User: Can you write me a poem about new year and haarlem in the style of Samuel Richardson?
Assistant: Sure, here's a poem about new year and haarlem in the style of Samuel Richardson:
  A New Year's Gift for Sunday Schools
As a labor of love,
To four Sunday Schools,
Each of which will know that it is one of the four
By the initials of
Their friend,
Now, let me tell you why I have sketched this incident as an
At an early period in the history of Holland, a boy was born in
Haarlem, a town remarkable for its variety of fortune in war, but
certain regular distances, close the entrance of the canals, and
As he went along by the canals, then quite full,--for it was in
injunction, and was preparing to quit the ravine in which he was
benumbed, and the numbness soon extended to the hand, and thence
failures of courage, there might have been during that long and
"Boy," he exclaimed, "what are you doing there?"
"I am hindering the water from running out," was the answer, in
--Sharpe's Magazine.
superintendents induced me to make this miniature book.
We were crowded in the cabin;
Not a soul would dare to sleep:
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.
'Tis a fearful thing, in winter
To be shattered in the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"
So we shuddered there in silence;
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death.
As thus we sat in darkness,
Each one busy in his prayers,
"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he staggered down the stairs.
But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean
Just the same as on the land?"
Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.
A little girl, with a happy look,
Sat slowly reading a ponderous book,
All bound with velvet and edged with gold,
And its weight was more than the child could hold;
Yet dearly she loved to ponder it o'er,
And every day she prized it more;
For it said, and she looked at her smiling mother,--
It said, "Little children, love one another."
She thought it was beautiful in the book,
And the lesson home to her heart she took;
She walked on her way with a trusting grace,
And a dove-like look in her meek young face;
Which said, just as plain as words could say,
"The Holy Bible I must obey:
So, mamma, I'll be kind to my darling brother;
For 'little children must love each other.'
I'm sorry he's naughty, and will not play;
But I'll love him still, for I think the way
To make him gentle and kind to me
Will be better shown if I let him see
I strive to do what I think is right;
And thus, when I kneel in prayer to-night,
I will clasp my hands around my brother,
And say, 'Little children, love one another.'"
The little girl did as her Bible taught,
And pleasant indeed was the change it wrought;
For the boy looked up in glad surprise,
To meet the light of her loving eyes:
His heart was full,--he could not speak;
But he pressed a kiss on his sister's cheek;
And God looked down on that happy mother
Whose "little children loved each other."
At Smyrna, the burial-ground of the Americans, like that of the
disappointment, and the tears came to her eyes.
Oh! yes, my sweet child, be it so,
That, near the cypress-tree,
Thy sister sees those eyes o'erflow,
And fondly waits for thee;
That still she hears the young birds sing,
And sees the chaplet wave,
Which every morn thy light hands bring,
To dress her early grave;
And in a brighter, purer sphere,
Beyond the sunless tomb,
Those virtues that have charmed us here
In fadeless life shall bloom.
In yonder village burying-place,
With briers and weeds o'ergrown,
I saw a child, with beauteous face,
Sit musing all alone.
Without a shoe, without a hat,
Beside a new-raised mound,
The little Willie pensive sat,
As if to guard the ground.
I asked him why he lingered thus
Within that gray old wall.
"Because," said he, "it is to us
The dearest place of all."
"And what," said I, "to one so young,
Can make the place so dear?"
"Our mother," said the lisping tongue,--
They laid our mother here.
And since they made it mother's lot,
We like to call it ours:
We took it for our garden-spot,
And planted it with flowers.
We know 'twas here that she was laid;
And yet they tell us, too,
She's now a happy angel made,
To live where angels do.
Then she will watch us from above,
And smile on us, to know
That here her little children love
To make sweet flowerets grow.
My sister Anna's gone to take
Her supper, and will come,
With quickest haste that she can make,
To let me run for some.
We do not leave the spot alone,
For fear the birds will spy
The places where the seeds were sown,
And catch them up and fly.
We love to have them come and feed,
And sing and flit about;
Yet not where we have dropped the seed,
To find and pick it out.
But now the great round yellow sun
Is going down the west;
And soon the birds will every one
Be home, and in the nest.
Then we to rest shall go home too;
And while we're fast asleep,
Amid the darkness and the dew,
Perhaps the sprouts will peep.
And, when our plants have grown so high
That leaves are on the stem,
We'll call the pretty birdies nigh,
And scatter crumbs for them.
For mother loved their songs to hear,
To watch them on the wing:
She'll love to know they still come near
Her little ones, and sing."
"Heaven shield thee, precious child!" methought,
"And sister Annie too!
And may your future days be fraught
With blessings ever new!"
instead, the story which those soft feathers were sent to tell.
contained? Why, a great anxious mother-hen, all tawny-colored and
sometimes we call her Bella Donna. The other was dressed in white
perching, chirping at the door, and tease and tap-tap and "yip-p
Kisses and love from your friend,
(From the "Child's Friend.")
On a swinging little shelf
Were some pretty little books;
And I reckoned from their looks,
That the darling little elf,
Whose they were,
Was the careful, tidy girl,
With her auburn hair a-curl.
In a little chest of drawers,
Every thing was nice and prim,
And was always kept so trim,
That her childish little stores,
Books or toys,
In good order could be found,--
Never careless thrown around.
And she laid her bonnet by,
When she hastened home from school;
For it was her constant rule,--
And she was resolved to try,
School or home,
How to prove the saying true,--
"Order in all things you do."
When she put away her shawl,
Nicely laying by her book,
She had only once to look
_In its place_ to find her doll
Snugly there:
She could shut her smiling eyes,
Sure to find her pretty prize.
See her books,--how clean they are!
Corners not turned down, I know!
There's a marker, made to show
In her lessons just how far.
Dog-eared books
Are a certain sign to me
That the girl must careless be.
She's as tidy as a pink!
Clean and neat, and gentle too!
If you take her actions through,
Just the same, I know, you'll think.
School or home,
Tasks or play,
Books or toys,
Every way,
Order keeps this loving girl,
With her auburn hair a-curl.
A most interesting story is told, in a late German paper, of a
remarkable woman in Pillau, Prussia, whose heroism of character
guardian-angel. All heads are uncovered as she passes along the
The island of Rona is a small and very rocky spot of land, lying
remorseless billow, "in sight of home and friends who thronged to
Come, tell me, little noisy friend,
That knockest at my pane,
Whence is thy being? Where dost end,
Thou little drop of rain?
I come from the deep,
Where the dark waves sleep,
And their beauty ever the sea-pearls keep;
I go to the brow
Of the mountain-snow,
And trickle again to the depths below.
But, wanderer, how didst win thy way
From caverns of the sea?
Did not thy sisters say thee nay,
Sweet harbinger of glee?
With his far-darting flame,
The Day-king came,
And bore me away in a cloudy frame;
And I sailed in the air,
Till the zephyrs bare
Me hither to hear thy minstrel-prayer.
And why dost change that tiny form,
Thou sweetest ocean-child?
Why art the snow in winter-storm,
The rain in summer mild?
The breath from above
In the snow and the rain-storm bids me to rove,
Lest the young-budding earth
Be destroyed in the birth,
And Famine insult over Plenty and Mirth.
And wilt thou, little one, bestow
The minstrel's small request?
Wilt come when cares of earth below
Press on his aching breast?
'Tis the minstrel's own
To kneel at the throne
Of Him who reigns in the heavens alone;--
The grief of the soul
'Tis His to control,
Who bids in the azure the planets roll.
His couch when balmy slumber flies,
In watches of the night,
Wilt, soother, come, and close his eyes,
And make his sorrows light?
I cannot come
From my sea-deep home,
Whene'er I list on the earth to roam:
Who rules in the form
Of the ocean-storm
His will must the rain-drop, too, perform.
Thy gentle prattle at the pane
Makes timorous Fancy smile:
Then let me hear that tender strain;
Blithe charmer, stay a while.
No: I cannot delay,
But must quickly away
Where the rills in the valley my coming stay;
I haste to the dell
Where the wild-flowers dwell,
Then "Peace to thee, minstrel," is the rain-drop's farewell.
Heathen._--JEZEBEL, _a Messenger._--RUTH, _friend of Rachel and
_Rachel._ Eudora! welcome, thrice welcome, to Jerusalem.
beautiful, and the songs of David catch a new inspiration.
worship, and will not, as of yore, pronounce them false.
_Eudora._ I imagined that was his abode. But wherein differs your
_Rebecca (coming forward--Jezebel approaches)._ My heart is moved
_Eudora._ And my gods hers!
_Rebecca._ But that is impossible.
_Eudora._ Your sister, in many hours of precious intercourse, has
_Eudora._ And is Jehovah careful about _these_ things?
degrading. Jehovah's every word is for his people's prosperity.
_Rachel._ Trust in Jehovah, and thou shalt not err.
_Rebecca._ Rejoice in Jehovah, and thou shalt be glad for ever.
_Ruth (calling)._ Rachel!
_Rachel._ I come. (_To Eudora._) Let us hasten; for we have long
_Martha._ We may do nothing else now, and the meeting with others
_Salome._ I may not ask the cause of your grief; for my own soul
replies it is the common grief,--our nation's bondage.
friends join us.
_Martha._ Rather say, two more slaves.
_Salome._ Yes; two more to weep with us.
_Martha._ A message from Heaven!
_Leah._ 'Tis even so. Listen while I tell you. At Bethlehem, last
_Martha._ Can this be true?
_Salome._ But how shall he be known?
_Anna._ In Bethlehem, did you say? But there is no palace in
Bethlehem, where a prince should be born.
_Anna._ This is indeed wonderful!
_Salome._ But have the shepherds seen the babe?
_Martha._ Oh! tell us that. Have they seen the babe? and are all
things as they have declared?
_Miriam._ Yes. We met them on their return. They were, with full
_Mary._ Then shall we indeed hope! O my people! my people Israel!
_Anna._ Well may we wait a little longer, and bear the yoke with
patience.
Then arose, beautifully sung, this
Welcome day, oh, welcome day! a Saviour is born!
Welcome day, oh, welcome day! no longer we mourn.
Our nation, exulting
O'er foes long insulting,
Sings aloud, now sings aloud,--Oh, welcome this day!
Lift your voice, oh, lift your voice! Jehovah is God!
Lift your voice, oh, lift your voice! He has lifted the rod.
With goodness unceasing,
From bondage releasing,
We his people will sing,--Jehovah, is God!
Sound it forth, oh, sound it forth! Messias hath come!
Sound it forth, oh, sound it forth! through every sad home.
With power avenging,
Our great wrongs revenging,
He has come, he has come, Messias hath come!
Joy is ours, oh, joy is ours! his sword shall defend!
Joy is ours, oh, joy is ours! our foes shall now bend.
While at their yoke spurning,
Their insults returning,
Joy is ours,--we are free,--his sword shall defend!
_Eudora._ Well, we must all die.
_Rachel._ Not so says he whom John declared to be greater than
himself,--Jesus of Nazareth.
_Zachariah._ If he be what many claim him, he speaks with more
authority on that point than the Pharisees.
_Eudora._ And what do people say he is?
_Eudora._ Israel's Deliverer?
_Eudora._ Well, what says he?
_John._ That they who believe in him shall never die.
_John._ You have seen him: is he like John?
multitudes.
_Eudora._ But does he, like the former kings of Israel, combine
military ardor with his religious enthusiasm?
_Rachel._ He seems, with all his boundless benevolence, formed to
_Eudora._ And here she is.
_Rebecca._ What talk you of so earnestly?
_Rebecca._ He has come, it is said, to set up a new kingdom.
_Rebecca._ Then the nation's hope is again blasted, and we are to
_Rebecca._ But what freedom can there be greater than from Roman
bondage?
_Jezebel._ Or deliverance, such as mine, from an unholy temper.
_Mary._ I, too, have felt his power, and am seeking to join his
received as true?
_Rebecca._ And what think you of all this?
_Rebecca (to Mary)._ And did this move you also?
_Rebecca._ Why do you say "changed _us_"? _Jezebel_ needed to be
changed, but not _you._
_Mary._ And so you may.
_John._ This is freedom indeed.
_Rachel._ And greatness indeed.
_Rebecca._ Such a people must be the chosen of the Lord.
_Rebecca._ And may God make us true to this Saviour to the last!