Poems for my Children by Ann HAWKSHAW read by Phil Benson | Full Audio Book



part one of poems for my children by an Hawkshaw this is a librivox recording all librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit librivox.org poems for my children by mrs Hawkshaw london simcha Marshall and company Manchester Sims and in Hamm 1847 spring is coming Mary's wish the festival of the last of October seen in the time of the Druids common things spring is coming there is a whisper in the woods the breath of soft winds passing through and rustling but the dry Brown leaves where last year's Primrose grew and high upon the leafless boughs blithe Robin cheerily is singing and to and fro the enemies like fairy bells are swinging the rivulet is murmuring within its Peverley bed for the ice bands which held its fast with the last sunshine fled that many colored lichens creep or the old trees and stones there are a thousand pleasant sights a thousand gladsome tones for spring is coming and the flowers will waken as from sleep the birds will warble in the bowers in streams the fishes leap the butterflies will flutter past the bees begin their humming cold winter does not ever last spring Pleasant spring is coming mary's wish I often wish that I could see this country as it used to be for we're now busy cities stand there once was more and forest land and that's all elk and freedom bounded ere hunters bugle had been sounded how quiets must these shores have been where now a thousand ships a scene there was no sound of steam or all scarcely a footprints on the shore and the sea eagle from the cliff soared startled at the passing skiff where key and workhouse crowd the edge of rivers once mid reeds and sedge the otter watched his fishy prey with non sir frighten him away unless a tall grey heron came hit share of booty too to claim where now the wavy cornfields spread once that the britons mud built shed and round its savage children played while stretched beneath the oak trees shade their father strung his bow afresh or in his fishnets wove a mesh where now such peaceful dwellings are were heard the sounds of barbarous war and mothers with their children fled it's Midnight's when the burning shed the smoke from engines now is seen we're blazing Hamlet's once had been I do not think that time was good for then men shed each other's blood without a thought that it was wrong and the weak felled beneath the strong but still I often wished to see this country as it used to be the festival of the last of October seen in the time of the Druids the Druids in Britain had three great festivals one on the eve of the 1st of May the second at midsummer and the third on the last of October which was kept as a Thanksgiving for the harvest before this festival all fire used in private dwellings or for common uses was put out but sacred fire was kept burning with great care on the altar at the festival no excommunicated person was allowed to take fire from the altar and all were forbidden to give the outcasts food fire or shelter upon a wide and lonely Moor there is a circle of old stones the summer sunshine warns them yet the winter wind among them moans sometimes the passing stranger comes and sits him down beside that sports and muses there on times gone by and things by busier men for gods why their distrain Jers sit and think what's at the scenes they muse upon who placed with so much labor they're those huge gravestones in ages gone come listen it was an autumn Eve misty and cold and all around was cheerless but amid yon stones a single fire gleamed near the ground a while its glimmered faint and dim then burst at last a ruddy flame showing to those across the wild it's from a true it's altar came beside it stood a white robe at priests with oak leaves twined around his head while near him bound with lettin thongs upon the ground savage bled we call him savage for he knew nothing of all these arts of ours yes by his mud huts far away there grew a roots of Primrose flowers which he had brought for many a mile and planted there to please his child for well he loved his little one although he was both rude and wild but vainly now that's boy may call he never never can come back and vainly all through wood and Heath his faithful hound his way may track they did not kill him in revenge he did not fall in angry strife the man who slew him till that day had never seen him in his life they offered him in sacrifice a victim for a nation's crimes believing thus their gods to please this was religion in those times at last the sacrifice was or then each of the vast crowd drew near and stood around the altar fire with looks of reverence what's of fear each at the flame then lit a torch and quickly to his home returned for so that's festival was or no fire on any half stone burned that's morning watched with ceaseless care fire burned upon the altar stone but none besides throughout the land from temple oven cottage Shan the priests the worshipers are gone but one remains a lonely man seated by a blasted tree to death doomed by the Druids BAM no cheerful fire for him must blaze no food no home to him be given for he had dared to disobey the priest the messenger of heaven a while he sat then fierce despair possessed him and he wildly ran to the dark forest and no more was heard or seen that du madman common things the sunshine is a glorious thing that comes alike to all lighting the peasant slowly cause the nobles painted halt the moonlight is a gentle thing it through the window gleams upon the snowy pillow with a happy infant dreams it shines upon the fishes boats out on the lonely sea aware the little lampkins lie beneath the old oak tree the dew drops on the summer morn sparkle upon the grass the village children brushed them off that through the meadows pass there are no gems in monarchs crowns more beautiful than they and yet we scarcely noticed them but tread them off in play Paul Robin on the pear tree sings beside the cottage door the heath flower fills the air with sweets upon the pathless more there are as many lovely things as many pleasant tones for those who sits by cottage hearth as those who sit on Thrones end of part one part two of poems for my children by an Hawkshaw this LibriVox recording is in the public domain the little Wanderers the wind the little Wanderers part Swan the resolve twas morning and the valleys lay still in the mountain shade while near a Switzer's cottage door to little children played one was a gentle girl whose face was bright with health and joy though birds and streams were all her books a flower her only joy she sat upon a log of wood pleased with her rustic seat a little baskets full of flowers was placed beside her feet the other was a noble boy with forehead broad and high and eyes that looks from their clear depths like stars from out the sky he was a brave and fearless child it's modest kind and meek but how a tale of wrong would flush with crimson his young cheek their father on the mountain heights hunted the chinois wild and often told of daring feats before his listening child at Pierre's young eyes would Sparkle then I'll be a hunter too he shook his curly locks and said father and do like you Pierre climbed the cliffs and brought the flowers to Ella where she sat while she with slender fingers twined them round his rustic hats she lifted up her mild blue eyes to where the mountains lay all glittering in the thousand lights of a bright summer's day or beautiful that land must be or glittering and all fair she softly whispered to herself I wished that we were the hair I wonder if tis fairy's land and if they light it so that little ones like Pierre and I may see the way to go they love good Jill and I'm sure the Pierre is very good he walked with me last night and I ought to seek flowers in the wood although he likes to climb the clips better than gather flowers or seek the Falcons nest the walk like me through woodland Bowers well does she whispered to herself the flowers dropped from her hand and earnestly her eyes were bent on that far-off fairy land Ella you have not read my hat the flowers are all around what makes you look so wonderingly up to your mounting ground of Pierre the little one replied it's so bright and grand the rocks must all be made of gems it's must be Faerieland Pierre looked and saw the Morning Sun gleaming on peaks of snow and lowered down the crystal streams from hidden fountains flow he almost heard the torrents gush and the proud Eagles cry as with the slow majestic flight it sought its nest on high and his hearts bounded at the sites and he too long to climb not to seek Ella's fairyland but mounting cliffs sublime Pierre seized his hats bedecked with flowers I'll go I'm sure we can and with his sister's hand in his away they swiftly ran part to the Avalanche down the green slope they swiftly ran on which their cottage stud crossed at the foot a little Brook then passed into a wood they lingered not to gather flowers or watch the squirrel leap for now they heard the torrents fall into its base and deep from age to age from rock to rock its fell with thundering sound and balls like snow of shining foam were scattered all around they gazed awhile with trembling or up to the rocky ledge or which it fell and then began to clamber by its edge bush to bush and stone to stone all grown with moss they went and sometimes or the dangerous cliff the fearless children bends an Eagles screaming left its nest and rose into the sky a wild goats or the torrent sleeps and passed them swiftly by all was so new and strange and wild they gaze delighted round so suddenly their ears were stunned by a terrific sound it was not thunder yet it seemed to shake the very earth and high amid the mountain peaks it's had its sudden birth clasped in each other's arms they stood their rosy cheeks turned white and as the sound yet louder grew they held each other tight poor Ella closed her fearful eyes but Pierre still dared to look up to the mountains snowy heights though all around him shook noise will not hurt us sister dear the daring brother cried I hear it still I hear it now come down the mountainside I see it to an avalanche look Ella look and see it has broken now a piece of rock now it has crushed a tree look how it bears the stones along and tears up tree and bush now from yon overhanging cliff to a like a torrent rush it has and it has reached the plain and plunged into the lake then we are safe ah hi Ella no the lake is bounds may break the Avalanche had fallen where the lake and river met and fiercely now against its base the chafed furred waters beat and swiftly spread across the plain and all before them swept the Shepherd left his sheep and fled or in some cavern crept onward it spread to all the Vale became one watery plane which rolled between them and the home they long to now regain they saw it on its sunny slope their parents were not there and not a creature was in sight to witness their despair a distant sound of dying cries was borne upon the breeze mixed with a roar of waves and noise of crashing rocks and trees poor Ella wept in wild despair then sunk upon the ground while Pierre by danger karma made looked earnestly around sister he said come dry your tears they will not help us now there was a something in his tone or something on his brow that's made her field she must be calm she had a spirit too though meek yet full of fortitude to bear if not to do we cannot now return he said but we must try to find our way behind that mounting cliff to which the Sun inclined when yester nights we watched him set and should we lose our way that we must creep into some cave and waits all coming day have you not heard our father tell how in the olden time when cruel tyrants ruled the land and there was war and crime how many good and holy men women and children who were forced to fly and hide in caves what they did we can do he took his sister's hand in his and down they bent their way quickly they went there was no time for lingering or delay the Sun already in Midheaven betokened it was noon and the deep valleys they must pass they knew would darken soon they wandered on from hour to hour and hope the time beguiled but stranger all the mountains grew and Wilder still and wild they from each other kept their fears impelled by love or pride till ella without cry or tear sank lifeless at his side part 3 the cave in the mountains a little distance from the spots where el of fainting lay the a cavern which had often persecutions de hidden from the oppressors power till brighter days returned the brave and good within whose hearts pure noble faults had burned she was known to many a peasant child for round the Windsors fire they talked of those whose memories with time would not expire the cave of Liberty it was called by those who lived around and many a hunter trod the spot as if to a holy ground and so it was more sacred far than odds beneath the Sun should ever be to us the place when noble deeds were done bright crystals pendants from the roof like glittering diamonds gleamed when on them at the evenings our array of sunlight streamed the sound of hidden waters came upon the ear all times low soft and musical its came like distant tinkling chimes dry moss and withered leaves were driven in autumn by the wind in sheltered corners of the cave a resting place to find a heap of fees which might have been alone the home is bed upon a low flat shelf of rock last autumns wind had spread upon them Pierre his sister laid for he had seen the place and in his hand pure water broads and sprinkled on her face he watched beside her till at length she opened her blue eyes and gazed upon the spa revolts with innocent surprise but she was faints and closed them soon and the low lulling sound of winds and waters once again her eyes in slumber bound unconscious of approaching nights or where it thus she slept whilst watching the fast fading lights Pierre his sad station kept he sat so on the caverns roof the sunbeams died away he sat till in the western sky there lingered not a ray he watched still darker it became long shades the mountains through the night's wind made it's mournful tone and baths and owlets flew Oh God he said and bends his knees upon the rock and prayed o God preserved thy children safe and a baker's not afraid the darkened lights have wanted thee and thou canst see us here amongst these rocks as when we rest it's home without a fear Elijah was by Ravens fed when by the brook he SATs and God can feed us even here oh I am sure of that just then before the caverns mouth he saw a creature pass with noiseless step it quickly ran across the do a grass what was its wolf or bear ah now what could the brave boy do to is vena like to fight off fly to L aside he flew resolved its victim first to be he took his station there while she in happy slumbers raps knew naught of his despair near it came then with a bound leaped wildly on his breast the scream of agony he gave roused Ella from her rest she started up but wolf nor bear met her awakening site but springing from her couch she gave a cry of wild delights it was her father's faithful dog and in a moments more their weeping parents else beside their children on the floor the father bore his little girl saved down the mountainside but Pierre walked manfully along at his glad mother's side the wind the wind it a mystic thing wandering or ocean wide and fanning all the thousands sales it's all it's billows glide its curls the blue waves into foam it snaps the strongest mast then like a sorrowing thing it's sighs when the wild storm is past and yet how gently does it's come at evening through the Bowers as if it said a kind good night to all the closing flowers its bears the perfume of the Rose its fans the insects wing tis round me with me everywhere yet tis an unseen thing how many sounds it bears along as or the earth it goes the songs of many joyous hearts the sounds of many wolves it enters into palace halls and carries vents the sound of mirth and music but it creeps the narrow prison round and bears away the captive sigh who sits in sorrow there or from the martyrs lonely cell conveys his evening prayer its fans the Reapers heated brow it's through the window creeps and lifts the fair child's golden curls as on her couch she sleeps tis like the light a gift to all it's a prince the peasants given awake asleep around us still there is this gift of heaven this strange mysterious thing we call the breeze the air the wind we call it so but no no more tis mystery like our mind think not for things most wonderful are those beyond our Ken for wonders are around the paths the daily paths of men end of Part two part three of poems for my children by han Hawkshaw this LibriVox recording is in the public domain seen in the time of the Romans the city child's complaints the first spring flowers to a diva a diva the oak tree I do not love the night thinking and dreaming scene in the time of the Romans the Druids time had passed away and aboard a Roman galley lay Neath England's chalky cliffs and barks of firmer texture skim gaily upon the ocean's brim then Britons Wikus gifts for many years did Britain's fights for half and home and Freeman's rights but it was in vain they bled the Romans in that conquering our had met with non to check their power they were the wide Earth's tread yet from their conquerors much of good for all this loss of human blood the hardy Britons learned the mud wall town had disappeared and in its place where mansions reared and peaceful days returned now from that galley to the shore there came a boats with dashing or at length it touched the Strand from its a stately warrior stepped upon the shore his followers left with sword and spear in hand Sumeet him was a motley crowd and from its Rosa shouts so loud she was heard for miles at sea he was a ruler come from Rome many from him shall hear their doom for life and death for he upon the cliff a temple stood raised to the monarch of the flood to this the Roman went and offered there at Neptune shrine a cup which British pearls in twine and there his knee he bends next he his high tribunal kept many that's fatal council wept led from his bar to die some from their native Isle were sent in sudden lonely banishment sums of the forests fly now marching past his seat appears a band of British youths fond tears from mother's eyes had wept their fates for they were bound to distant climes destined to fights for Roman crimes with men they did not hate that's last the sunsets of that day died in the western sky away then to his splendid tents wear silk concussions for his bed were on a floor of mosaic spread the Roman general went the city child's complaints the trees and flowers are beautiful the sky is blue and high and the small streams make Pleasant sounds as they run swiftly by but all these things are not for me I live amid dark walls as scarcely through these dusty panes a single sunbeam falls I never hear the wild bird song or see the graceful deer go trooping through the forest blades what can I learn from here they say God's works are wonderful in sea and sky and land I never see them for men's works are here on every hand Oh Merman knots the little one that here thy home must be and not amid the pleasant fields or by the Greenwood tree there is a voice can speak to thee amid the works of men speak with the sound as loud and clear as in the lonely Glen do not the works they'll see us too round spring from man's thoughts will mind and in that is there not of God for thee for all to find the earth with all its varied blooms will have to pass away but man's immortal mind will live through everlasting day and without mind these sheltering walls around thee had not been these busy engines had not moved nor whirling wheels been seen the first spring flowers bring me a nosegay where shall I go for short is the time since melted the snow go to the gardens warmest bed there the bright crocus flowers are spread yellow and purple and white while between shoot up their Lance like leaves of green go to the sunniest bank you can find where the hedgerow keeps off the frosty wind where a faint sweet perfume fills the air search you will find the violet there of stainless whites or of a hue deeper than Italy's sky of blue go look beneath the forest trees for those fairy bells thean enemies gracefully bending to every Gale their feathery leaves and blossoms pale and past knots on the unsheltered hides the flowers of the winter aconite and forget not the Loris Tina's gay with blossoms for March like those of may gather a sprig of Ivy – though flourless now yet I love is bright you that does not fade like the summer flowers but looks like a friend through wintry hours a kindly friend who seems to say I have come on this frosty winter's day when I thought all others would stay away to a defer the Jew is on the grass and the bird is in its nest come a de fer my little one and lie D down to rest sleep thou mayest calmly sleep no dreams of coming ill no thoughts of mists spent hours no fears thy happy buzz and fill yet that wilts dream but not of Joy's forever fled no ever V it's another slot no sorrow for the dead it's of the flowers and bees and butterflies of spring and pleasant voices that have made thy nursery walls syringe the dew is on the grass and the bird is in its nest come a de fer my blessed gift and life e down to rest ad thir is a Saxon name and means the blessed gift a defer one evening little a differ SATs by a forest well and she heard a low and pleasant tone like the chime of a silver bell and she looked around but not could she see yes it was not to the wind through the forest tree she did not say like a foolish child I listened no more but she bent her head and she heard the same soft silvery sound floating around beneath her tread if she ceased to listen its went away or if she forgot it and thoughts of play then meekly little Eddy feh melts down upon the ground and a roots of blue forget-me-nots close by the water found and waving to and fro it said think of the absence and the dead marveled much the little maid but she bent to gain her ear and she heard a happy voice from a yellow Primrose near and it said be cheerful still hope and waits and do God's will from its home amid try leaves fallen there from many a tree I can ring a fairy chime said the wooden enemy and so can I the snowdrop said waving to and fro her head then the flowers began to sing and the bells in concerts ring happy little Edith 'ah she can hear our voice was singing we no more a mute to her music ever round her ringing many on this wondrous earth never here is harmony blessed little Editha it no more is done to thee the oak tree the oak it is a noble tree the monarch of the wood through Windsor storms a thousand years its hardy trunk have stood it is not stately like the beach the elm or tall maybe and graceful er the lovely lyme yet tis a noble tree an acorn by a squirrel dropped amid a tuft of grass maybe an oak on which we look with one as we pass but then it years long years must grow and this may teach to all what mighty things in after times may come from means now small how little did they think who saw a green oak sapling spring in some old forests long ago that it's would float a king perhaps some ancient druid came to pluck it from a bough tis now a gallant ship but he where is that druid now perhaps an acorn from that tree dropped on his nameless grave and or it's now in summer green dark tangled branches wave how beautiful the Oaks young leaves in the bride's days of spring or when a Richardson's the skies of early autumn bring and all upon the dewy ground the acorn cups are laid like richly chaste spoons of a for fairy banquets made so monarch of all forest trees on every English plain we crown thee still thou brave old oak a long long be thy reign I do not love the night I do not love the nights mama the long dark dreary nights the day is far more beautiful with its beams of sunny lights I know the darkness on the sky like a thick curds and spreads that we may all more calmly sleep like flowers upon their beds for you say the young flowers fold their buds when the night comes or the sky I often think they grieve mama to bid the son goodbye there is no sound of song or wing from bird no insects hum or Pleasant voices to a hushed and all the world seems dumb the night's wind as it goes along like mournful music seems I often think I hear it still go past me in my dreams I do not love the night's mother the chilly darks and nights how beautiful would be a world where it was all lights and such a world there is my boy no Sun no moon are there yet tis a land that's half no nights where is it tell me where it is the land of blessedness the home of all the good we cannot travel to its shores by land or or the flood to reach it we must die my boy yet tremble knots for this kind engines wait to show the way so that's brights land of bliss thinking and dreaming you tell me I must think I thought last night's a long long time as I sat listening on the hill to the church bells Pleasant chime the Sun shone on the old church clock upon the ivory tower seven when I went eight when I left so I sat there and Alba and I was thinking all the time how pleasant it would be to live on a little Isle far in the southern sea with waters like a mirror clear all round my island spread and branching trees and Sun brights flowers and blue skies overhead and I would have a cottage there beside the sounding sea rich vines should cluster for its roof and on his sheltering tree and pretty pictures I would have and books and music too and I would play or read or sing or roam the forest through and sometimes I would have a friend to come and see me there Oh should not I be happy then with all around so fair no marry nots more happy there than in Die presents lots for the chief source of happiness my child thou hast for God's a life of selfish indolence fuss was not designed it is not places make our bliss tis fashioned by the mind think in that path of life thou tranced by duty well-to-do tis dreaming to imagine flowers thus on that path destroy I told thee thou must think not thought but on the idle dreams all these fair cloudbuilt homes and visionary schemes they will not move they heart to bear the many storms of life nor arm thy hearts with cheerfulness to smile amid its strife leave in his hands thy destiny who guides the swallows flights a God of love will surely do to all his creatures rites end of part 3 part four of poems for my children by Han Hawkshaw this LibriVox recording is in the public domain King Alfred and his mother a scene in the time of the Saxons the angel friend the stream the poor fly for my little Harry the land of my dreams the history of a coral island the hermit's the chieftain and the child a tale about happiness God is love King Alfred and his mother a scene in the time of the Saxons the Saxons or North men began to invade Britain before the departure of the Romans and after much fighting obtained possession of it this was not a misfortune but a happiness as they were better fitted to rule the land than the Britons who had become idle although Alfred could not read until he was twelve years of age he afterwards became a learner man and wrote many books to improve his people he was called the truth teller was it not a noble title my child and now we will take a peep into the old palace where he lived so many ages ago it was a winter's evening and fast the snow was falling the Shepherd on the mountainside his wandering sheep was calling the weary ox had left the field and too it shed was wending each man and beast that had a home back to that home was tending there sat a lady in rich attire that evening by a blazing fire that's burns within an antique Hall route tapestry hung upon its wall which oft the night wind swayed and shook entering by many an unseen nook she sat and played upon her harp and pleasantly its music rung while the blazing cast a glow on the gifted lady as she sang and glanced and sparkled here and there on spear and puck round her hyung it was a wild Norse song she sang of the old Valhalla's mystic Hall where the souls of valiant heroes go at Odin's call and she sang of the rugged Jotuns to the Giants of frost and fire and flame and many a tale of icebound fool that's now we iceland name she told how the daring sea kings roved in their frail vessels or the sea until they reached the english or its future kings to be then the lady ceased her song as she puts her harp away when she heard a voice say would those tones ever upon the air would stay would that music NER would die or deep words into silence fly Alfred is it thou she said sayest that my song is done true the harp chords now a hushed but the song still lives my son yes it lives but not for me said the boy when words are hidden books they are like precious gems locked down beneath the casket slid to him who cannot read the line and lady such a lot is mine my son she said this book shall be thine own when thou canst read to me hits songs of ancient melody it shall be mine and soon how well he kept his word let history tell but you must tell me who were Odin and the Jotuns and what was the Valhalla that the Queen sang off to little Alfred Odin was a famous leader and King that the Northmen once had he governed them wisely and well and when he died they thought he could still protect them and do them good and they worshipped him as a god and the Valhalla was a Hall where he dwelt and where he feasted those who during their lifetime had been brave and good the Jotuns were giants perhaps they meant frost and fire and flame by these giants because they are powerful and mysterious things about whose nature we know little the angel friend mother do angels ever come from their starry home on how do they ever wander down to earth those dwellers in the sky how sweet to have an angel friend who would come to the mortals land and tell us what they do in heaven that's bright and holy banned to tell of the crystal streams which flow by the fadeless trees of life and the fresh and fragrant winds which blow without The Tempest strife and to tell me if those indeed are worlds that in the midnight sky seem but like shining specks of light when seen by mortal eye for angels know a thousand things we do not know on earth for they have lived through countless years and watched creations birth they saw the lovely Eden Bowers which our first parents trod the Hebrews or Arabia sands led by the cloud of God they've seen great cities turned to dust and people pass away Charlie is stately palaces all trodden into clay they saw where Jesus bowed in prayer on amounts in lonely Glen they know where many a martyr died far from the homes of men oh sweet to have an angel friend with a heart all full of love to bring down to this lower world the Bliss from that above the stream Oh is there arts more beautiful than a clear stream in its bed with the Willows whispering on its banks and the blue sky or its spread its cometh from its mountain home like the snow so pure so cold it's home but passed by the mountain goats or the chinois hunts are bold like a slender line of silver sheen when the sunbeams on it play it looks as down the mountainside it taketh this lonely way it is one of the strings of nature's harp and it seems to bear along the tones of many a silent voice and many an old and song fritz gentle music have been heard sounding by night and day long years air up that's rocky path the peasant took his way and the merry trout shall find a home within its waters clear as on its course it still shall flow for many a coming year the poor fly for my little Harry once there was a little fly dancing on a windowpane and naughty Harry made it died and it will never dance again poor little fly with gauzy wings he likes a flutter in the Sun and sleep within the curtain falls when its merry game was done it's had its pleasures and his pains though but an insect of a day it's had a right to live and you know right to take its life away land of my dreams I know there are sunny lands that lie beneath the blue of a southern sky where the sea and the earth the like are fair and the fragrant citroen scents the air and the vine twines or the trellis Bowers and the Jessamine spreads its starry flowers but there is a fairer land to me than even the climb of Italy there are beautiful islands which seemed to sleep in the midst of the Great Pacific deep where the coconut grows to the ocean's brink and its roots the wave salts waters drink we're from sandy shore to mountain heights there is one mass submerge your brights but I know more lovely Isles than those that on the southern sea repose there are strange temples built of your on sultry egypt's wondrous shore where buried in the deserts and her idols of that ancient land where hebrew slaves in sorrow passed long years all there is old and vast strange things and those but yet to me is a land of deeper mr. e since the land to which I go in dreams my lovely far than earth it seems in a boat's of cloud I seem to glide in a boundless space so new and wide and all I have loved on earth are there and all I have seen but far more fair as a lovely place in the sunshine seems it ever looks that land of dreams mother how can it be when sleep closes my eyelids in slumber deep and the soft pillow rests my head and darkness or the world is spread that I can see these glorious things is it's my spirits that hath wings and can it leave this mortal frame and go to God from whence it came I cannot tell the child to me as to thyself tis mystery for tis but little we can know while in this life we stay below the wonders of our souls are known to God and buck to him alone I cannot tell thee where may fly the soul in dreams to know it we must die the history of a choral islets ages ago beneath the deep the choral insects reared their stony homes upon the rocks nor storms nor Bulow's feared they laboured with unceasing toil those million tiny things and they have builds more lasting homes than palaces of kings long as the waters or them rolled their labors did not cease but when they reached the ocean's brim they sunk to death in peace the seaweed and the floating plank from some bark washed away the bamboo and uprooted palm soon on the islands lay borne by the winds or on the waves seeds fruits and insects came until a fairy spotted beamed the tile without a name each year more lovely than the last its solitudes appeared sweets flowers were there and cocoa trees their lofty heads our bread the Pelican upon the shore watched his fishy pray while lurking in the tangled grass the glittering serpents lay the waves a ceaseless murmur made upon the pebbly Shore but not a sound of human life the wandering breezes ball thus ages past its length a sigh a human sigh was heard and the wind caught the passing tone of many a sorrowing word he was a shipwrecked Mariner borne by the winds and waves for where his comrades slept in death deep in the ocean caves he thoughts of home he thoughts of all who once had loved him there he thought how it's their mother's knee his children knelt in prayer he thought perhaps they prayed for him and then he bowed his knee upon that little coral Isle beneath the cocoa tree God heard his prayer from East from West lone Isle or hidden Graz if there the voice of prayer sends by gods his unforgotten a vessel bore him from that spot to his far home once more his the first foots and his the last that rod that's coral shore the hermit's the chieftain and the child a tale about happiness it was a summer's evening and the long shadows fell from tree and overhanging rock on old st. Ronan's well all round upon the old gray stones green ferns and mosses grew and when the wind the branches moved came gleams of sunshine through there was a little cell hard by and there a hermits dwelt who now besides since Ronan's well upon the edge stones Nell's and in a scallop shell he took a draught of water there his hair was white and on his brow were lines of grief or care for 30 years said he I've drunk each evening this well but I am feeble now as soon the grave will be my cell I've listened to the waters fall I've heard the breezes sigh and through the creaking boughs its nights the winds a wind sweep by I know each pathway through the woods I've watched you on willows grow from saplings into aged trees down by the stream below I thought that I should happy be far from the haunts of men with none to care for none to fear within this lonely Glen but ah with me this hath not mean but with myself but strife sixty long useless years I've passed non better for my life well thus he spoke a footstep came he started at the sound for it was seldom other feats than his had trod that ground there stood a steel clad warrior by leaning upon his Lance and from beneath his blue mat hell he looks with earnest glance I've lived in courts and camps he said I've traveled east and west and yet I have not happy being I've sought but found no rest I heard of thee thou hermit old and I had come to ask if I were toppy but thy word substantive voice say is this Ronan's well and honor maidens golden curls a ray of sunshine fell she was a simple village child meanly was cleanly clad a picture of the rudest kind with in her hand she had had come she said for many a mile to seeks and Roland's well because it's at the healing power the country people tell my mother have been a long time was if she drink they say of this good water it will take a sickness quite away she filled her pitcher at the well then that the old man's knee she knelt and said a blessing grants good father unto me and now thou happy little maid the age at hermit said as on her curling locks his hands to bless so forth he spread happy she said what does it mean I labor all the day but when the old trees shadow falls I run abroad to play I work for mother when I'm good at night she gives a kiss I know not what's the happy means unless that it be this the old man sighed sir Knights said he we've sought in different ways high in this forest solitude thowmps it's the great world's prays for happiness but found it's not but without search or thought this little child have found her bliss in doing what she calls God is love oh that I know indeed is true for he has made the sky of blue and spread the earth with quiets green while Asia waters flow between because these colors are the best on which the wearied I can rest oh yes all tells us God is love around beneath us are above rounders are flowers that without scare grow wildly blooming everywhere and Noble trees beneath whose shade the pale spring flower it's bloom and fade beneath us deep within their bed the precious gems and ores are spread diamonds and rosy rubies shine and metals fill the secrets mine and that dark mass which we require at Eve so lights our cheerful fire above us is the glorious Sun and when his brights a course is run the silvery moon looks forth and makes a path of lights or seas and lakes and in the hushed and solemn nights wonder the starry worlds of lights within us as around above something still whispers god is love they have given us hearts to feel a gladness Tong cannot reveal vainly had beauty round us being and we know lies to love the scene end of part 4 part five of poems for my children by an Hawkshaw this LibriVox recording is in the public domain the monk of Chester as seen in the time of the Normans a talk in furnace ap2 JCH a little girl's wish the monk of Chester seen in the time of the Normans Britain Saxons and Normans have all contributes it to form the English nation for many good and brave men must die before a people can become great and wise as no really good or great thing is ever done on this earth without trouble you may be sure that if we have now wise laws and good institutions many have toiled and suffered before we could enjoy them our rude saxon chiefs our old Norman kings let them be honored for whatever good thing they have given us the Saxon Herald and the Norman William have long since passed away but whatever good they did while living has left some trace on earth great deeds do not die it is generally said Harold died it's Hastings but there is a tradition that he was not killed but died in the time of Henry the first a monk a Chester in Chester's ancients convent dim slowly awoke the vespa him and borne or many a verdant Dale it softly told it's peaceful tale mildly the autumn sunshine fell on tomb on effigy and shrine while many a nights and Abbot slept with epitaph of uncouth line there rudely chiseled tombs upon in the old Chapel of st. John that evening came a lonely man his pilgrim dress was travel-worn his brow was scarred his look like one who had much toil and sorrow borne he sat him down beside the shrine they asked him not from whence he came he spoke nots of his history nor told his name but said I come a wearied man to seek a home a grave with you asked me not who or whence I am with that you have not ought to do and all his faded features past a look of pride it was the last four meekly dwelt he from that day a monk within their cloister gray with heavy sighs oft shook his breast strange dreams too off disturbed his rest and unconnected words would fall from his pale lips as if in sleep his memory with the beads recall he strove to hide so deep years passed and he was fence with age his glossy hair had turned to gray when the first Henry or the land held regal sway upon his dying couch he lay the good monks stood around his bed and watched and prayed I died he said last branch of afar spreading tree doomed by the northern axe to be hewn to the earth it's matters not my dying brother what a lots have been in other years to thee just entering on eternity but we who through long years have seen what days of sorrow thine have been would fain thy name and history know thus spake a monk in accent slow and bending or the dying man in silence and in nights they stood for the curfew Bell had sounded far who were land and flood to Assad in darkness first to stand a mournful solitary band around the bed of death thy name tell us at least thy name they said Harold they been to hear again but he was dead a talk in furnace a b2 jch mama my sister's gone and I am left alone then come my boy and sits by me upon this mossy stone and let us talk of those who long since passed away tis well to think on other days me to ruins old and gray for though now or the grass scarcely a footstep steals once meant dwelt here and lived and moved feeling what's man now feels they were our brothers though they lived in ages long ago for they could joy like us and weep like us for human woe here around the wide stone hearth with blazing piled they sucked while many wondrous tale the wintry hours beguiled yonder the trout stream flows still in its ancient bed permits how many a savory dish upon their board was spread beneath yon ruined arch on which bride's mosses creep they bore the dead in that green spots priests and Crusaders sleep but now their very names are gone we know they lived they died see they're the nameless warrior lies with his lady at his side their age have passed away past even as the chimes that's filled this Vale with Pleasant tones we live in other times in other and in happier times yet much of good was hid oft in those lonely halls like gems beneath the coffin lid how many alone benighted guests have passed beneath this door how many a kindly hand had fed upon yon step the poor we are arts not now like those old monks in Abbey walls to dwell but in all time there is the power to think and to do well a little girl's wish I wish I had wings to fly away away away or the deep blue sea I would go to each old and famous sure we're busy cities stood of your though silence now they be I would go where Todd Moore's ruins lie amid the deserts drifting sand and the lizard's creep and the night winds moan amid its temples overthrown by sterner aliens hand I would go where the stately palm trees rise and the campanaro's voice is heard like the solemn sound of a convent Bell of the quiet hour of prayer to tell and the leaves by the evening breeze are stirred and where the bride's flowers of the cactus spring from the clefts of the bear and sunburnt rocks and where four miles from bow to bow the troops of chattering monkeys go and the parrots fly in flocks I would go to where in northern skies upon their long and frosty nights when through the pine wood howls the blasts and the rivers in ice are all bound fast shoots bright and high the Northern Lights and where upon the icy seas around the North and southern pole the stately icebergs to and fro like rocks of glittering diamonds go where the dark waves chance to roll I would go when the birds of passage go when the flowers are dead and the skies look gray I would follow the swallows unknown track and like it and the spring again come back oh I wish I had wings to fly away end of part 5 part six of poems for my children by an Hawkshaw this LibriVox recording is in the public domain sir Oswald's return as seen in the time of the Crusades Aida sir Oswald's return as seen in the time of the Crusades parts wan to his winter and the snow fell fast the Setting Sun looked dull and red for shelter to the leafless boughs or old gray walls the birds had fled when or a wild and trackless more a solitary Horseman passed and on he urged his gallant steed to face the snowy blast he wore a falcon for his crest a red cross on his shield and breast a knight was he and that's the sign that he had been to Palestine long years before across that's plain a hundred followers with him past some on judea's hills were slain some perished by the Simmons blast and he alone was left the last and now he bends his lonely way to where he lived in childhoods day a lonely castle old and gray builds on a high projecting cliff that overlooked the northern sea that's foamed and thundered at its base for miles there was no shrub or tree it was a bleak and lonely spot and yet he loved its better far than all the perfumed parma vales in eastern lands that are and oft beneath the starry skies of sirius climb so clear and bright when sleep pressed down his wearied eyes in dreams he stood upon that heights watching the seagulls skimming or the crested wave or sandy shore and when he woke and heard no sound but soft winds whispering through the palm that's waved above his sleeping head he would have given those airs of balm for one rude like that which now beats fiercely on his sunburns brow onward he rode more wildly blue the storm and fast the snowflakes flew but not of that sauce well thoughts for now his castle was incites and as if Mensa guide him home from many a window gleam delights how will my Lady Edith luck and my young son she scarce will know her husband with his furrowed brow and my brave cousin God's a child I doubt not he have faithful beam and guarded well my Edith fare as if she had been England's Queen and my old henchman F will stand who served me when I was a boy I one day if he lives how great will be the old man was joined to see his master home once more never to leave his native Shore thus to himself sir Oswald spoke and by that time he gained the beach wildly the waves upon its broke and far as I could reach all whitened with the glittering spray with a high rocks around the bay there for a moment's pause the nights before he climbed the dangerous height on which his castle stood his steed the sound of coming footsteps heard and pricks his ears for he could he'd had learned to take when danger stood nearer and nearer came the sound behind a rock sorrel drew and soon before him on the shore was sights of horror met his view seen in the dim uncertain lights the day was changing it's a night two men in Armour dragged along an old and venerable man and a young child whose lip and cheek with fear were pale and won and placed them in a crazy boat and pushed it forward to the sea now see thy father boy they said thy path is wide of Ray the child bent down his head and wept upon the old man's knee and he looked up to heaven and said but this dark deed upon thy head sir child will curse his be crude laughed a child and turned away thinking he left them for a praise of the Seawolves the chilling spray – tore the child and in despair the old man tore his thin gray hair but for one moment's pause the nights till darks a child was out of sight then dashed into the waves and brought the fair and slender boy to shore now once again my steed he said and then thy toils are or the good horse reached the boat again and safe the old man bore no star the falcon crest old man sir Oswald said I do not ask if thou would snow thy master now for that would be a different task for war and toil have left their trace in many a line upon his face the old man dropped upon his knee my eyes are dim I cannot see amid this gloom thy noble brow but tis the high voice that voice I trow has never left me here by year they'll never thought again – here come child and kiss thy father's hand whom we deemed slain in holy land the boy drew back as if in fear but in the night's dark eyes a tear stood trembling as he clasped his child who reassured looked up and smiled and said now mother will not weep nor I am I good Athelstan be left to die upon the deep where is my lady said the knight the old man to the castle looked and pointed where single lights gleamed faintly from a distant tower there sits your lady at this hour weeping her weary life away while in your horse a child hath sway false kinsman vengeance on thy head will surely rest sir Oswald said but seek some shelter for the child good henchmen for the Knights is wild I and my steed will now away my errand will not bear delay so saying a the rocky Heights he sprung and soon was out of science part two so oswald reached the castle gates who knocks the water said it's he's late to a guest and if no guess now art from hence to a better to depart we do not suffer strangers here this castle has some shapes of fear as well unseen by strangers sight i give me warning and good night I thank thee for thy warning friend but further onward cannot to end for food and shelter much have need both Ryder and his jaded steed the knight replied not thus of your did stranger parley at this door not close to either friend or foe which was on such a night I trow knowest thou my lord the water set my own good Lord in Syria dead Irish know him as I know myself sir Oswald said then thou shalt be tended as meets his friend by me though on the morrow I'll be thrown for it into the sea and open wide the gates he swung upon the courtyard pavements rung the good Knights Armour as he sprung from off his horse and once again trod in his own and old domain he from his face and did his cask now Randolph does thou know'st thy Lord the water gazed in frights and said what at the grave is dead restored and sent the messenger of rough so horse like guilty kinsman's bath but all if spirits can be kind and thou canst visit young great hour be gentle there is summer rain when falling on a broken flower for there a broken flower is dying Randolph the knight replied be still and listen for the time is flying I am no spirits but a man so Oswald Lord of this domain a Red Cross Knights from Palestine resolved to have his own again or perish so the mid of night out keep me from my kinsman side while thou shall tell to those who still are ready to obey my will that I am here and at that hour will meet them by the Western Tower meanwhile they fire an evening meal I'll share for the night wind like steel cuts through my frame unused to bare the rough kiss of your northern air god help my child who have to share this night perhaps the sea calfs den but better there than in the home of wicked men Randolph a pile of threw upon the fire and then withdrew to spread among the vassal train news of their Lord returned again while the night full of anxious thoughts sat listening for the midnight chime who ever sat in solitude waiting for coming time and did not feel the solemn power there is in such a watching hour tis midnight the rude festival had ceased and silence is the hall sir child in heavy slumber lies before the failing fire around his guests and followers Rapids in sleep like stretched upon the ground for wine and weariness combined in slumber deep too steep each mind trusty Randolph cautiously mustered by the Western tower all the followers of his Lord at the appointed hour one and all had joyfully responded to the call and silently they follow now their chieftains of the hall the porter it's a signal given did the bolts undo the oaken door fell back and all passed quickly through Bryan John traitor said the Knights pointing to sad child but shed no blood of his but he have shared in boyish days my home and bread they bound unto a dark sand vols reached by a secret stair conveyed and left him on the floor to waken in despair and now loud shouts of warfare ring throughout the bloody hall as man saman and food to foe they fights and for all once on the floor sir Oswald sunk or powered by many foes and but for noble Randolph's aid had died beneath their blows he sprung before his honored Lord received the blow of death and fell how many a faithful follower then thus died of whom no records tell that's matters not drifted heed be good it hath but little need of earthly records for its Mead ere morning dawned the fights was done sir Oswald had his castle won and when the evening fire again gleamed brightly in the ancients hall where now the Red Cross banner waved in triumph from the wall ole Ethel stan led in the child and placed him on his mother's knee who clasped him with a long embrace and tears fell fast and free bring forth such child so hose Walt said they let the traitor to his Lord each brow frown darkly and each hand was ready on his sword and hates and scorned each face revealed for now they thought his Doom was sealed go said sir Oswald go and seek forgiveness of thy crimes from heaven I do forgive thee as I hope by God to be forgiven but in this realm thou must not stay seek distant lands be gone away they all fell back as outs he passed with hurried footsteps from the hall non spoke or moved until no more they heard that footsteps fall years passed so Oswald's hair was gray yet strong of hearts and limb was he and often with his youthful son went to the chase rides merrily it chanced one day the good Knights rode alone upon that silent Shore where he had found old Ethel Stan and his young son of your and he rode thinking of that time or listening to the sea waves chime he reached a cavern in the cliff and there he saw an aged man kneeling beside a crucifix his cheek was pale and one her Parma's dress she wore and oft the tears stole down his age at face on which in Eastern Sun had left his burning trace give me thy blessing holy man sir Oswald said and bends his knee I am a sad and sinful man replied he the one so brave and gallant knights of high degree for years I've wondered all the earth with pilgrim scrip and scallop shell I've knelt by many a famous shrine I've drunk from many a holy well I sat upon Mount Olivet on mournful Calvary I've wept and by the Jordan sacred banks have laid me down and slept but still no peace I found no rest still dark and guilty is my breast no strength have I to wander now nor hope that penances will save now I will pray to God alone and here we'll find a grave here by the side of this wild sea the tales of other years to me tells with its ceaseless melody and then for years he lived alone nor sorts for converse with mankind yet the benighted wanderer oft with him would food and shelter find more tranquil and more wild he grew as in his solitude he dwells and ever at the midnight hour upon the shore to pray he Nels at length sir Oswald died in States they laid him in a chapel near wax tapers gleaned and banners waved around the Warriors beer that nights the hermit's left his cell and slowly swords that's burial place more feeble than was once his step tranquil was his face it seemed as if the gloom had passed from off his furrowed brow at last I come to watch beside this beer he said and as he passed along a murmuring sound of blessings came from the assembled throng a faint smile passed across his face as at the beer he took his place next morn they found him cold and dead his hands were folded on his breast and calm and happy now he looked like tired wanderer sunk surest between his folded hands they found a ring his name and crest they laid him in their chieftains tomb that's a Jat Hermits of the wild and on that tomb two names were graved sir Oswald and sad child ADA ADA the flowers of spring are blooming now the flowers we talked off in the wintry hours when it's my feet thou SATs thy thoughtful brow and fair face turned to mine we talked of flowers Springs sunny days and birds amid the trees themes that thou gentle hearts could ever please and they are here but thou art gone my child and even the sunshine seems a mournful thing to my sad hearts that's flattering hope beguiled to look with gladness to the coming spring for in those hours I had no secret tread gazing on thee I thought not of the Dead the snow was on the ground the biting blast swept the bare earth when in the ground we laid thee our first smitson flower but they have passed and Earth again in beauty's arrayed oh that the Sunbeam could awaken the flower that's with by me in that bitter hour it cannot be ah me how much of whoa in the few words are hidden I shall see thee hear no more till now I did not know yet daf1 thoughts bring comfort into me thou adds my child my Aida still not death and wither love in with his blighting breath no he puts purifies it tis no more of earth or time but of eternity time cannot now my hopes or joys restore and earth can offer not dear want to thee tis love unmingled with all meaner dreams of pride or selfishness or earthly schemes therefore I will not say to thee farewell no non shall fill thy place within my hearts fair love for thee and thoughts of thee shall dwell until we meet again to never part a spirits dwelling in a home above it is a sweets and solemn thing to love end of part 6 end of poems for my children by an Hawkshaw you

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