Read Ebook: Lays and Legends (Second Series) by Nesbit E Edith

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Ebook has 450 lines and 34204 words, and 9 pages

In all my work, in all the children's play, I hear the ceaseless hum of London near; It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear Its never-ending wail, by night and day. So many millions--is it vain to pray That all may win such peace as I have here, With books, and work, and little children dear?-- That flowers like mine may grow along their way?

Through all my happy life I hear the cry, The exceeding bitter cry of human pain, And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by. I can do nothing--even hope is vain That the bright light of peace and purity In those lost souls may ever shine again!

'Mid pine woods' whisper and the hum of bees I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood: "Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good. Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!" I left the mill, the meadows and the trees, And came to do the little best I could For these, God's poor; and, oh, my God, I would I had a thousand lives to give for these!

What can one hand do 'gainst a world of wrong? Yet, when the voice said, "Come!" how could I stay? The foe is mighty, and the battle long , And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong; But, while these fight, I dare not turn away.

THE SICK JOURNALIST.

Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain! One's heart and one's eyes on fire, And never a spark in one's brain. The stupid paper and ink, That might be turned into gold, Lie here unused Since one's brain refused To do its tricks--as of old. One can suffer still, indeed, But one cannot think any more. There's no fire in the grate, No food on the plate, And the East-wind shrieks through the door. The sunshine grins in the street: It used to cheer me like wine, Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat; And the children are crying for bread to eat And I cannot write a line!

Molly, my pet--don't cry, Father can't write if you do-- And anyhow, if you only knew, It's hard enough as it is. There, give old daddy a kiss, And cuddle down on the floor; We'll have some dinner by-and-by. Now, fool, try! Try once more! Hold your head tight in your hands, Bring your will to bear! The children are starving--your little ones-- While you sit fooling there. Beth, with her golden hair; Moll, with her rough, brown head-- Here they are--see! Against your knee, Waiting there to be fed!-- I cannot bear their eyes. Their soft little kisses burn-- They will cry again In vain, in vain, For the food that I cannot earn.

TWO LULLABIES.

Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear, Thee shall no want or pain come near; Sleep softly on thy downy nest, Or on this lace-veiled mother-breast.

Thy cradle is all silken lined, Wrought roses on thy curtains twined, Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread, With soft white pillows for thy head.

Much gold those little hands shall hold, And wealth about thy life shall fold, And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife, Nor the low ills of common life.

These little feet shall never tread Except on paths soft-carpeted, And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twine To deck that darling head of thine.

Thou shalt have overflowing measure Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure, And thou shalt be right charitable With all the crumbs that leave thy table.

And thou shalt praise God every day For His good gifts that come thy way, And again thank Him, and again, That thou art not as other men.

For 'midst thy wealth thou wilt recall-- 'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all; And when all's spent that life has given, Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, Though the wind is cruel and cold, And my shawl that I've wrapped thee in Is old and ragged and thin; And my hand is too frozen to hold-- Yet my bosom's still warm--so creep Close to thy mother, and sleep!

Sleep, little baby, and rest, Though we wander alone through the night, And there is no food for me, No shelter for me and thee. Through the windows red fires shine bright, And tables show, heaped with the best-- But there's naught for us there--so rest.

Sleep, you poor little thing! Just as pretty and dear As any fine lady's child. Oh, but my heart grows wild!-- Is it worth while to stay here? What good thing from life will spring For you--you poor little thing?

Sleep, you poor little thing! Mine, my treasure, my own-- I clasp you, I hold you close, My darling, my bird, my rose! Rich mothers have hearts like stone, Or else some help they would bring To you--you poor little thing!

Sleep, little baby, sleep-- If some good, rich mother would take My dear, I would kiss thee, and then Never come near thee again-- Not though my heart should break! I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake-- For the river is dark and deep, And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!

BABY SONG.

Sleep, baby, sleep! The greeny glow-worms creep, The pigeons to their cote are gone And, to their fold, the sheep.

Rest, baby, rest! The sun sinks in the west, The daisies all have gone to sleep, The birds are in the nest.

Sleep, baby, sleep! The sky grows dark and deep, The stars watch over all the world, God's angels guard thy sleep.

Wake, baby dear! The good, glad morning's here; The dove is cooing soft and low, The lark sings loud and clear.

Wake, baby, wake! Long since the day did break, The daisy buds are all uncurled, The sun laughs in the lake.

Wake, baby dear! Thy mother's waiting near, And love, and flowers, and birds, and sun, And all things bright and dear.

LULLABY.

Sleep, my darling; mother will sing Soft low songs to her little king, Nobody else must listen or hear The pretty secrets I tell my dear.

Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may-- Sorrow dawns with the dawning day, Sleep, my baby, sleep, my dear, Soon enough will the day be here.

Lie here quiet on mother's arm, Safe from harm; Nestled closely to mother's breast, Sleep and rest!

Mother feels your breath's soft stir Close to her; Mother holds you, clasps you tight, All the night.

When the little Jesus lay On the manger's hay, He was a Baby, if tales tell true, Just like you.

And He had no crown to wear But His bright hair; And such kisses as I give you He had too.

Mary never loved her Son More than I love my little one; And her Baby never smiled More divinely than my little child.

Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may-- Sorrow dawns with the dawning day; Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear, All too soon will the day be here.

AN EAST-END TRAGEDY.

You said that you would never wed: "My love, my life's one work lie here, 'Mid crowded alleys, dank and drear, Where all life's flower-petals are shed!" You said.

I heard: I bowed to what I heard; I bowed my head and worshipped you-- So brave, so beautiful, so true-- How could I doubt a single word I heard?

My sweet, white lily! All the street, As you passed by, grew clean again; The fallen, blackened souls of men Looked heavenward when men heard your feet, My sweet.

But one came, dared to woo, and won-- He heard your vows, and laughed at them; He plucked my lily from its stem-- Sacred to all men under sun, But one!

HERE AND THERE.

Ah me, how hot and weary here in town The days crawl by! How otherwise they go my heart records, Where the marsh meadows lie And white sheep crop the grass, and seagulls sail Between the lovely earth and lovely sky.

Here the sun grins along the dusty street Beneath pale skies: Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet, Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries-- Through these I hear the song that the sea sings To the far meadowlands of Paradise.

O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn-- O long sweet days-- O changing, unchanged skies, straight dykes all gay With sedge and water mace-- O fair marsh land desirable and dear-- How far from you lie my life's weary ways!

Yet in my darkest night there shines a star More fair than day; There is a flower that blossoms sweet and white In the sad city way. That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam, That star shines only when the skies are gray.

For here fair peace and passionate pleasure wane Before the light Of radiant dreams that make our lives worth life, And turn to noon our night: We fight for freedom and the souls of men-- Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight!

MOTHER.

A little room with scanty grace Of drapery or ordered ease; White dimity, and well-scrubbed boards,-- But there's a hum of summer bees, The sun sends through the quiet place The scent that honeysuckle hoards.

Outside, the little garden glows With sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright; Beyond lie meadow, lane, and wood Where trail the briony and wild rose, And where grow blossoms of delight In an inviolate solitude.

Through that green world there blows an air That cools my forehead even here In this sad city's riotous roar-- And from that room my ears can hear Tears and the echo of a prayer, And the world's voice is heard no more.

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