The Hymeneals Of My Noble Kinsman, Tho. S

The day is curl'd about agen
To view the splendor she was in;
When first with hallow'd hands
The holy man knit the mysterious bands
When you two your contracted souls did move
Like cherubims above,
And did make love,
As your un-understanding issue now,
In a glad sigh, a smile, a tear, a vow.

Tell me, O self-reviving Sun,
In thy perigrination
Hast thou beheld a pair
Twist their soft beams like these in their chast air?
As from bright numberlesse imbracing rayes
Are sprung th' industrious dayes,
So when they gaze,
And change their fertile eyes with the new morn,
A beauteous offspring is shot forth, not born.

Be witness then, all-seeing Sun,
Old spy, thou that thy race hast run
In full five thousand rings;
To thee were ever purer offerings
Sent on the wings of Faith? and thou, O Night,
Curtain of their delight,
By these made bright,
Have you not mark'd their coelestial play,
And no more peek'd the gayeties of day?

Come then, pale virgins, roses strow,
Mingled with Ios as you go.
The snowy ox is kill'd,
The fane with pros'lyte lads and lasses fill'd,
You too may hope the same seraphic joy,
Old time cannot destroy,
Nor fulnesse cloy;
When, like these, you shall stamp by sympathies
Thousands of new-born-loves with your chaste eyes.

by Richard Lovelace.

A Jewish Family In A Small Valley Opposite St. Goar, Upon The Rhine

GENIUS of Raphael! if thy wings
Might bear thee to this glen,
With faithful memory left of things
To pencil dear and pen,
Thou would'st forego the neighbouring Rhine,
And all his majesty--
A studious forehead to incline
O'er this poor family.

The Mother--her thou must have seen,
In spirit, ere she came
To dwell these rifted rocks between,
Or found on earth a name;
An image, too, of that sweet Boy,
Thy inspirations give--
Of playfulness, and love, and joy,
Predestined here to live.

Downcast, or shooting glances far,
How beautiful his eyes,
That blend the nature of the star
With that of summer skies!
I speak as if of sense beguiled;
Uncounted months are gone,
Yet am I with the Jewish Child,
That exquisite Saint John.

I see the dark-brown curls, the brow,
The smooth transparent skin,
Refined, as with intent to show
The holiness within;
The grace of parting Infancy
By blushes yet untamed;
Age faithful to the mother's knee,
Nor of her arms ashamed.

Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet
As flowers, stand side by side;
Their soul-subduing looks might cheat
The Christian of his pride:
Such beauty hath the Eternal poured
Upon them not forlorn,
Though of a lineage once abhorred,
Nor yet redeemed from scorn.

Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite
Of poverty and wrong,
Doth here preserve a living light,
From Hebrew fountains sprung;
That gives this ragged group to cast
Around the dell a gleam
Of Palestine, of glory past,
And proud Jerusalem!

by William Wordsworth.

Introducing The Day Family

Sun Day is a simple child,
Face new washed and shining;
In the morning prim and mild
Church and mid-day dining.
If, before the shadows fall,
You should find him going
Out to romp, or play at ball
Well, well. The child is growing.

Mon Day is a sulky boy.
He frowns on work and hates it.
Tho' facing life should bring him joy,
He ill appreciates it.
But Tues Day is a bright young man,
Alert, well-dressed - oh, very
Snatching pleasure where he can,
Giving girls 'the merry.'

Wednes Day, stout and middle-aged,
Seems hard-pressed and harried;
On grave affairs is he engaged;
And very much he's married.
He holds severe and stubborn views
'Young folk, sir? Trouble breeders!'
He scans the day's financial news
And always reads the leaders.

Thurs Day, tho' his hair be scant,
Is bouyant, bland and jolly;
Tho' elderly, he's tolerant
Of many a minor folly.
He owns a city business where
He sits 'in consultation';
But all his grey-haired pals declare
That golf's his occupation.

Old Fri Day grins a toothless grin
A grandfer, stooped and shrunken.
His chest, his cheeks are caving in,
His dim old eyes deep sunken.
Yet, tho' he sit and moan and mope,
All spent and worn with working,
Oft times a cunning gleam of hope
In his old eyes seems lurking.

In Satur Day one might expect
To find a wreck, fast dying.
Yet here's a lusty stripling decked
For holiday, a-crying
To merry friends, in eager tones,
All bound for playing spaces;
Or else his favorite he 'phones
And takes her to the races.

by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis.

You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well,
How could the hand be enemy of the arm,
Or seed and sod be rivals! How could light
Feel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf
Or competition dwell 'twixt lip and smile?
Are we not part and parcel of yourselves?
Like strands in one great braid we intertwine
And make the perfect whole. You could not be,
Unless we gave you birth; we are the soil
From which you sprang, yet sterile were that soil
Save as you planted. (Though in the Book we read
One woman bore a child with no man's aid
We find no record of a man-child born
Without the aid of woman! Fatherhood
Is but a small achievement at the best
While motherhood comprises heaven and hell.)
This ever-growing argument of sex
Is most unseemly, and devoid of sense.
Why waste more time in controversy, when
There is not time enough for all of love,
Our rightful occupation in this life.
Why prate of our defects, of where we fail
When just the story of our worth would need
Eternity for telling, and our best
Development comes ever thro' your praise,
As through our praise you reach your highest self.
Oh! had you not been miser of your praise
And let our virtues be their own reward
The old established, order of the world
Would never have been changed. Small blame is ours
For this unsexing of ourselves, and worse
Effeminizing of the male. We were
Content, sir, till you starved us, heart and brain.
All we have done, or wise, or otherwise
Traced to the root, was done for love of you.
Let us taboo all vain comparisons,
And go forth as God meant us, hand in hand,
Companions, mates and comrades evermore;
Two parts of one divinely ordained whole.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

Of A Family Of Reformers

Push the bursting buds away,
Throw aside the ripened roses,
Hush the low-voiced waters' play,
Where the weary sun reposes
With his head upon his hand,
Grave and grand!
Now I stand,
And shade my eyes to see
What life shall mean to me.

Cut the silver-hearted mist
Stealing softly down the valley;
Blot me out the purple, kissed
By phantoms crowned in gold, that rally
Merrily upon the land,
Gay and grand.
Here I stand,
And turn my eyes to see
What life may mean to me.

There seems-a path across a hill,
But little worn (but little lonely),
A climb into the twilight still;
There seems-a midnight watch, and only
Through the dark a low command
(Grave and grand),
'Still you stand,
And strain your eyes to see
What life to you shall be.'

The binding up of bruiséd reéds
Of thought and act; the steady bearing
Out of scorned purposes to deeds,
The rest of strife; the doubt of daring,-
The hope that He will understand
Why my hand
(Though I stand)
Trembles at my eyes to see
What else life means to me.

The dropping of love's golden fruit,
The slowly builded walls of distance,
The outstretched hand, the meeting foot,
Withdrawn in doubt, and drear, late chance
Of cooling autumn; wind and sand
On the land.-
But I stand,
And brush my tears to see
All that life means to me.

The honest choice of good or ill,
A heart of marble, prayer, and fire,
The strength to do, the power to will
From earth's reluctance, Heaven's desire,
And God's step upon the land
(Grave and grand).
Glad I stand
And lift my eyes to see
The life He sends to me.

by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward.

Care Of Birds For Their Young

As thus the patient dam assiduous sits,
Not to be tempted from her tender task,
Or by sharp hunger, or by smooth delight,
Tho' the whole loosen'd spring around her blows,
Her sympathising partner takes his stand
High on th' opponent bank, and ceaseless sings
The tedious time away; or else supplies
Her place a moment, while she sudden flits
To pick the scanty meal. Th' appointed time
With pious toil fulfill'd, the callow young,
Warm'd and expanded into perfect life,
Their brittle bondage break, and come to light,
A helpless family, demanding food
With constant clamour. O what passions then,
What melting sentiments of kindly care,
On the new parents seize! Away they fly
Affectionate, and undesiring bear
The more delicious morsel to their young;
Which equally distributed, again
The search begins. Even so a gentle pair,
By fortune sunk, but form'd of gen'rous mould,
And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breat;
In some lone cot amid the distant woods,
Sustain'd alone by providential Heav'n,
Oft, as they weeping, eye their infant train,
Check their own appetites, and give them all.
Nor toil alone they scorn: exalting love,
By the great Father of the spring inspired,
Gives instant courage to the fearful race,
And to the simple art. With stealthy wing,
Should some rude foot their woody haunts molest,
Amid a neighbouring bush they silent drop,
And whirring thence, as if alarmed, deceive
The unfeeling shool-boy. Hence, around the head
Of wandering swain, the white winged plover wheels
Her sounding flight, and then directly on,
In long excursion, skims the level lawn,
To tempt him from her nest. The wild-duck hence,
O'er the rough moss; and o'er the trackless waste
The heath-hen flutters; pious fraud! to lead
The hot-pursuing spaniel far astray.

by James Thomson.

All In A Family Way

My banks are all furnished with rags,
So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em;
I've torn up my old money-bags,
Having little or nought to put in 'em.
My tradesman are smashing by dozens,
But this is all nothing, they say;
For bankrupts, since Adam, are cousins,
So, it's all in the family way.

My Debt not a penny takes from me,
As sages the matter explain; --
Bob owes it to Tom and then Tommy
Just owes it to Bob back again.
Since all have thus taken to owing,
There's nobody left that can pay;
And this is the way to keep going, --
All quite in the family way.

My senators vote away millions,
To put in Prosperity's budget;
And though it were billions or trillions,
The generous rogues wouldn't grudge it.
'Tis all but a family hop,
'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay;
Hands round! -- why the deuce should we stop?
'Tis all in the family way.

My labourers used to eat mutton,
As any great man of the State does;
And now the poor devils are put on
Small rations of tea and potatoes.
But cheer up John, Sawney and Paddy,
The King is your father, they say;
So ev'n if you starve for your Daddy,
'Tis all in the family way.

My rich manufacturers tumble,
My poor ones have nothing to chew;
And, even if themselves do not grumble,
Their stomachs undoubtedly do.
But coolly to fast en famille,
Is as good for the soul as to pray;
And famine itself is genteel,
When one starves in a family way.

I have found out a secret for Freddy,
A secret for next Budget day;
Though, perhaps he may know it already,
As he, too, 's a sage in his way.
When next for the Treasury scene he
Announces "the Devil to pay",
Let him write on the bills, "Nota bene,
'Tis all in the family way."

by Thomas Moore.

The Restoration Of The Royal Family

As when the Paschal week is o'er,
Sleeps in the silent aisles no more
The breath of sacred song,
But by the rising Saviour's light
Awakened soars in airy flight,
Or deepening rolls along;

The while round altar, niche, and shrine,
The funeral evergreens entwine,
And a dark brilliance cast,
The brighter for their hues of gloom,
Tokens of Him, who through the tomb
Into high glory passed:

Such were the lights and such the strains.
When proudly streamed o'er ocean plains
Our own returning Cross;
For with that triumph seemed to float
Far on the breeze one dirge-like note
Of orphanhood and loss.

Father and King, oh where art thou?
A greener wreath adorns thy brow,
And clearer rays surround;
O, for one hour of prayer like thine,
To plead before th' all-ruling shrine
For Britain lost and found!

And he, whose mild persuasive voice
Taught us in trials to rejoice,
Most like a faithful dove,
That by some ruined homestead builds,
And pours to the forsaken fields
His wonted lay of love:

Why comes he not to bear his part,
To lift and guide th' exulting heart? -
A hand that cannot spars
Lies heavy on his gentle breast:
We wish him health; he sighs for rest,
And Heaven accepts the prayer.

Yes, go in peace, dear placid spright,
Ill spared; but would we store aright
Thy serious sweet farewell,
We need not grudge thee to the skies,
Sure after thee in time to rise,
With thee for ever dwell.

Till then, whene'er with duteous hand,
Year after year, my native Land
Her royal offering brings,
Upon the Altar lays the Crown,
And spreads her robes of old renown
Before the King of kings.

Be some kind spirit, likest thine,
Ever at hand, with airs divine
The wandering heart to seize;
Whispering, "How long hast thou to live,
That thou should'st Hope or Fancy gave
To flowers or crowns like these?"

by John Keble.

On Seeing The Captives, Lately Redeem'D From Barbary By His Majesty.

A sight like this, who can unmov'd survey?
Impartial Muse, can'st thou with--hold thy Lay?
See the freed Captives hail their native Shore,
And tread the Land of Liberty once more:
See, as they pass, the crouding People press,
Joy in their Joy, and their Dellv'rer bless.

Now, Slavery! no more thy rigid Hand
Shall drag the Trader to thy fatal Strand:
No more in Iron Bonds the Wretched groan;
Secur'd, Britannia, by thy Guardian Throne.

Say, mighty Prince! can Empire boast a Bliss,
Amidst its radiant Pomp, that equals this?
To see the Captives by thy Pow'r set free,
Their Supplications raise to Heav'n for Thee!

The god like Bounty scatters Blessings round;
As flowing Urns enrich the distant Ground:
No more shall Woes the fainting Heart destroy;
The House of Mourning now is turn'd to Joy:
See Arms in Grief long folded up, extend,
To clasp a Husband, Brother, Kinsman, Friend:
See hoary Parents, tott'ring o'er the Grave,
A Son long--wail'd, to prop their Age, receive:
And, Have we liv'd to see thy Face? they cry;
O! 'tis enough--We now in Peace shall die:
O bless'd be Heaven! and bless'd, while Life remains.
Shall be the Hand, that has unbound thy Chains!

Forbear, my Muse; know Art attempts in
What Nature pictures to the Breast humane.

To Wager turn; for Wager raise thy Voice;
To feed the Hungry, long has been his Choice,
And make the Heart, born down by Care, rejoice.

Say, ye Luxurious, who indulge your Taste,
And, by one Riot, might a Thousand feast;
Do you not blush to see his Care to feed
The Captives by your Monarch's Bounty freed?

The bitter Cup of Slavery is past;
But pining Penury approaches fast.

And shall the Royal Rage alone bestow?
Shall not Compassion from the Subject flow?
Shall not each free--born Briton's Bosom melt,
To make the Joys of Liberty more felt?
So, Albion, be it ever giv'n to thee,
To break the Bonds, and set the Pris'ners free

by Mary Barber.

Bkiii:Vi Moral Decadence

Romans, though you’re guiltless, you’ll still expiate
your fathers’ sins, till you’ve restored the temples,
and the tumbling shrines of all the gods,
and their images, soiled with black smoke.

You rule because you are lower than the gods
you worship: all things begin with them: credit
them with the outcome. Neglected gods
have made many woes for sad Italy.

Already Parthians, and Monaeses
and Pacorus, have crushed our inauspicious
assaults, and laugh now to have added
our spoils to their meagre treasures.

Dacians and Ethiopians almost toppled
the City, mired in civil war, the last feared
for their fleet of ships, and the others
who are best known for their flying arrows.

Our age, fertile in its wickedness, has first
defiled the marriage bed, our offspring, and homes:
disaster’s stream has flowed from this source
through the people and the fatherland.

The young girl early takes delight in learning
Greek dances, in being dressed with all the arts,
and soon meditates sinful affairs,
with every fibre of her new being:

later at her husband’s dinners she searches
for younger lovers, doesn’t mind to whom she
grants all her swift illicit pleasures
when the lights are far removed, but she rises,

openly, when ordered to do so, and not
without her husband’s knowledge, whether it’s for
some peddler, or Spanish ship’s captain,
an extravagant buyer of her shame.

The young men who stained the Punic Sea with blood
they were not born of such parentage, those who
struck at Pyrrhus, and struck at great
Antiochus, and fearful Hannibal:

they were a virile crowd of rustic soldiers,
taught to turn the furrow with a Sabine hoe,
to bring in the firewood they had cut
at the instruction of their strict mothers.

when the sun had lengthened the mountain shadows,
and lifted the yokes from the weary bullocks,
bringing a welcome time of rest,
with the departure of his chariot.

What do the harmful days not render less?
Worse than our grandparents’ generation, our
parents’ then produced us, even worse,
and soon to bear still more sinful children.

by Horace.

The Brave Page Boys

Air -- "The Fierce Discharge"

In the late rebellion war,
Grand Rapids did send out
As brave and noble volunteers
As ever went down south:
Among them were the brave Page boys --
Five brothers there were in all;
They enlisted and went down south,
To obey their country's call.

John S. Page was the eldest son --
He went down south afar,
And enlisted in the Mechanics,
And served his time in the war.
Fernando Page the second son;
Served in the Infantry;
He was wounded, lost both his feet
On duty at Yorktown siege.

Charles F. Page was a noble son --
In sixty-four did enlist,
And in the same year he was killed
In the fight of the Wilderness.
This brave boy was carrying the flag,
To cheer his comrades on.
He fought in the Eight Infantry;
Now he, brave boy, is gone.

'Tis said of this brave soldier boy --
'Twas just before he died --
Stood the flag standard in the ground,
Laid down by it and died.
The friends that loved this noble boy,
How sad were they to hear
Of his death on a battle field;
His age was twenty years.

James B. Page was a fine young man --
He went in the artillery;
He served his time with all the rest,
To keep his country free.
Enos Page the youngest brother --
Made five sons in one family,
Went from Grand Rapids, here.
His age was fourteen years --

When Enos Page went from his home,
He was only a boy, you know;
He stole away from his mother dear,
For he was bound to go.
She followed him to the barracks twice,
And took him home again;
She found it was no use -- at last
With friends let him remain.

In Eight Michigan Cavalry
This boy he did enlist;
His life was almost despaired of,
On account of numerous fits,
Caused by drinking water poisoned --
Effects cannot outgrow;
In northern Alabama, I hear,
There came this dreadful blow.

How joyful were the parents of
Those noble soldier boys,
There was one missing of the five,
When they returned from war.
The one that carried the Union flag
Lies in a Southern grave,
The other brothers came back home
To Grand Rapids, their native place.

by Julia Ann Moore.

The Old Village

The old village was with roses filled,
And I went wandering in the heat of the day,
And, after, o'er the sleeping leaves that chilled
The feet that walked among them where they lay.

And then along a worn-out wall, the belt
Of a wide park whence came a gentle breeze,
And there an odour of the past I smelt
In the white roses and the mighty trees.

Now uninhabited by anyone ...
They used to read here when this grass was cropped ...
And now, as though the rain had but just stopped,
The ebon-trees shine under the raw sun.

The children of old time went, linking hands,
In the park's shade, and romped around these roots ...
Playing about red plants with dangerous fruits
That had been brought from very distant lands.

Their parents, pointing out the shrubs that thrived
In the rich soil, would say to them: Take care!
There's poison here ... from India this arrived ...
And that is belladona over there.

They said besides: This tree here by the wall,
Your uncle brought it with him from Japan ...
Then it was very delicate and small,
With leaves as big as the finger-nails of a man.

They said besides: We can remember yet
The day he came back from the ends of the earth;
He galloped through the village in a sweat,
With pistols sticking in his saddle-girth.

One summer eve. The girls ran to and fro
In the park's shadow round the great tree-stems,
Round the black walnuts where white roses grow,
And laughter underneath the black yoke-elms.

They shouted: 'It is uncle!' seeing him,
And he, dismounting from his great horse stood
In his great coat and hat with the broad brim ...
His mother wept: My son ... O God is good ...

We've weathered many and many a storm, he said ...
We ran short of fresh water for a week.
And his old mother kissed him on the cheek,
Saying through tears: My son you are not dead ...

But where is now this family? Are these
But dreams of things that never have existed?
Now there are only shining leaves on trees
That might be poisoned, they are all so twisted.

Now in the great heat all is hushed and still ...
And the black walnuts' shadow is so chill ...
Now uninhabited by anyone ...
The ebon-trees shine under the raw sun.

by Francis Jammes.

Stanzas To Rev. J. B. Howard And Family

Howard, thy fervid Christian zeal,
Combined with large amount of love,
So blessed to bonny Brantford's weal,
So truly owned by God above,
Lead me, ere from our midst thou move
With those who form thy family,
To seek assistance from that Dove-
Inspirer of true Poesy,

That I may sing a well-timed lay;
One which may thy best feelings suit,
And thou may'st read when far away
With pleasure, as the genuine fruit
Of well-spent years that are not mute,
But which have spoke in loudest tone
To some who have been most astute,
As I in truth would frankly own.

They've told us of a work begun
Amongst thy people, brought quite low
By worldliness, which Saints should shun
If God's pure will they seek to know,
Or wish in safety's path to go.
Thou foundest them in this sad state
And to the yoke thy neck didst bow
With ardor, for thy soul was great.

Satan, no doubt, with jealous eye
Watched keenly for thy halting then;
But thy Redeemer, ever nigh,
Made much of his dread malice vain.
He spake the word and wicked men
Fell down before the high-raised Cross,
And forthwith steadily refrain
From pleasures now viewed but as dross.

Backsliding Christians trembling came
To that blest place-neglected long,
And there rekindled worship's flame,
And freely owned they had been wrong.
Then, feeling sense of pardon strong,
Afresh they family altars raise-
On which to offer sacred Song,
And join sweet prayer to grateful praise.

But 'tis a small, small part indeed
Of what God had for thee to do
Which I can sing; so I proceed
To waft my meed of tribute through.
For I would name, with pleasure too,
The part performed by thy good wife.
O, that I could in measure due
Descant upon her Christian life.

No party motives sway my soul,
Nor thirst for paltry worldly fame;
But feelings I need not control
Prompt me to dwell on her dear name.
Sweet sufferer, deem me not to blame
If I have sacred rapture felt
In noting freely since you came,
The virtues that with you have dwelt.

I frequent heard from one who saw
You lying oft on bed of pain,
How bright in you was love's pure glow,
Meek Patience following in his train.
Now, could we see our loss your gain,
Pleased we would bid you all depart;
And might from vain regrets refrain
Glad still to cherish you at heart.

by Thomas Cowherd.

In a southern city lived a wealthy family;
In a southern city was the happy home
Of a father and mother and a little daughter.
In peace and contentment they lived alone.

But one summer evening there happened a misfortune,
Which caused the parents to weep and mourn,
For this little daughter, a loving little treasure,
Was a poor little wanderer far, far from home.

It happened thus, -- the mother went out calling
On a widow friend, who lived all alone;
She left her little daughter in the care of her father,
And through his neglect she wandered from home.

The father rocked his child, till her eyes closed in slumber;
Thought he to himself, I'll go over across the way,
And see a neighbor friend; he'll be there this evening,
And I must see him before he goes away.

He left his little one, he supposed, sweetly sleeping
In her little cradle, in the house alone,
And in his great hurry he left the gate ajar;
This thoughtlessness caused destruction to his home.

Soon after he was gone she awoke from her slumber,
Poor child, she then found herself all alone,
For no one was there, no one heard her weeping
As she wandered away far, far from home.

She wandered along on the busy thoroughbare,
No one seemed to notice this little one alone;
She wandered down Broadway till the little feet were tired,
This poor little wanderer far away from home.

At last, getting weary, she sat down on the pavement,
And soon fell asleep, so tired had she grown;
In her troubled sleep she would softly murmur, papa;
This poor little lost one so far away from home.

A policeman came along and saw her sweetly sleeping,
On the pavement at midnight alone.
He gently picked her up and took her to the station,
This poor little wanderer far away from home.

He advertised, but could not find her parents;
At last he took her to the orphan home,
Where she lived till a farmer in the country
Took her to live with him, this wanderer alone.

The father died o'er the loss of his daughter,
The mother sought for her three years alone;
At last she found her with kind people in the country,
Her poor little wanderer far away from home.

Kind people can imagine the joy of the mother,
When she found her little loving one.
"Oh God," exclaimed the mother, "I have found my little Alice,
My poor little wanderer far away from home.

by Julia Ann Moore.

Tortoise Family Connections

On he goes, the little one,
Bud of the universe,
Pediment of life.
Setting off somewhere, apparently.
Whither away, brisk egg?

His mother deposited him on the soil as if he were no more than droppings,
And now he scuffles tinily past her as if she were an old rusty tin.

A mere obstacle,
He veers round the slow great mound of her --
Tortoises always foresee obstacles.

It is no use my saying to him in an emotional voice:
'This is your Mother, she laid you when you were an egg.'

He does not even trouble to answer: 'Woman, what have I to do with thee?'
He wearily looks the other way,
And she even more wearily looks another way still,
Each with the utmost apathy,
As for papa,
He snaps when I offer him his offspring,
Just as he snaps when I poke a bit of stick at him,
Because he is irascible this morning, an irascible tortoise
Being touched with love, and devoid of fatherliness.

Father and mother,
And three little brothers,
And all rambling aimless, like little perambulating pebbles scattered in the garden,
Not knowing each other from bits of earth or old tins.

Except that papa and mama are old acquaintances, of course,
Though family feeling there is none, not even the beginnings.

Fatherless, motherless, brotherless, sisterless
Little tortoise.

Row on then, small pebble,
Over the clods of the autumn, wind-chilled sunshine,
Young gaiety.

Does he look for a companion?

No, no, don't think it.
He doesn't know he is alone;
Isolation is his birthright,
This atom.

To row forward, and reach himself tall on spiny toes,
To travel, to burrow into a little loose earth, afraid of the night,
To crop a little substance,
To move, and to be quite sure that he is moving:
To be a tortoise!
Think of it, in a garden of inert clods
A brisk, brindled little tortoise, all to himself --

In a garden of pebbles and insects
To roam, and feel the slow heart beat
Tortoise-wise, the first bell sounding
From the warm blood, in the dark-creation morning.

Moving, and being himself,
Slow, and unquestioned,
And inordinately there, O stoic!
Wandering in the slow triumph of his own existence,
Ringing the soundless bell of his presence in chaos,
And biting the frail grass arrogantly,
Decidedly arrogantly.

by David Herbert Lawrence.

The True Born Englishman (Excerpt)

Thus from a mixture of all kinds began,
That het'rogeneous thing, an Englishman:
In eager rapes, and furious lust begot,
Betwixt a painted Britain and a Scot.
Whose gend'ring off-spring quickly learn'd to bow,
And yoke their heifers to the Roman plough:
From whence a mongrel half-bred race there came,
With neither name, nor nation, speech nor fame.
In whose hot veins new mixtures quickly ran,
Infus'd betwixt a Saxon and a Dane.
While their rank daughters, to their parents just,
Receiv'd all nations with promiscuous lust.
This nauseous brood directly did contain
The well-extracted blood of Englishmen.

Which medly canton'd in a heptarchy,
A rhapsody of nations to supply,
Among themselves maintain'd eternal wars,
And still the ladies lov'd the conquerors.

The western Angles all the rest subdu'd;
A bloody nation, barbarous and rude:
Who by the tenure of the sword possest
One part of Britain, and subdu'd the rest
And as great things denominate the small,
The conqu'ring part gave title to the whole.
The Scot, Pict, Britain, Roman, Dane, submit,
And with the English-Saxon all unite:
And these the mixture have so close pursu'd,
The very name and memory's subdu'd:
No Roman now, no Britain does remain;
Wales strove to separate, but strove in vain:
The silent nations undistinguish'd fall,
And Englishman's the common name for all.
Fate jumbled them together, God knows how;
What e'er they were they're true-born English now.

The wonder which remains is at our pride,
To value that which all wise men deride.
For Englishmen to boast of generation,
Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the nation.
A true-born Englishman's a contradiction,
In speech an irony, in fact a fiction.
A banter made to be a test of fools,
Which those that use it justly ridicules.
A metaphor invented to express
A man a-kin to all the universe.

For as the Scots, as learned men ha' said,
Throughout the world their wand'ring seed ha' spread;
So open-handed England, 'tis believ'd,
Has all the gleanings of the world receiv'd.

Some think of England 'twas our Saviour meant,
The Gospel should to all the world be sent:
Since, when the blessed sound did hither reach,
They to all nations might be said to preach.

'Tis well that virtue gives nobility,
How shall we else the want of birth and blood supply?
Since scarce one family is left alive,
Which does not from some foreigner derive.


by Daniel Defoe.

The Family Fool

Oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon,
If you listen to popular rumour;
From morning to night he's so joyous and bright,
And he bubbles with wit and good humour!
He's so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse;
Yet though people forgive his transgression,
There are one or two rules that all Family Fools
Must observe, if they love their profession.
There are one or two rules,
Half-a-dozen, maybe,
That all family fools,
Of whatever degree,
Must observe if they love their profession.

If you wish to succeed as a jester, you'll need
To consider each person's auricular:
What is all right for B would quite scandalise C
(For C is so very particular);
And D may be dull, and E's very thick skull
Is as empty of brains as a ladle;
While F is F sharp, and will cry with a carp,
That he's known your best joke from his cradle!
When your humour they flout,
You can't let yourself go;
And it DOES put you out
When a person says, "Oh!
I have known that old joke from my cradle!"

If your master is surly, from getting up early
(And tempers are short in the morning),
An inopportune joke is enough to provoke
Him to give you, at once, a month's warning.
Then if you refrain, he is at you again,
For he likes to get value for money:
He'll ask then and there, with an insolent stare,
"If you know that you're paid to be funny?"
It adds to the tasks
Of a merryman's place,
When your principal asks,
With a scowl on his face,
If you know that you're paid to be funny?

Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn D.D. -
Oh, beware of his anger provoking!
Better not pull his hair - don't stick pins in his chair;
He won't understand practical joking.
If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack,
You may get a bland smile from these sages;
But should it, by chance, be imported from France,
Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages!
It's a general rule,
Though your zeal it may quench,
If the Family Fool
Makes a joke that's TOO French,
Half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages!

Though your head it may rack with a bilious attack,
And your senses with toothache you're losing,
And you're mopy and flat - they don't fine you for that
If you're properly quaint and amusing!
Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day,
And took with her your trifle of money;
Bless your heart, they don't mind - they're exceedingly kind -
They don't blame you - as long as you're funny!
It's a comfort to feel
If your partner should flit,
Though YOU suffer a deal,
THEY don't mind it a bit -
They don't blame you - so long as you're funny!

by William Schwenck Gilbert.