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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.
Here hyacinth — there green
And starry flowers between.
For monstrous shapes are here,
And horny eyeballs drear.
Speckled and warted back,
Ramp through this deep-sea track.
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
Such as the sea hath none.
The purple hills !-the trees!
What happy scenes are these !
From mountain clefts,—what vales,
That high and hotly sails.
Unheedful of the glow,
Are passing to and fro.
Cast anchor in this cove,-
A little we must rove.
We'll sit beneath the Vine;
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,
But shall be here no more.
Its seas, and isles, and men,
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.
The singing birds built in it;
The Woodlark and the Linnet.
A labyrinth-walk so mazy ;
At each end a Michaelmas Daisy.
And two of bright Mezereon ; A Peony root, r snow-white Phlox,
And a bunch of red Valerian;
A Broom, and a Tiger-lily;
The true wild Daffodilly.
And Thalictrum like a feather;
Before a change of weather.
And Pinks all Pinks exceeding ;
And plenty of Love-lies-bleeding.
And the Peacock-Gentianella ;
And Lupins blue and yellow.
One day in an idle humour,
My glory for a summer.
More flowers than I can mention ;
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,
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;
And thought it far the rarest.
Like a miser 'mid his treasure;
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 :
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
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;
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;
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
Think only of the creature small,
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-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;
A creature of delight!
Where fragrant spices grow,
Go glancing to and fro.
Scarce larger than a bee,
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;
La Plate or Amazon,
Lies busking in the sun;
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,
And rocks the mighty tree.
Like to the red, red rose ;
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,
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. 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,
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, And gave those broad lands for thy home,
When the green leaves bud, and the merry birds
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 WILD FRITILLARY,
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
Like a melancholy fairy,
Art thou, Meadow-Fritillary!
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,