Читать книгу Come Hither: A Collection of Rhymes and Poems for the Young of All Ages - Various - Страница 108

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;

It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain;

It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain....

A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more,

Feeding in sunshine pleasantly; they were the rich man's store:

There was the while one little lamb beside a cottage door;

A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree,

That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee;

That had a place within their hearts, one of the family.

But want, even as an armèd man, came down upon their shed,

The father laboured all day long that his children might be fed,

And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,

Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued.

"What is the creature's life to us?" said he: "'twill buy us food.

"Ay, though the children weep all day, and with downdrooping head

Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed;

And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."

It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring,

But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,

With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,

Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously:

"Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?"

"Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair

Said one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair;

I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there."

Oh vain! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down,

With a strong cord they tied him fast; and o'er the common brown,

And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow,

From every thing about the house a mournful thought did borrow;

The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;

It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;

It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.

Mary Howitt

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