MY KINGDOM

The little Louisa I told you about, who wrote verses and stories in her diary, used to like to play that she was a princess, and that her kingdom was her own mind.  When she had unkind or dissatisfied thoughts, she tried to get rid of them by playing they were enemies of the kingdom; and she drove them out with soldiers; the soldiers were patience, duty, and love.  It used to help Louisa to be good to play this, and I think it may have helped make her the splendid woman she was afterward.  Maybe you would like to hear a poem she wrote about it, when she was only fourteen years old.[20] It will help you, too, to think the same thoughts.

     A little kingdom I possess,
       Where thoughts and feelings dwell,
     And very hard I find the task
       Of governing it well;
     For passion tempts and troubles me,
       A wayward will misleads,
     And selfishness its shadow casts
       On all my words and deeds.

     How can I learn to rule myself,
       To be the child I should,
     Honest and brave, nor ever tire
       Of trying to be good? 
     How can I keep a sunny soul
       To shine along life’s way? 
     How can I tune my little heart
       To sweetly sing all day?

     Dear Father, help me with the love
       That casteth out my fear,
     Teach me to lean on Thee, and feel
       That Thou art very near,
     That no temptation is unseen,
       No childish grief too small,
     Since Thou, with patience infinite,
       Doth soothe and comfort all.

     I do not ask for any crown
       But that which all may win,
     Nor seek to conquer any world,
       Except the one within. 
     Be Thou my Guide until I find,
       Led by a tender hand,
     Thy happy kingdom in myself,
       And dare to take command.

FOOTNOTES: 

[20] From Louisa M. Alcott’s Life, Letters and Journals.

PICCOLA[21]

     Poor, sweet Piccola!  Did you hear
     What happened to Piccola, children dear? 
     ’Tis seldom Fortune such favour grants
     As fell to this little maid of France.

     ’Twas Christmas-time, and her parents poor
     Could hardly drive the wolf from the door,
     Striving with poverty’s patient pain
     Only to live till summer again.

     No gifts for Piccola!  Sad were they
     When dawned the morning of Christmas-day;
     Their little darling no joy might stir,
     St Nicholas nothing would bring to her!

     But Piccola never doubted at all
     That something beautiful must befall
     Every child upon Christmas-day,
     And so she slept till the dawn was gray.