Page 82—Play Land

Tired of Play
Tired of play! tired of play!
What hast thou done this livelong day?
The birds are silent, and so is the bee;
The sun is creeping up temple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eves
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves.
Twilight gathers and day is done,
How hast thou spent it, restless one?
Playing? But what has thou done beside,
To tell thy mother at eventide?
What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied and whom forgiven,
How with thy faults has duty striven,
What hast thou learned by field and hill?
By greenwood path, and singing rill?
Well for thee if thou couldst tell,
A tale like this of a day spent well,
If thy kind hand has aided distress,
And thou pity hast felt for wretchedness;
If thou hast forgiven a brother's offence,
And grieved for thine own with penitence;
If every creature has won thy love
From the creeping worm to the brooding dove,
Then with joy and peace on the bed of rest,
Thou wilt sleep as on thy mother's breast.
Sea-side Play
Two little boys, all neat and clean,
Came down upon the shore:
They did not know old Ocean's ways—
They'd ne'er seen him before.
So quietly they sat them down,
To build a fort of sand;
Their backs were turned to the sea,
Their faces toward the land.
They had just built a famous fort—
The handkerchief flag was spread—
When up there came a stealthy wave,
And turned them heels over head.
After School Hours
School is closed and tasks are done,
Flowers are laughing in the sun;
Like the songsters in the air,
Happy children, banish care!
Riding on a Gate
Sing, sing,
What shall we sing,
A gate is a capital
Sort of thing.
If you have not a horse,
Or haven't a swing,
A gate is a capital
Sort of thing.
Cry, cry,
Finger in eye,
Go home to mother
And tell her why;
You've been riding,
And why not I?
Each in turn, isn't that the rule
For work or play, at home or school.
Walking Song
Come, my children, come away,
For the sun shines bright to-day;
Little children, come with me,
Birds, and brooks, and posies see;
Get your hats and come away,
For it is a pleasant day.
Bring the hoop and bring the ball,
Come with happy faces all,
Let us make a merry ring,
Talk, and laugh, and dance, and sing
Quickly, quickly come away,
For it is a pleasant day.
The Lost Playmate
The old school-house is still to day,
The rooms have no gay throng;
No ringing laugh is on the air,
There is no snatch of song.
The white-haired master sits upon
The seat beneath the tree,
And thinks upon the vanished face,
With all its boyish glee.
But a few short days ago, the lad
Was gayest of the gay,
Quick at the page of knowledge, and
The heartiest in play.
The pride of the home beside the stream,
With his pigeons in their cots,
And finding life a very dream,
In pleasant homely spots.
His school companions loving him,
And old folks speaking praise,
Of the well-loved boy, with frankest eyes,
And cheery, happy ways.
All in the village knew the boy,
From parson down to clerk,
And his whistle in the village street
Was clear as the song of lark.
But like a dream he's passed away,
And from the chamber dim,
In the fair light of summer day,
The peasants carry him.
And playmates gather at the grave,
The old schoolmaster there,
While blossomed boughs wave over-head,
And all around is fair.
True is the grief that brings the tear,
There is no empty show;
The simple neighbours see their loss,
And there is heart-felt woe.
They talk of the bright and lively lad,
Cut down in boyish prime,
And old folks think how strange is life,
More strange with passing time!
Oh! simple sight on green hill-side,
Away from pomp and power;
Here are the truths so oft denied
To the imperial hour.
Dear child, how precious are the tears,
Suffusing friendly eyes!
Sublimity is in their gleam,
A light from God's own skies.

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