Jane Taylor

Down in a green and shady bed, A modest violet grew, Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view. And yet it was a lovely flower, Its colours bright and fair; It might have graced a rosy bower, Instead of hiding there, Yet there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed; And there diffused its sweet perfume, Within the silent shade. Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see; That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are! Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky. When the blazing sun is gone, When he nothing shines upon, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. Then the traveler in the dark Thanks you for your tiny spark, How could he see where to go, If you did not twinkle so? In the dark blue sky you keep, Often through my curtains peep For you never shut your eye, Till the sun is in the sky. As your bright and tiny spark Lights the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

I saw an old cottage of clay, And only of mud was the floor; It was all falling into decay, And the snow drifted in at the door. Yet there a poor family dwelt, In a hovel so dismal and rude; And though gnawing hunger they felt, They had not a morsel of food. The children were crying for bread, And to their poor mother they’d run; ‘Oh, give us some breakfast,’ they said, Alas! their poor mother had none. She viewed them with looks of despair, She said (and I’m sure it was true), ‘’Tis not for myself that I care, But, my poor little children, for you.’ O then, let the wealthy and gay But see such a hovel as this, That in a poor cottage of clay They may know what true misery is. And what I may have to bestow I never will squander away, While many poor people I know Around me are wretched as they.

High on a bright and sunny bed A scarlet poppy grew And up it held its staring head, And thrust it full in view. Yet no attention did it win, By all these efforts made, And less unwelcome had it been In some retired shade. Although within its scarlet breast No sweet perfume was found, It seemed to think itself the best Of all the flowers round, From this I may a hint obtain And take great care indeed, Lest I appear as pert and vain As does this gaudy weed.