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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. w "Tis land ! 'tis land !" they cry once more

And 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 list 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 boal, 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 herry, 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!

I HAD a Garden when a child;

I kept it all in order; 'Twas 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, r 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.

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,
Leare 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!

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 Spiræa grew before it; Behind it was a Laburnum tree,

And a wild Hop clambered o'er it. Oltimes I sat within my bower,

Like a king in all his glory; Oftimes 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 Gorden 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.


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-mailèd coal 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!

Τ Η Ε FOX. In the rugged copse, in the femny 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. 'T is 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 strise, 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!"


The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I've many curious things to show when you are

there." D'YE know the little Wood-Mouse,

“Oh no, no," said the little Fly, “ to ask me is in vain, That pretty little thing,

For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come That sits among the forest leaves,

down again." Beside the forest spring ? Its fur is red as the red chestnut,

“I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring np And it is small and slim;

so high ; It leads a life most innocent

Will you rest upon my little bed ?" said the Spider Within the forest dim.

to the Fly

“There are pretty curtains drawn around ; the sheets "T is a timid, gentle creature,

are fine and thin, And seldom comes in sight;

And if you like to rest a while, I 'll snugly tuck you in!" It has a long and wiry tail,

“Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, “ for I've often heard And eyes both black and bright

it said, It makes its nest of soft, dry moss,

They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your In a hole so deep and strong ;

bed!" And there it sleeps secure and warm,

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, “Dear friend, The dreary winter long.

what can I do, And though it keeps no calendar,

To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you! It knows when flowers are springing;

I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice; And waketh to its summer life

I'm sure you 're very welcome - will you please to When Nightingales are singing.

take a slice?"

“Oh no, no," said the little Fly,“ kind sir, that cannot Upon the boughs the Squirrel sits, The Wood-Mouse plays below;

I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish And plenty of food it finds itself

to see !" Where the Beech and Chestnut grow.

“Sweet creature !" said the Spider, "you ’re witty In the Hedge-Sparrow's nest he sits

and you 're wise, When its summer brood is fled,

How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant And picks the berries from the bough

are your eyes! Of the Hawthorn over-head.

I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf, I saw a little Wood-Mouse once,

If you 'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold Like Oberon in his hall,

yourself.” With the green, green moss beneath his feet, “I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “ for what you 're Sit under a mushroom tall,

pleased to say,

And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another I saw him sit and his dinner eat,

day.” All under the forest tree; His dinner of Chestnut ripe and red,

The Spider turned him round about, and went into And he ate it heartily.

his den, I wish you could have seen him there;

For well he knew the silly Fly would soon como

back again :
It did my spirit good,
To see the small thing God has made

So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
Thus eating in the wood.

And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.

Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did I saw that He regardeth them —

sing, Those creatures weak and small;

“Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and Their table in the wild is spread,

silver wing; By Him who cares for all!

Your robes are green and purple - there's a crest

upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are

dull as lead!"

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,

Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flito A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY.

ting by ; “Will you walk into my parlour ?" said the Spider With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and to the Fly,

nearer drew, ""T is the prettiest little parlour that ever you did Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and spy;

purple hue


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 caine 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.

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 see
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 anght before so soft and clever!




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-pol, 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 !

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 busking in the sun;
There builds her nest, the Hamming-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

Strong bird of the Wild, thou art gone like the wind, To thee for life is given;

And thou leavest the cloud of thy speeding behind ; Thy food the honey from the flower,

Fare thee well! in thy desolate region, farewell, Thy drink, the dew from heaven!

With the Giraffe and Lion, we leave thee to dwell! 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,

The little Dormouse is tawny red ;
Before the rainbow shone ;

He makes against winter a nice snug bed,
One moment glancing in her sight,

He makes his bed in a mossy bank,
Another moment, gone!

Where the plants in the summer grow tall and rank. Thou little shining creature,

Away from the daylight, far under ground,

His sleep through the winter is quiet and sound, God saved thee from the Flood,

And when all above him it freezes and snows,
With the Eagle of the mountain land,

What is it to him for he naught of it knows?
And the Tiger of the wood !

And till the cold time of the winter is gone,
Who cared to save the Elephant,

The little Dormouse keeps sleeping on.
He also cared for thee;

But at last, in the fresh breezy days of the spring, And gave those broad lands for thy home,

When the green leaves bud, and the merry birds
Where grows the Cedar-tree!

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 ; Not in the land of a thousand flowers,

Then he says, as he sits at the foot of a larch, Not in the glorious Spice-wood bowers;

• "Tis a beautiful day, for the first of March! Not in fair islands by bright seas embraced,

The Violet is blowing, the blue sky is clear; Lives the wild Ostrich, the bird of the waste.

The Lark is upspringing, his carol I hear; Come on to the Desert, his dwelling is there,

And in the green fields are the Lamb and the Foal; Where the breath of the Simoom is hot in the air; To the Desert, where never a green blade grew,

I am glad I'm not sleeping now down in my hole!" Where never its shadow a broad tree threw, Then away he runs, in his merry mood, Where sands rise up, and in columns are wheeled Over the fields and into the wood, By the winds of the Desert, like hosts in the field; To find any grain there may chance to be, Where the Wild Ass sends forth a lone, dissonant Or any small berry that hangs on the tree. bray,

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

looking down to the earth and up to the sky,
The creatures unbroken, with manes flying free, Thinking, “what a happy Dormouse am 1!"
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 FAMILIARLY CALLED THE WEEPING WIDOW,

OR THE MOURNING BRIDE. land, The egg of the Ostrich to find in the sand;

LIKE a drooping thing of sorrow, "Tis sustenance for him when his store is low,

Sad to-day, more sad to-morrow; And weary with travel he journeyeth slow

Like a widow dark weeds wearing, To the well of the Desert, and finds it at last

Anguish in her bosom bearing; Seven days' journey from that he hath passed.

Like a nun in raiment sable, Or go to the Caffre-land.-what if you meet

Sorrow-bowed, inconsolable;

Like a melancholy fairy,
A print in the sand, of the strong Lion's feet !
He is down in the thicket, asleep in his lair;

Art thou, Meadow-Fritillary!
Come on to the Desert, the Ostrich is there -

Like the head of snake enchanted, There, there! where the Zebras are flying in haste, Where whilom the life hath panted, The herd of the Ostrich comes down o'er the waste- All its purple checquerings scaly Half running, half Aying-what progress they make! Growing cold and dim and paly; Twang the bow! not the arrow their Night can o'er- Like a dragon's head half moulded, take!

Scaly jaws together fulded,

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