Look how the sea-plants trembling float
All like a Mermaid's locks, Waving in thread of ruby red
Over those nether rocks.
Heaving and sinking, soft and fair,
Here hyacinth- there green-
With many a stem of golden growth,
And starry flowers between.
But away! away! to upper day-
For monstrous shapes are here,
Monsters of dark and wallowing bulk,
And horny eyeballs drear.
The tusk'd mouth, and the spiny fin,
Speckled and warted back,
The glittering swift, and the flabby slow,
Ramp through this deep-sea track.
Away! away! to upper day,
To glance o'er the breezy brine,
And see the Nautilus gladly sail,
The Flying-fish leap and shine.
But what is that? ""Tis land!-'tis land!"Tis land!" the sailors cry. Nay!-'tis a long and narrow cloud
Betwixt the sea and sky.
""Tis land! 'tis land!" they cry once moreAnd now comes breathing on An odour of the living earth,
Such as the sea hath none.
But now I mark the rising shores!-
The purple hills!-the trees!
Ah! what a glorious land is here,
What happy scenes are these!
See, how the tall Palms lift their locks
From mountain clefts,-what vales,
Basking beneath the noon-tide sun,
That high and hotly sails.
Yet all about the breezy shore,
Unheedful of the glow,
Look how the children of the South
Are passing to and fro.
What noble forms! what fairy place!
Cast anchor in this cove,
Push out the boat, for in this land
A little we must rove.
We'll wander on through wood and field,
We'll sit beneath the Vine;
We'll drink the limpid Cocoa milk,
And pluck the native Pine.
The Bread-fruit and Cassada-root,
And many a glowing berry,
Shall be our feast, for here at least,
Why should we not be merry?
For 'tis a Southern Paradise,
All gladsome,-plain, and shore,-
A land so far, that here we are,
But shall be here no more.
We've seen the splendid Southern clime,
Its seas, and isles, and men,
So now!-back to a dearer land-
To England back again!
THE GARDEN.
I HAD & Garden when a child;
I kept it all in order;
"T was full of flowers as it could be,
And London-pride was its border.
And soon as came the pleasant Spring,
The singing birds built in it;
The Blackbird and the Throstle-cock,
The Woodlark and the Linnet.
And all within my Garden ran
A labyrinth-walk so mazy;
In the middle there grew a yellow Rose;
At each end a Michaelmas Daisy.
I had a tree of Southern Wood,
And two of bright Mezereon;
A Peony root, a snow-white Phlox,
And a bunch of red Valerian;
A Lilac tree, and a Guelder-Rose;
A Broom, and a Tiger-lily;
And I walked a dozen miles to find
The true wild Daffodilly.
I had Columbines, both pink and blue,
And Thalictrum like a feather;
And the bright Goat's-beard, that shuts its leaves
Before a change of weather.
I had Marigolds, and Gilliflowers,
And Pinks all Pinks exceeding; I'd a noble root of Love-in-a-mist,
And plenty of Love-lies-bleeding.
I'd Jacob's Ladder, Aaron's Rod,
And the Peacock-Gentianella;
I had Asters, more than I can tell,
And Lupins blue and yellow.
I set a grain of Indian Corn,
One day in an idle humour,
And the grain sprung up six feet or more,
My glory for a summer.
I found far off in the pleasant fields,
More flowers than I can mention;
I found the English Asphodel,
And the spring and autumn Gentian.
I found the Orchis, fly and bee,
And the Cistus of the mountain;
And the Money-wort, and the Adder's-tongue,
Beside an old wood fountain.
I found within another wood,
The rare Pyrola blowing:
For wherever there was a curious flower
I was sure to find it growing.
I set them in my garden beds,
Those beds I loved so dearly,
Where I laboured after set of sun,
And in summer mornings early.
O my pleasant garden-plot!—
A shrubbery was beside it,
And an old and mossy Apple-tree,
With a Woodbine wreathed to hide it.
There was a bower in my garden-plot,
A Spirea grew before it;
Behind it was a Laburnum tree,
And a wild Hop clambered o'er it.
Ofttimes I sat within my bower,
Like a king in all his glory; Ofttimes I read, and read for hours, Some pleasant, wondrous story.
I read of Gardens in old times,
Old, stately Gardens, kingly, Where people walked in gorgeous crowds, Or for silent musing, singly.
I raised up visions in my brain,
The noblest and the fairest;
But still I loved my Garden best,
And thought it far the rarest.
And all among my flowers I walked,
Like a miser 'mid his treasure;
For that pleasant plot of Garden ground
Was a world of endless pleasure.
THE LION.
LION, thou art girt with might!
King by uncontested right;
Strength, and majesty, and pride
Are in thee personified!
Slavish doubt or timid fear
Never came thy spirit near;
What it is to fly, or bow
To a mightier than thou,
Never has been known to thee,
Creature terrible and free!
Power the Mightiest, gave the Lion
Sinews like to brands of iron;
Gave him force which never failed;
Gave a heart that never quailed.
Triple-mailed coat of steel,
Plates of brass from head to heel,
Less defensive were in wearing
Than the Lion's heart of daring;
Nor could towers of strength impart,
Trust like that which keeps his heart.
What are things to match with him?
Serpents old, and strong and grim,
Seas upon a desert-shore,
Mountain-wildernesses hoar,
Night and storm, and earthquakes dire,
Thawless frost and raging fire-
All that's strong, and stern and dark,
All that doth not miss its mark,
All that makes man's nature tremble,
Doth the Desert-king resemble!
When he sends his roaring forth,
Silence falls upon the earth;
For the creatures great and small,
Know his terror-breathing call,
And as if by death pursued,
Leave to him a solitude.
Lion, thou art made to dwell
In hot lands intractable,
And thyself, the sun, the sand,
Are a tyrannous triple band;
Lion-king and desert throne,
All the region is thy own!
In the rugged copse, in the ferny brake,
The cunning red Fox his den doth make;
In the ancient turf of the baron's land,
Where the gnarled oaks of the forest stand;
In the widow's garden lone and bare;
On the hills which the poor man tills with care:
There ages ago he made his den,
And there he abideth in spite of men.
'Tis a dismal place, for all the floor
With the bones of his prey is covered o'er;
"T is darksome and lone, you can hardly trace
The furthest nook of the dreary place;
And there he skulks, like a creature of ill,
And comes out when midnight is dark and still;
When the dismal Owl, with his staring eye,
Sends forth from the ruin his screeching cry,
And the Bat on his black leathern wings goes by;
Then out comes the Fox with his thievish mind,
Looking this way and that way, before and behind;
Then running along, thinking but of the theft
Of the one little Hen the poor Widow has left;
And he boldly and carelessly passes her shed,
For he knows very well she is sleeping in bed,
And that she has no Dog to give notice of foes,
So he seizes his prey and home leisurely goes.
And at times he steals down to the depth of the wood,
And seizes the Partridge in midst of her brood;
And the little grey Rabbit, and young timid Hare;
And the tall, stately Pheasant, so gentle and fair;
And he buries them deep in some secret spot,
Where he knows man or hound can discover them not.
But vengeance comes down on the thief at length,
For they hunt him out of his place of strength,
And man and the Fox are at desperate strife,
And the creature runs, and runs for his life:
And following close is the snuffing hound,
And hills and hollows they compass round,
Till at length he is seized, a caitiff stout,
And the wild dogs bark, and the hunters shout,
And they cut off his tail and wave it on high,
Saying, "Here fell the Fox so thievish and sly!"
Thus may all oppressors of poor men die!
Then again mounts each hunter, and all ride away,
And have a good dinner to end the day;
And they drink the red wine, and merrily sing,
"Death to the Fox, and long life to the King!"
D'YE know the little Wood-Mouse,
That pretty little thing, That sits among the forest leaves,
Beside the forest spring?
Its fur is red as the red chestnut,
And it is small and slim;
It leads a life most innocent
Within the forest dim.
"T is a timid, gentle creature, And seldom comes in sight; It has a long and wiry tail,
And eyes both black and bright.
It makes its nest of soft, dry moss,
In a hole so deep and strong;
And there it sleeps secure and warm,
The dreary winter long.
And though it keeps no calendar,
It knows when flowers are springing;
And waketh to its summer life
When Nightingales are singing.
Upon the boughs the Squirrel sits,
The Wood-Mouse plays below;
And plenty of food it finds itself
Where the Beech and Chestnut grow.
In the Hedge-Sparrow's nest he sits
When its summer brood is fled,
And picks the berries from the bough
Of the Hawthorn over-head.
I saw a little Wood-Mouse once,
Like Oberon in his hall,
With the green, green moss beneath his feet,
Sit under a mushroom tall.
I saw him sit and his dinner eat,
All under the forest tree;
His dinner of Chestnut ripe and red,
And he ate it heartily.
I wish you could have seen him there;
It did my spirit good,
To see the small thing God has made
Thus eating in the wood.
I saw that He regardeth them—
Those creatures weak and small;
Their table in the wild is spread,
By Him who cares for all!
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.
AN APOLOGUE.
A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY.
Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flit. ting by ;
"WILL you walk into my parlour ?" said the Spider With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and
""Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and
Thinking only of her crested head-poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour-but she ne'er came out again!
And now, dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed;
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye, And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the fly.
THE TAILOR BIRD'S NEST AND THE
LONG-TAILED TITMOUSE NEST.
IN books of travels I have heard
Of a wise thing, the Tailor-bird;
A bird of wondrous skill, that sews,
Upon the bough whereon it grows,
A leaf into a nest so fair
That with it nothing can compare;
A light and lovely airy thing,
That vibrates with the breeze's wing.
Ah well! it is with cunning power
That little artist makes her bower;
But come into an English wood,
And I'll show you a work as good,
A work the Tailor-bird's excelling,
A more elaborate, snugger dwelling,
More beautiful, upon my word,
Wrought by a little English bird.
There, where those boughs of black-thorn cross,
Behold that oval ball of moss;
Look all the forest round and round,
No fairer nest can e'er be found;
Observe it near, all knit together,
Moss, willow-down, and many a feather,
And filled within, as you may see,
As full of feathers as can be ;
Whence it is called by country folk,
A fitting name, the Feather-poke;
But learned people, I have heard,
Parus caudatus, call the bird,
And others, not the learned clan,
Call it Wood-pot, and Jug, and Can.
Ay, here's a nest! a nest indeed,
That doth all other nests exceed,
Propped with the black-thorn twigs heneath,
And festooned with a woodbine wreath!
Look at it near, all knit together,
Moss, willow-down, and many a feather!
So soft, so light, so wrought with grace,
So suited to this green-wood place,
And spangled o'er, as with the intent
Of giving fitting ornament,
With silvery flakes of lichen bright,
That shine like opals, dazzling white!
Think only of the creature small,
That wrought this soft and silvery ball,
Without a tool to aid her skill;
Nought but her little feet and bill-
Without a pattern whence to trace
This little roofed-in dwelling-place,
And does not in your bosoms spring
Love for this skilful little thing!
See, there's a window in the wall,
Peep in, the house is not so small,
But snug and cozy, you shall sce
A very decent family!
Now count them-one, two, three, four, five-
Nay, sixteen merry things alive-
Sixteen young chirping things, all set
Where you your little hand could not get!
I'm glad you 've seen it, for you never
Saw aught before so soft and clever!
THE HUMMING-BIRD. THE Humming-bird! the Humming-bird, So fairy-like and bright;
It lives among the sunny flowers,
A creature of delight!
In the radiant islands of the East,
Where fragrant spices grow,
A thousand thousand Humming-birds
Go glancing to and fro.
Like living fires they flit about,
Scarce larger than a bee,
Among the broad Palmetto leaves,
And through the Fan-palm tree.
And in those wild and verdant woods
Where stately Moras tower, Where hangs from branching tree to tree The scarlet Passion-flower;
Where on the mighty river banks,
La Plate or Amazon,
The Cayman like an old tree trunk,
Lies basking in the sun;
There builds her nest, the Humming-bird Within the ancient wood,
Her nest of silky cotton down,
And rears her tiny brood.
She hangs it to a slender twig,
Where waves it light and free,
As the Campanero tolls his song,
And rocks the mighty tree.
All crimson is her shining breast,
Like to the red, red rose;
Her wing is the changeful green and blue
That the neck of the Peacock shows.
Thou happy, happy Humming-bird,
No winter round thee lowers ;
Thou never saw'st a leafless tree,
Nor land without sweet flowers:
A reign of summer joyfulness
To thee for life is given;
Thy food the honey from the flower,
Thy drink, the dew from heaven!
How glad the heart of Eve would be,
In Eden's glorious bowers,
To see the first, first Humming-bird
Among the first spring-flowers.
Among the rainbow butterflies,
Before the rainbow shone;
One moment glancing in her sight,
Another moment, gone!
Thou little shining creature,
God saved thee from the Flood,
With the Eagle of the mountain land,
And the Tiger of the wood!
Who cared to save the Elephant,
He also cared for thee;
And gave those broad lands for thy home,
Where grows the Cedar-tree!
Not in the land of a thousand flowers,
Not in the glorious Spice-wood bowers;
Not in fair islands by bright seas embraced,
Lives the wild Ostrich, the bird of the waste.
Come on to the Desert, his dwelling is there,
Where the breath of the Simoom is hot in the air;
To the Desert, where never a green blade grew,
Where never its shadow a broad tree threw,
Where sands rise up, and in columns are wheeled
By the winds of the Desert, like hosts in the field;
Where the Wild Ass sends forth a lone, dissonant
bray,
Strong bird of the Wild, thou art gone like the wind,
And thou leavest the cloud of thy speeding behind;
Fare thee well! in thy desolate region, farewell,
With the Giraffe and Lion, we leave thee to dwell!
THE little Dormouse is tawny red;
He makes against winter a nice snug bed,
He makes his bed in a mossy bank,
Where the plants in the summer grow tall and rank.
Away from the daylight, far under ground,
His sleep through the winter is quiet and sound,
And when all above him it freezes and snows,
What is it to him for he naught of it knows?
And till the cold time of the winter is gone,
The little Dormouse keeps sleeping on.
But at last, in the fresh breezy days of the spring,
When the green leaves bud, and the merry birds
And the dread of the winter is over and past,
The little Dormouse peeps out at last.
Out of his snug, quiet burrow he wends,
And looks all about for his neighbours and friends;
Then he says, as he sits at the foot of a larch,
""Tis a beautiful day, for the first of March!
The Violet is blowing, the blue sky is clear;
The Lark is upspringing, his carol I hear;
And in the green fields are the Lamb and the Foal;
I am glad I'm not sleeping now down in my hole!"
Then away he runs, in his merry mood,
Over the fields and into the wood,
To find any grain there may chance to be,
Or any small berry that hangs on the tree.
So, from early morning, till late at night,
And the herds of the Wild Horse speed on through Has the poor little creature its own delight,
the day-
The creatures unbroken, with manes flying free,
Like the steeds of the whirlwind, if such there may be.
Yes, there in the Desert, like armies for war,
The flocks of the Ostrich are seen from afar,
Speeding on, speeding on o'er the desolate plain,
While the fleet mounted Arab pursueth in vain!
But 'tis joy to the traveller who toils through that
land,
The egg of the Ostrich to find in the sand;
"Tis sustenance for him when his store is low,
And weary with travel he journeyeth slow
To the well of the Desert, and finds it at last
Seven days' journey from that he hath passed..
Or go to the Caffre-land,-what if you meet
A print in the sand, of the strong Lion's feet!
He is down in the thicket, asleep in his lair;
Come on to the Desert, the Ostrich is there-
There, there! where the Zebras are flying in haste,
The herd of the Ostrich comes down o'er the waste-
Half running, half flying-what progress they make!
Twang the bow! not the arrow their flight can o'er-
take!
Looking down to the earth and up to the sky,
Thinking, "what a happy Dormouse am I!"
THE WILD FRITILLARY,
FAMILIARLY CALLED THE WEEPING WIDOW,
OR THE MOURNING BRIDE.
LIKE a drooping thing of sorrow,
Sad to-day, more sad to-morrow;
Like a widow dark weeds wearing,
Anguish in her bosom bearing;
Like a nun in raiment sable,
Sorrow-bowed, inconsolable;
Like a melancholy fairy,
Art thou, Meadow-Fritillary!
Like the head of snake enchanted,
Where whilom the life hath panted,
All its purple checquerings scaly
Growing cold and dim and paly;
Like a dragon's head half moulded,
Scaly jaws together folded,
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