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Posy Ring: A Book of Verse for Children

<h2>X</h2> <h2>FOR SUNDAY'S CHILD</h2> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/3acorns.png" width-obs="100" height-obs="67" alt="decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='poem'> Sunday's child is full of grace. </div> <div class='signature'>Old Proverb.</div> [236] <hr style="width: 65%;" />[237] <h2>FOR SUNDAY'S CHILD</h2> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/3acorns.png" width-obs="100" height-obs="67" alt="decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> All Things Bright and Beautiful </div> <div class='poem'> All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful, The Lord God made them all. Each little flower that opens, Each little bird that sings, He made their glowing colours, He made their tiny wings. The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, God made them, high or lowly, And order'd their estate. The purple-headed mountain, The river running by, The sunset and the morning, That brightens up the sky;— The cold wind in the winter, [238]The pleasant summer sun, The ripe fruits in the garden,— He made them every one; The tall trees in the greenwood, The meadows where we play, The rushes by the water We gather every day;— He gave us eyes to see them, And lips that we might tell, How great is God Almighty, Who has made all things well. </div> <div class='signature'>Cecil Frances Alexander.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Still Small Voice </div> <div class='poem'> Wee Sandy in the corner Sits greeting on a stool, And sair the laddie rues Playing truant frae the school; Then ye'll learn frae silly Sandy, Wha's gotten sic a fright, To do naething through the day That may gar ye greet at night. He durstna venture hame now, [239]Nor play, though e'er so fine, And ilka ane he met wi' He thought them sure to ken, And started at ilk whin bush, Though it was braid daylight— Sae do nothing through the day That may gar ye greet at night. Wha winna be advised Are sure to rue ere lang; And muckle pains it costs them To do the thing that's wrang, When they wi' half the fash o't Might aye be in the right, And do naething through the day That would gar them greet at night. What fools are wilfu' bairns, Who misbehave frae hame! There's something in the breast aye That tells them they're to blame; And then when comes the gloamin', They're in a waefu' plight! Sae do naething through the day That may gar ye greet at night. </div> <div class='signature'>Alexander Smart.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> [240] <div class='center'> The Camel's Nose </div> <div class='poem'> Once in his shop a workman wrought, With languid head and listless thought, When, through the open window's space, Behold, a camel thrust his face! "My nose is cold," he meekly cried; "Oh, let me warm it by thy side!" Since no denial word was said, In came the nose, in came the head: As sure as sermon follows text, The long and scraggy neck came next; And then, as falls the threatening storm, In leaped the whole ungainly form. Aghast the owner gazed around, And on the rude invader frowned, Convinced, as closer still he pressed, There was no room for such a guest; Yet more astonished, heard him say, "If thou art troubled, go away, For in this place I choose to stay." O youthful hearts to gladness born, Treat not this Arab lore with scorn! To evil habits' earliest wile [241]Lend neither ear, nor glance, nor smile. Choke the dark fountain ere it flows, Nor e'en admit the camel's nose! </div> <div class='signature'>Lydia H. Sigourney.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> A Child's Grace </div> <div class='poem'> Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit. </div> <div class='signature'>Robert Burns.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> A Child's Thought of God </div> <div class='poem'> They say that God lives very high! But if you look above the pines You cannot see our God. And why? And if you dig down in the mines You never see Him in the gold, Though from Him all that's glory shines. God is so good, He wears a fold Of heaven and earth across His face— Like secrets kept, for love, untold. But still I feel that His embrace Slides down by thrills, through all things made, [242]Through sight and sound of every place: As if my tender mother laid On my shut lids, her kisses' pressure, Half-waking me at night; and said "Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?" </div> <div class='signature'>Elizabeth Barrett Browning.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Lamb </div> <div class='poem'> Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee. He is callèd by thy name, For He calls himself a Lamb. He is meek and He is mild, [243]He became a little child. I a child and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee! Little lamb, God bless thee! </div> <div class='signature'>William Blake.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Night and Day[P] </div> <div class='poem'> When I run about all day, When I kneel at night to pray, God sees. When I'm dreaming in the dark, When I lie awake and hark, God sees. Need I ever know a fear? Night and day my Father's near:— God sees. </div> <div class='signature'>Mary Mapes Dodge.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> [244] <div class='center'> High and Low [Q] </div> <div class='poem'> The showers fall as softly Upon the lowly grass As on the stately roses That tremble as they pass. The sunlight shines as brightly On fern-leaves bent and torn As on the golden harvest, The fields of waving corn. The wild birds sing as sweetly To rugged, jagged pines, As to the blossomed orchards, And to the cultured vines. .        .        .        .        .        .        .        . </div> <div class='signature'>Dora Read Goodale.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> By Cool Siloam's Shady Rill </div> <div class='poem'> By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows! How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose! Lo, such the child whose early feet [245]The paths of peace have trod; Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, Is upward drawn to God. </div> <div class='signature'>Reginald Heber.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Sheep and Lambs </div> <div class='poem'> All in the April morning, April airs were abroad; The sheep with their little lambs Pass'd me by on the road. The sheep with their little lambs Pass'd me by on the road; All in an April evening I thought on the Lamb of God. The lambs were weary, and crying With a weak human cry, I thought on the Lamb of God Going meekly to die. Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet: Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet. .        .        .        .        .        .        .        . [246] All in the April evening, April airs were abroad; I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought on the Lamb of God. </div> <div class='signature'>Katharine Tynan Hinkson.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> To His Saviour, a Child; A Present by a Child </div> <div class='poem'> Go, pretty child, and bear this flower Unto thy little Saviour; And tell him, by that bud now blown, He is the Rose of Sharon known. When thou hast said so, stick it there Upon his bib or stomacher; And tell him, for good hansel too, That thou hast brought a whistle new, Made of a clean strait oaten reed, To charm his cries at time of need. Tell him, for coral thou hast none, But if thou hadst, he should have one; But poor thou art, and known to be Even as moneyless as he. Lastly, if thou canst win a kiss From those mellifluous lips of his; Then never take a second on, To spoil the first impression. </div> <div class='signature'>Robert Herrick.</div> [247] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> What Would You See? </div> <div class='poem'> What would you see if I took you up To my little nest in the air? You would see the sky like a clear blue cup Turned upside downwards there. What would you do if I took you there To my little nest in the tree? My child with cries would trouble the air, To get what she could but see. What would you get in the top of the tree For all your crying and grief? Not a star would you clutch of all you see— You could only gather a leaf. But when you had lost your greedy grief, Content to see from afar, You would find in your hand a withering leaf, In your heart a shining star. </div> <div class='signature'>George Macdonald.</div> [248] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Corn-Fields </div> <div class='poem'> When on the breath of Autumn's breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought, The fair, white thistle-down,— Oh, then what joy to walk at will Upon the golden harvest-hill! What joy in dreaming ease to lie Amid a field new shorn; And see all round, on sunlit slopes, The piled-up shocks of corn; And send the fancy wandering o'er All pleasant harvest-fields of yore! I feel the day; I see the field; The quivering of the leaves; And good old Jacob, and his horse,— Binding the yellow sheaves! And at this very hour I seem To be with Joseph in his dream! I see the fields of Bethlehem, And reapers many a one Bending unto their sickles' stroke, And Boaz looking on; And Ruth, the Moabitess fair, [249]Among the gleaners stooping there! Again, I see a little child, His mother's sole delight,— God's living gift of love unto The kind, good Shunamite; To mortal pangs I see him yield, And the lad bear him from the field. The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, The fields of Galilee, That eighteen hundred years ago Were full of corn, I see; And the dear Saviour take his way 'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath-day. Oh golden fields of bending corn, How beautiful they seem! The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves, To me are like a dream; The sunshine, and the very air Seem of old time, and take me there! </div> <div class='signature'>Mary Howitt.</div> [250] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Little Christel</div> <div class='center'> I </div> <div class='poem'> Slowly forth from the village church,— The voice of the choristers hushed overhead,— Came little Christel. She paused in the porch, Pondering what the preacher had said. Even the youngest, humblest child Something may do to please the Lord; "Now, what," thought she, and half-sadly smiled, "Can I, so little and poor, afford?— "Never, never a day should pass, Without some kindness, kindly shown, The preacher said"—Then down to the grass A skylark dropped, like a brown-winged stone. "Well, a day is before me now; Yet, what," thought she, "can I do, if I try? If an angel of God would show me how! But silly am I, and the hours they fly." Then the lark sprang singing up from the sod, And the maiden thought, as he rose to the blue, "He says he will carry my prayer to God; But who would have thought the little lark knew?" [251]</div> <div class='center'> II </div> <div class='poem'> Now she entered the village street, With book in hand and face demure, And soon she came, with sober feet, To a crying babe at a cottage door. It wept at a windmill that would not move, It puffed with round red cheeks in vain, One sail stuck fast in a puzzling groove, And baby's breath could not stir it again. So baby beat the sail and cried, While no one came from the cottage door; But little Christel knelt down by its side, And set the windmill going once more. Then babe was pleased, and the little girl Was glad when she heard it laugh and crow; Thinking, "Happy windmill, that has but to whirl, To please the pretty young creature so." </div> <div class='center'> III </div> <div class='poem'> No thought of herself was in her head, As she passed out at the end of the street, And came to a rose-tree tall and red, [252]Drooping and faint with the summer heat. She ran to a brook that was flowing by, She made of her two hands a nice round cup, And washed the roots of the rose-tree high, Till it lifted its languid blossoms up. "O happy brook!" thought little Christel, "You have done some good this summer's day, You have made the flowers look fresh and well!" Then she rose and went on her way. .        .        .        .        .        .        .        . </div> <div class='signature'>William Brighty Rands.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> A Child's Prayer </div> <div class='poem'> God make my life a little light, Within the world to glow— A tiny flame that burneth bright, Wherever I may go. God make my life a little flower, That bringeth joy to all, Content to bloom in native bower, [253]Although its place be small. God make my life a little song, That comforteth the sad, That helpeth others to be strong, And makes the singer glad. </div> <div class='signature'>M. Betham Edwards</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> [254] <hr style="width: 65%;" />[255] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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