Classic Poem

The summer morn was fresh and fair,
A burst of song uprose
From bush and bough, and thicket brake,
And gentle coppice close.
The little town was all astir
From fisher's door to door,
Half hid within a queenly cove,
On old Cornwallia's shore.

We pass the houses of the rich,
And in an alley dim
We find a hovel nearly down
Beside the water's rim;
The furniture is broken boards
From which the paint is fled,
The window-panes are stuff'd with rags,
And straw the only bed.

Within this dwelling we behold
Five children poorly clad,—
Four girls with shining hazel eyes,
And one a little lad;
Their cheeks are hunger-mark'd and pale,
Their lids with weeping red;
For they since early yestermorn
Have never tasted bread.

Approach, and hear the eldest child
Address this starving band,
A slender girl of eight years old,
With feeble, feverish hand:
“Be good, my dears, till sister comes,
She'll run with nimble feet,
And I am sure will bring you back
Some nice sweet bread to eat.”

Away went she; but where, but where?
Within a garden ground,
To pluck the berries from the bush,
Which hung in clusters round:
Hired by a neighbour for the sum
Of fourpence every day,
For which she work'd from early morn
Till evening shadows grey.

When noon came hot with scorching sun,
And rang the dinner bell,
Her master paid two pence to her,
Which she had earn'd so well;
Then hastening to the baker's shop,
She bought a loaf of bread,
And bore it home with fleeting feet,
On which those children fed.

Their mother died one winter morn,
When snow was on the hill;
She bade them trust in God, and He
Would be their parent still.
Their father was a wicked man,
A drunkard and a sot;
He ran away, and left them here
To struggle with their lot.

And hence the little maiden strove
To feed them day by day
By earning underneath the bush
This small but welcome pay.
She pluck'd the fruit and bought the bread
With cheerfulness, I ween,
Keeping the least share for herself,
O, little cottage queen!

And thus she wrought day after day
More than her strength would bear,
Until she fell as fall the brave,
O'errun by want and care.
They took her to the Union House
Upon a neighbouring bill:
Yet even there, in alter'd garb,
She was an empress still.

Her sisters and her brother shared
The shelter of the place;
And sometimes I, when reading there,
Have gazed into her face:
Her eye was full of more than earth,
Angelic was her mien,
And not a murmur pass'd her lips,
O yes! she was a queen.

And paler, paler still, she grew,
And feebler on her bed,
Until one morn, when all was peace,
She call'd the nurse, and said,
“Farewell, farewell, I'm going away
To live beyond the sky;
I hear my Saviour calling me;
I'm not afraid to die.”

And then she died, like one who slept,
And long for rest had striven;
And angels o'er the Union dropp'd,
And bore her up to heaven.
Her brother quickly follow'd her;
“I'm coming, Lord,” said he,
Then lifted up his hands and smiled
As sweetly as could be.

In one small grave they laid the twain
Within the churchyard ground,
To rest among the village dead,
Who lie entomb'd around;
And cold, and pain, and hunger now,
And weeping days are o'er,
And from the healing Tree of Life
They feed for evermore.