Little Bell

247

LITTLE BELL

He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

THE ANCIENT MARINER

PIPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray' "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,

What's your name?" quoth he—

"What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,"—

"Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks

Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks— "Bonny bird," quoth she,

"Sing me your best song before I go." "Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he.

And the blackbird piped; you never heard
Half so gay a song from any bird-

Full of quips and wiles,

Now so round and rich, now soft and slow.
All for love of that sweet face below,
Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And the while the bonny bird did pour
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er
'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below

All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow

From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped and through the glade,
Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,

And from out the tree

Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,While bold blackbird piped that all might hear"Little Bell," piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern-
"Squirrel, to your task return-
Bring me nuts," quoth she.
Up, away the frisky squirrel hies-
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes-
And adown the tree,

Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,
In the little lap dropped one by one-
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!
"Happy Bell," pipes he.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade—
"Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,
Come and share with me!"

Down came squirrel eager for his fare-
Down came bonny blackbird I declare;
Little Bell gave each his honest share-
Ah the merry three!

And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below

All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflow

From her blue, bright eyes.

By her snow-white cot at close of day,

Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray—

Very calm and clear

Rose the praying voice to where, unseen,

In blue heaven, an angel shape serene

Paused awhile to hear

"What good child is this," the angel said, "That, with happy heart, beside her bed

Prays so lovingly?"

Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,

Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, "Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he.

"Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair

Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care;

The Barefoot Boy

Child, thy bed shall be

Folded safe from harm-Love deep and kind
Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind,

Little Bell, for thee!"

249

Thomas Westwood [1814?-1888]

THE BAREFOOT BOY

BLESSINGS on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;

From my heart I give thee joy,

I was once a barefoot boy!

Prince thou art, the grown-up man

Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,—
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;

Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!

For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,-
Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,-

Whispering at the garden wall,

Talked with me from fall to fall;

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond

Mine the walnut slopes beyond,

Mine, on bending orchard trees,

Apples of Hesperides!

Still as my horizon grew,

Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;

The Heritage

Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs' orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet

Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in

Quick and treacherous sands of sin.

Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,

Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

251

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

THE HERITAGE

THE rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft white hands,