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108

THE BAREFOOT BOY.

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!

O for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned in 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;

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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.
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!

109

J. G. WHITTIER.

110

TIRED OF PLAY.

TIRED OF PLAY.

TIRED of play! tired of play!

What hast thou done this livelong day?
The bird is hushed, and so is the bee,
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;
Twilight gathers, and day is done; -

How hast thou spent it, precious one?

Playing? But what hast thou done beside,

To tell thy mother at eventide ?

What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken ?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learned by field and hill,
By green-wood path, and by singing rill?

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There will come an eve to a longer day,
That will find thee tired, but not of play.
Well for thee then, if thy lip can tell
A tale like this of a day spent well.
If thine open hand hath relieved distress,
If thy pity hath sprung at wretchedness,
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence,
And humbled thy heart with penitence;
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee

NOT TO MYSELF ALONE.

With their holy meanings, eloquently;
If every creature hath won thy love,

From the creeping worm to the brooding dove,
And never a sad, low-spoken word

Hath plead with thy human heart unheard,—
Then, when the night steals on as now,
It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And with joy and peace at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.

111

N. P. WILLIS.

NOT TO MYSELF ALONE.

"NOT to myself alone,"

The little opening flower transported cries,-
"Not to myself alone I bud and bloom;
With fragrant breath the breezes I perfume,
And gladden all things with my rainbow dyes.
The bee comes sipping, every eventide,
His dainty fill;

The butterfly within my cup doth hide
From threatening ill."

"Not to myself alone,"

The circling star with honest pride doth boast, -"Not to myself alone I rise and set;

I write upon night's coronal of jet

His power and skill who formed our myriad host;

112

NOT TO MYSELF ALONE.

A friendly beacon at heaven's open gate,
I gem the sky,

That man might ne'er forget, in every fate,
His home on high."

"Not to myself alone,"

The heavy-laden bee doth murmuring hum, -
"Not to myself alone, from flower to flower,
I rove the wood, the garden, and the bower,
And to the hive at evening weary come:
For man, for man, the luscious food I pile,
With busy care,

Content if I repay my ceaseless toil
With scanty share.”

"Not to myself alone,"

The soaring bird with lusty pinion sings,-
"Not to myself alone I raise my song;

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I cheer the drooping with my warbling tongue,
And bear the mourner on my viewless wings;
I bid the hymnless churl my anthem learn,
And God adore;

I call the worldling from his dross to turn,
And sing and soar."

"Not to myself alone,"

The streamlet whispers on its pebbly way,
"Not to myself alone I sparkling glide;
I scatter health and life on every side,
And strew the fields with herb and floweret gay.

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