قراءة كتاب Gems of Poetry, for Girls and Boys
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
little girls, Julia-Ann and Maria,
As happily lived as good girls could desire;
And though they were neither grave, sullen, nor mute,
They seldom or never were heard to dispute.
If one wants a thing that the other could get,
They don't go to scratching and fighting for it;
But each one is willing to give up her right,
For they'd rather have nothing than quarrel and fight.
If one of them happens to have something nice,
Directly she offers her sister a slice;
And not like to some greedy children I've known,
Who would go in a corner to eat it alone.
When papa or mamma had a thing to be clone,
These good little girls would immediately run;
And not stand disputing to which it belonged,
And grumble and fret and declare they were wronged.
Whatever occurred in their work or their play,
They were willing to yield and give up their own way;
Then let us all try their example to mind,
And always, like them, be obliging and kind.
"WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?"
"What is that, mother?"
"The lyre-bird, my child—
The morn has just looked out and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away with the day on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lyre-bird's, to thy Maker's praise."
"What is that, mother?"
"The dove, my son—
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.
"What is that, mother?"
"The eagle, boy—
Proudly careering his course of joy.
Firm on his mountain vigor relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy! may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line!"
"What is that, mother?"
"The swan, my love—
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;
He is floating down by himself to die;
Death darkens his eyes, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like, and sweet, it may waft thce home."
