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But when the sun rose redly up
To shine for half a year, Round and round through the skies to sail,
Nor once lo disappear,
Ah! man of learning, you are wrong;
Then on I went, with curious eyes,
And saw where, like to man, The Beaver built his palaces;
And where the Ermine ran.
And came where sailed the lonely Swans
Wild on their native flood; And the shy Elk grazed up the mossy hills,
And the Wolf was in the wood.
And the iced rocks also,
Till the soft south wind did blow.
For the handsome Kingfisher, go not to the tree,
ing, Where the tall, heavy Typha and Loosestrise are
growing; By the bright little streams that all joyfully run Awhile in the shadow, and then in the sun. He lives in a hole that is quite to his mind, With the green, mossy Hazel roots firmly entwined; Where the dark Alder-bough waves gracefully o'er, And the Sword-flag and Arrow-head grow at his door. There busily, busily, all the day long. He seeks for small fishes the shallows among; For he builds his nest of the pearly fish-bone, Deep, deep in the bank far retired, and alone. Then the brown Water-Rat from his burrow looks
out, To see what his neighbour Kingfisher 's about; And the green Dragon-fly, flitting slowly away, Just pauses one moment to bid him good-day. O happy Kingfisher! what care should he know, By the clear, pleasant streams, as he skims to and fro, Now lost in the shadow, now bright in the sheen Of the hot summer sun, glancing scarlet and green!
And then upsprang the grass and flowers,
Sudden, and sweet, and bright; And the wild birds filled the solitade
With a servour of delight. But nothing was there that pleased me more
Than when, in autumn brown, I came in the depths of the pathless woods,
To the Grey Squirrel's town. There were hundreds that in the hollow boles
of the old, old trees did dwell, And laid up their store hard by their door
of the sweet mast as it fell.
But soon the hungry wild Swine came,
And with thievish snout dug up Their buried treasure, and left them not
So much as an acorn-cup!
And one and all decree,
Over hill and dale to flee.
THE MIGRATION OF THE GREY
SQUIRRELS. When in my youth I travelled
Throughout each north countrie,
And many a strange thing see.
Built of the drifted snow;
Nor other light did know.
For months in the winter dark;
And the blue Fox's bark.
Over hill and dale, over hill and dale,
For many a league they went; Like a troop of undaunted travellers
Governed by one consent. But the Hawk and Eagle, and peering Owl,
Did dreadfully pursue ;
The more their perils grew.
A broad stream lay in view.
His cunning and bravery;
Unto the stream came he,
Without the least delay;
Never was there a lovelier sight
Than that Grey Squirrels' fleet;
What fortune it would meet.
And ever and anon,
And its little steersman gone.
I saw them leap to shore;
Your wondrous works were formed as true;
THE TRUE STORY OF WEB-SPINNER.
THE BEAVER. Up in the north if thou sail with me, A wonderful creature I'll show to thee: As gentle and mild as a Lamb at play, Skipping about in the month of May; Yet wise as any old learned sage Who sits turning over a musty page! Come down to this lonely river's bank, See, driven-in stake and riven plank; 'Tis a mighty work before thee stands That would do no chame to human hands. A well-built dam to stem the tide Of this northern river so strong and wide ; Look! the woven bough of many a tree, And a wall of fairest masonry; The waters cannot o'erpass this bound, For a hundred keen eyes watch it round; And the skill that raised can keep it good Against the peril of storm and flood. And yonder, the peaceable creatures dwell Secure in their watery citadel ! They know no sorrow, have done no sin; Happy they live 'mong kith and kin As happy as living things can be, Each in the midst of his family! Ay, there they live, and the hunter wild Seeing their social natures mild, Seeing how they were kind and good, Hath felt his stubborn soul subdued; And the very sight of their young at play Hath put his hunter's heart away; And a mood of pity hath o'er him crept, As he thought of his own dear babes and wept.* I know ye are but the Beavers small, Living at peace in your own mud-wall; I know that ye have no books to teach The lore that lies within your reach. But what? Five thousand years ago Ye knew as much as now ye know; And on the banks of streams that sprung Forth when the earth itself was young,
WEB-SPINNER was a miser old,
Who came of low degree ;
And he kept bad company ;
of a black felon grim; To all the country he was known,
But none spoke well of him. His house was seven stories high,
In a corner of the street, And it always had a dirty look,
When other homes were neat; Up in his garret dark he lived,
And from the windows high
Upon the passers by.
Yet many have averred,
Were often loudly heard ;
Although a few went in,
And stripped him to the skin;
Yet mercy ne'er was shown The miser cut his body up,
And picked him bone from bone.
The dismal story true ;
I tell it so to you.
One Madgy de la Moth,
Had not gone there, in troth;
At nighlfall in the street,
Dry scraps of broken meat. So she knocked at old Web-Spinner's door,
With a modest tap, and low, And down stairs came he speedily,
Like an arrow from a bow. “Walk in, walk in, mother!" said he, And shut the door behind –
• A fact,
But ere he reached the garret door,
Poor Bluebottle was dead!
She thought for such a gentleman,
That he was wondrous kind;
Like a tiger of the wood,
And drank of her heart's blood!
Now after this rell deed was done,
A little season's space,
Was riding from the chase :
The sun was sinking down,
Into the dusty town. Says he, “I'll ask a lodging
At the first house I come to;"
Came suddenly in view :
Down came the churl with glee.
I ask your courtesy ;
My friends are far behind." “ You may need them all," said Web-Spinner,
“ It runneth in my mind." “ A Baron am I,” says Bluebottle;
“ From a foreign land I come.” " I thought as much," said Web-Spinner,
“ Fools never stay at home!" Says the Baron, “ Churl, what meaneth this?
I defy ye, villain base !'' And he wished the while in his inmost heart
He was safely from the place.
Now all this while, a Magistrate,
Who lived the house hard by,
Through a window privily:
With a loud and thundering sound,
And level it with the ground;
Had looked for such a day,
And took himself away:
'T was said that under ground, He died a miserable death,
But his body ne'er was found. They pulled his house down stick and stone,
“ For a caitiff vile as he," Said they, “within our quiet town
Shall not a dweller be!"
Web-Spinner ran and locked the door,
And a loud laugh, laughèd he;
And they wrestled furiously.
A swordsman of renown;
And kept the Baron down:
From a pocket at his side,
His hands and feet he tied ;
And said in savage jest,
So, Baron, take your rest!"
Arranging dish and platter,
As if nothing were the matter. At length he seized on Bluebottle,
That strong and burly man,
To hojst him up began :
He went with heavy tread;
The actions of the Spider above described, were told me by a very intelligent man, who permitted the web to remain for a considerable time in his counting-house window, that he might have the means of closely observing its occupier's way of life. It was, as described above, under the semblance of a dwell. ing-house, seven stories high, and in each story was a small circular hole by which the spider ascended and descended at pleasure ; serving, in fact, all the purposes of a stair-case. His usual abode was in his seventh, or garret story, where he sat in a sullen sort of patience waiting for his prey. The small downy. winged moth was soon taken; she was weak, and made but little resistance; and was always eaten on the spot. His behaviour towards a heavy and noisy bluebottle fly was exactly as related. The fly seemed bold and insolent; and hurled himself, as if in defiance, against the abode of his enemy. The spider descended in great haste, and stood before him, when an angry parley seemed to take place. The blue bottle appeared highly affronted, and plunged about like a wild horse; but his efforts were generally unsuccessful; the spider, watching an unguarded moment, darted behind him, and falling upon him with all his force, drew a fine thread from his side, with which he so completely entangled bis prostrate victim, that it was impossible he could move leg or wing. The spider theri set about making preparations for the feast, which, for reasons best known to himself, he chose to enjoy in his upper story. The staircase, which would admit his body, was too strait for that of his victim; he accordingly set about enlarging it, with a delicate pair of shears with which his head was furnished, and then with great adroitness he hoisted the almost exhausted Bluebottle to the top of his dwelling, where he fell upon him with every token of satisfaction.
BRIGHT Creature, lift thy voice and sing.
And here, on open slopes we see The lightly-set Anemone; Here too the spotted Arum green, A hooded mystery, is seen ; And in the turfy meadows shine, White Saxifrage and Cardamine; And acres of the Crocus make* A lustre like a purple lake. And overhead how nobly towers The Chestnut, with its waxen flowers, And broad green leaves, which all expand, Like to a giant's open hand. Beside you blooms the Hawthorn tree; And yonder the wild Cherry-tree, The fairy-lady of the wood; And there the Sycamore’s bursting bud, The Spanish-chestnut, and the Lime, Those trees of flowery summer-time. Look up, the leaves are fresh and green, And every branching vein is seen Through their almost transparent sheen! Spirit of Beauty, thou dost fling Such grace o'er each created thing, That even a little leaf may stir The heart to be a worshipper; And joy, which in the soul has birth From these bright creatures of the earth, Good is it thou shouldst have thy way, Thou art as much of God as they! Now let us to the garden go, And dig and delve, and plant and sow; The fresh dark mould is rich and sweet, And each flower-plot is trim and neat ; And Daffodil and Primrose see, And many-hued Anemone, As full of flower as they can be ; And here the Hyacinth sweetly pale, Recalling some old Grecian lale; And here the mild Narcissus too; And every flower of every hue, Which the glad soason sends, is here ; The Almond, while its branch is sere, With myriad blossoms beautified, As pink as the sea-shell's inside ; And, under the warm cottage-eaves, Among its clustered, budding leaves, Shines out the Pear-tree's flowers of snow, As white as any flowers that grow: And budding is the southern Vine, And Apricot and Nectarine; And Plum-trees in the garden warm, And Damsons round the collage-farm, Like snow-showers shed upon the trees, And like them shaken by the breeze. Dear ones! 't is now the time, that ye Sit down with zeal to botany; And names which were so hard and tough, Are easy now, and clear enough; For from the morn to evening's houn Your bright instructers are sweet flowers.
As in the Nottingham Meadows.
And there in the wastes of the silent sky,
With the silent earth below,
The lonely Eagle go.
Then softly, softly will we tread
By inland streams, 10 see Where the Pelican of the silent North,
Sits there all silently.
Go out through pleasant field and lane, And come back, glad of heart again, Bringing with you life's best of wealth, Knowledge, and joy of heart, and health ; Ere long each bank whereon ye look Will be to you an open book, And flowers, by the Creator writ, The characters inscribed on it! Come let us forth into the fields! Unceasing joy the season yields Why should we tarry within door? And see, the children of the poor Are out, all joy, and running races, With buoyant limbs and laughing faces. Thank heaven! the sunshine and the air Are free to these young sons of care! Come, let us, too, be glad as they, For soon is gone the merry May!
But if thou love the Southern Seas,
And pleasant summer weather, Come, let us mount this gallant ship, And sail away together.
THE SOUTHERN SEAS.
THE NORTHERN SEAS.
Up! up! let us a voyage take ;
Why sit we here at ease ? Find us a vessel tight and snug,
Bound for the Northern Seas. I long to see the Northern-Lights,
With their rushing splendours fly; Like living things with flaming wings,
Wide o'er the wondrous sky. I long to see those ice-bergs vast,
With heads all crowned with snow; Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep,
Two hundred fathoms low.
Of. their terrific fall;
Like lonely voices call.
The sleepy Seals a-ground,
Sail with a dreary sound.
That the hairy Mammoth bide;
The mighty creature died.
Through the still heaven's deep blue, We'll traverse the azure waves, the herds
or the dread Sea-horse to view. We'll pass the shores of solemn pine,
Where Wolves and Black Bears prowl; And away to the rocky isles of mist,
To rouse the northern fowl.
With a rushing, whistling din;
All but the fat Penguin.
Yes! let us mount this gallant ship;
Spread canvas to the wind -
Leave Care and Cold behind.
Our flying vessel's track;
Threaten,-we turn not back.
In his Almighty hand,
Tread many a far-off strand.
From day to day, the sky
More glowing, bright, and high.
In its azure depths to mark
Over the ocean dark.
So stately, large, and sheen,
In the crystal ether keen.
Strange fiery billows play,
Cuts wondrously its way.
How warm the breezes float!
From off our basking boat.
What a marvellous sight is here!
Down in the deep so clear.
A glad and glorious band,
Of a coral fairy-land.
How the gorgeous shells do glide!