HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

 SWEET AND LOW.

    Sweet and low, sweet and low,
      Wind of the western sea,
    Low, low, breathe and blow,
      Wind of the western sea! 
    Over the rolling waters go,
    Come from the dropping moon and blow,
      Blow him again to me;
    While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.

    Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
      Father will come to thee soon;
    Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
      Father will come to thee soon;
    Father will come to his babe in the nest,
    Silver sails all out of the west
      Under the silver moon: 
    Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

 THE VIOLET.

“The Violet,” by Jane Taylor (1783-1824), is another of those dear old-fashioned poems, pure poetry and pure violet.  It is included in this volume out of respect to my own love for it when I was a child.

    Down in a green and shady bed
      A modest violet grew;
    Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
      As if to hide from view.

    And yet it was a lovely flower,
      No colours bright and fair;
    It might have graced a rosy bower,
      Instead of hiding there.

    Yet there it was content to bloom,
      In modest tints arrayed;
    And there diffused its sweet perfume,
      Within the silent shade.

    Then let me to the valley go,
      This pretty flower to see;
    That I may also learn to grow
      In sweet humility.

JANE TAYLOR.

 THE RAINBOW.

 (A FRAGMENT.)

“The Rainbow,” by William Wordsworth (1770-1850), accords with every child’s feelings.  It voices the spirit of all ages that would love to imagine it “a bridge to heaven.”

    My heart leaps up when I behold
        A rainbow in the sky;
    So was it when my life began,
    So is it now I am a man,
    So be it when I shall grow old,
        Or let me die! 
    The child is father of the man;
    And I could wish my days to be
    Bound each to each by natural piety.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

 A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

“A Visit From St. Nicholas,” by Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863) is the most popular Christmas poem ever written.  It carries Santa Claus on from year to year and the spirit of Santa Claus.

   ’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
    Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
    The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
    In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
    The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
    While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
    And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap,
    Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,