I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars, I loiter round my cresses.
And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.
Bick'er: to move quickly with a pattering away by friction. Sălly: to rush or dash out. gravel.
MARY BOTHAM HOWITT (1798-1888), an English writer, who wrote for children, and many prose and poetical articles relating to nature. The tales of Frederika Bremer, and the "Improvisator" of Hans Christian Andersen, were translated into English by Mrs. Howitt.
God might have made the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,
The oak tree and the cedar tree,
Without a flower at all.
We might have had enough, enough, For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil, And yet have had no flowers.
Then wherefore, wherefore were they made All dyed with rainbow light, All fashioned with supremest grace, Upspringing day and night
Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness Where no man passes by?
Our outward life requires them not, Then wherefore had they birth? To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth.
To comfort man, to whisper hope, Whene'er his faith is dim,
For whoso careth for the flowers
Will care much more for Him.
The drying of a single tear has more of honest fame than shedding seas of gore.-Byron.
Hush-a-by baby in bylow-land,
Dear little fingers in mother's hand, Clinging as if fearing to go to-day Into the dream-land far away;
But mother holds thee close to her breast; Hush-a-by baby and go to rest.
Hush-a-by baby and close thine eyes, God sent the blue from out of the skies; The dimple sweet in thy tiny chin, An angel from Heaven put that in; And the fluffy, fluttering, golden hair Round mother's heart hath made a snare.
Hush-a-by baby, more precious than gold And all the riches the world can hold Are thine eyes, thy dimple, thy golden hair, Thy rosy cheeks and thy forehead fair; For a mother's heart and a mother's love Think thou wert sent from Heaven above.
She cuddles thee close, close to her breast, And softly, sweetly thou'lt go to rest. When in the future to manhood grown, Thou 'lt think of the moments forever flown,
Thou 'lt wish in vain for the quiet rest In mother's arms, on mother's breast.
At the twilight hour will memory bring To thy listening ears the songs I sing As I sit to-night with my boy, my pride, And rock thee to sleep at eventide; Again thou❜lt live in the bylow-land As thy fingers rest in mother's hand.
And the world's sad cares will fade away When the shadows fall at close of day; For again thy head is on mother's arm, And her baby boy is safe from harm, And she'll croon and sing the twilight long A lullaby, hush-a-by, lullaby song.
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