THE HOUSEKEEPER. From the Italian of Vincent Bourne. BY CHARLES LAMB. THE frugal snail, with forecast of repose, Peeps out and if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile amain. Touch but a tip of him, a horn, 'tis well- And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam- BALLAD OF THE SAILOR'S CHILDREN. FATHER! why linger on the waves? Our kitchen fire burns bright, And shines upon your empty chair, a-welcoming the night; The sun has seen us all day long, listening your step to hear Why come you not across the sea-our father, ever dear! Long time since first you went away! We counted as it past; And this was to have been the day you would return at last : Oh! how our hearts beat as it came, with thinking upon you, And how we wearied for the dawn our father, ever true! We watched, and saw the morning sun far in the east appear: "He must be on his way (we said)- he must be very near. We watched, and saw the evening sun decline far in the west: "He'll come before 't is night (we said)—our father, ever best!" 172 BALLAD OF THE SAILOR'S CHILDREN. Night has brought only clouds and storms: we heard the wild sea-mew, And in its shrieks we thought it bade us go a-seeking you. All day we waited at the door, your smile and kiss to find, But now we stand upon the shore-our father, ever kind! And wherefore come you not? The waves begin to swell and dash, And through the black clouds, far away, we see the lightning flash; The wind is bursting from the sky, and lashing up the flood O Heaven protect the ship that holds our father, ever good! No mother now have we to pray for you at night and morn, Or dress us in our best array the day you should return; She is not here to kiss your brow, wet with the salt And we will, as she bade us, be your children good always; BALLAD OF THE SAILOR'S CHILDREN. 173 And though that she is dead and gone, we would not have you pine, Or stay away thine! for are not we our father ever And when you weary, we will bring, as we did long ago, Our chairs about your knees, and sing, "The Stormy Winds do blow ;" And we can tell you all again the stories that she Oh! ever as the lightning gleams, we think we see you nigh ; And ever as the wild wind screams, we think we hear you cry; And ever as the towering tide sends up its hissing spray, We think upon our mother dead, and father, far away! But she said we would not be alone, and therefore should not weep, For He that cares for the shorn-lamb would watch you on the deep, And in His Own time send to us, across the weary wave, Our father, ever dear, and true, and kind, and good, and brave! TING THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. BY T. MOORE. THIS world is all a fleeting show, The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe, There's nothing true but Heaven! And false the light on Glory's plume, And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven; There's nothing calm but Heaven! |