The Mother's Call
Come, sweet ones, come to the fields with me,
I hear the hum of the honey bee,
I hear the call of the gray cuckoo,
I hear the note of the shrill curlew;
I hear the cry of the hunting hawk,
The sound of the dove in our 'custom'd walk,
The song of the lark, the tongue of the rill.
The shepherds' shout on the pasture hill.
My sweet ones, all come forth and play.
The air is balm, and I smell new hay;
Come, breathe of the flowers, and see how neat
The milkmaid trips on her scented feet;
Young folks come forth all joy, and run
Abroad as bright as beams of the sun;
Old men stop out with a sadder grace,
And matrons come with a graver pace.
The smoke streams up, and the air is rife
With joy, and all is light and life;
From east to west there's not a stain
In all the sky, and the birds are fain,
And the beasts are glad, while man in song
Breaks out, for rain has lorded long,
And earth has drunk more than her need
To fill her flowers and nurse her seed.
Now, now ye come, my little ones all,
As the young doves come at their mothers' call;
One run to yon tall foxglove, and see
At his breakfast of balm the golden bee;
Another go hunt from bud to bloom
The worm that flies with a painted plume,
Or see the doe solicitous lead
Her twin fawns forth to the odorous mead,
Or mark the nestlings newly flown,
With their tender wings and their crests of down.
But stay, my children. Ere ye run,
Who made the sky and yon glorious sun?
Who framed the earth, and strewed it sweet
With flowers, and set it 'neath mankind's feet?
'Twas ONE in heaven. Kneel down, and lay
Your white foreheads to the grass, and pray;
And render him praise, and seek to be
Pure, good, and modest — then come with me.