How beautiful, where dragon-flies

Are wondrous to behold,

With rainbow wings of gauzy pearl,

And bodies blue and gold!

How beautiful, on harvest slopes,

To see the sunshine lie;

Or on the paler reaped fields,

Where yellow shocks stand high!

Oh, yes! I love the sunshine!

Like kindness or like mirth,

Upon a human countenance,

Is sunshine on the earth!

Upon the earth; upon the sea;

And through the crystal air,

Or piled-up cloud; the gracious sun

Is glorious everywhere!

SUMMER.

They may boast of the spring-time when flowers are the fairest,

And birds sing by thousands on every green tree;

They may call it the loveliest, the greenest, the rarest;--

But the summer’s the season that’s dearest to me!

For the brightness of sunshine; the depth of the shadows;

The crystal of waters; the fulness of green,

And the rich flowery growth of the old pasture meadows,

In the glory of summer can only be seen.

Oh, the joy of the green-wood! I love to be in it,

And list to the hum of the never-still bees,

And to hear the sweet voice of the old mother linnet,

Calling unto her young ’mong the leaves of the trees?

To see the red squirrel frisk hither and thither,

And the water-rat plunging about in his mirth;

And the thousand small lives that the warm summer weather,

Calls forth to rejoice on the bountiful earth!

Then the mountains, how fair! to the blue vault of heaven

Towering up in the sunshine, and drinking the light,

While adown their deep chasms, all splintered and riven,

Fall the far-gleaming cataracts silvery white!

And where are the flowers that in beauty are glowing

In the garden and fields of the young, merry spring,

Like the mountain-side wilds of the yellow broom blowing,

And the old forest pride, the red wastes of the ling?

Then the garden, no longer ’tis leafless and chilly,

But warm with the sunshine and bright with the sheen

Of rich flowers, the moss rose and the bright tiger-lily,

Barbaric in pomp as an Ethiop Queen.

Oh, the beautiful flowers, all colours combining,

The larkspur, the pink, and the sweet mignionette,

And the blue fleur-de-lis, in the warm sunlight shining,

As if grains of gold in its petals were set!

Yes, the summer,--the radiant summer’s the fairest,

For green-woods and mountains, for meadows and bowers,

For waters, and fruits, and for flowers the rarest,

And for bright shining butterflies, lovely as flowers!

THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS.

Put up thy work, dear mother;

Dear mother come with me,

For I’ve found within the garden,

The beautiful sweet-pea!

And rows of stately hollyhocks

Down by the garden-wall,

All yellow, white, and crimson,

So many-hued and tall!

And bending on their stalks, mother,

Are roses white and red;

And pale-stemmed balsams all a-blow,

On every garden-bed.

Put up thy work, I pray thee,

And come out, mother dear!

We used to buy these flowers,

But they are growing here!

Oh, mother! little Amy

Would have loved these flowers to see;--

Dost remember how we tried to get

For her a pink sweet-pea?

Dost remember how she loved

Those rose-leaves pale and sere?

I wish she had but lived to see

The lovely roses here!

Put up thy work, dear mother,

And wipe those tears away!

And come into the garden

Before ’tis set of day!

CHILDHOOD.

Oh, when I was a little child,

My life was full of pleasure;

I had four-and-twenty living things,

And many another treasure.

But chiefest was my sister dear,

Oh, how I loved my sister!

I never played at all with joy,

If from my side I missed her.

I can remember many a time,

Up in the morning early,--

Up in the morn by break of day,

When summer dews hung pearly;

Out in the fields what joy it was,

While the cowslip yet was bending,

To see the large round moon grow dim,

And the early lark ascending!

I can remember too, we rose

When the winter stars shone brightly;

’Twas an easy thing to shake off sleep,

From spirits strong and sprightly.

How beautiful were those winter skies,

All frosty-bright and unclouded,

And the garden-trees, like cypresses,

Looked black, in the darkness shrouded!

Then the deep, deep snows were beautiful,

That fell through the long night stilly,

When behold, at morn, like a silent plain,

Lay the country wild and hilly!

And the fir-trees down by the garden side,

In their blackness towered more stately;

And the lower trees were feathered with snow,

That were bare and brown so lately.

And then, when the rare hoar-frost would come,

’Twas all like a dream of wonder,

When over us grew the crystal trees,

And the crystal plants grew under!

The garden all was enchanted land;

All silent and without motion,

Like a sudden growth of the stalactite,

Or the corallines of ocean!

’Twas all like a fairy forest then,

Where the diamond trees were growing,

And within each branch the emerald green

And the ruby red were glowing.

I remember many a day we spent

In the bright hay-harvest meadow;

The glimmering heat of the noonday ground,

And the hazy depth of shadow.

I can remember, as to-day,

The corn-field and the reaping,

The rustling of the harvest-sheaves,

And the harvest-wain’s upheaping:

I can feel this hour as if I lay

Adown ’neath the hazel bushes,

And as if we wove, for pastime wild,

Our grenadier-caps of rushes.

And every flower within that field

To my memory’s eye comes flitting,

The chiccory-flower, like a blue cockade,

For a fairy-knight befitting.

The willow-herb by the water side,

With its fruit-like scent so mellow;

The gentian blue on the marly hill,

And the snap-dragon white and yellow.

I know where the hawthorn groweth red;

Where pink grows the way-side yarrow;

I remember the wastes of woad and broom,

And the shrubs of the red rest-harrow.

I know where the blue geranium grows,

And the stork’s-bill small and musky;

Where the rich osmunda groweth brown,

And the wormwood white and dusky.

There was a forest a-nigh our home,--

A forest so old and hoary,

How we loved in its ancient glooms to be,

And remember its bygone story!

We sate in the shade of its mighty trees,

When the summer noon was glowing,

And heard in the depths of its undergrowth

The pebbly waters flowing.

We quenched our thirst at the forest-well;

We ate of the forest berry;

And the time we spent in the good green-wood,

Like the times of song, were merry.

We had no crosses then, no cares;

We were children like yourselves then;

And we danced and sang, and made us mirth,

Like the dancing moonlight elves then!

L’ENVOI.

Go, little book, and to the young and kind,

Speak thou of pleasant hours and lovely things;

Of fields and woods; of sunshine; dew and wind;

Of mountains; valleys, and of river-springs;

Speak thou of every little bird that sings;

Of every bright, sweet-scented flower that blows;

But chiefest speak of Him whose mercy flings

Beauty and love abroad, and who bestows

Light to the sun alike, with odour to the rose.

My little book that hast been unto me,

Even as a flower reared in a pleasant place,

This is the task that I impose on thee;--

Go forth; with serious style or playful grace,

Winning young, gentle hearts; and bid them trace

With thee, the spirit of LOVE through earth and air;

On beast and bird, and on our mortal race,

So, do thy gracious work; and onward fare,

Leaving, like angel-guest, a blessing everywhere!

SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY.

TO

ANNA MARY AND ALFRED WILLIAM HOWITT,

THESE SKETCHES,

ORIGINALLY WRITTEN FOR THEIR AMUSEMENT,

ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY.

THE COOT.

Oh Coot! oh bold, adventurous Coot,

I pray thee tell to me,

The perils of that stormy time

That bore thee to the sea!

I saw thee on the river fair,

Within thy sedgy screen;

Around thee grew the bulrush tall,

And reeds so strong and green.

The kingfisher came back again

To view thy fairy place;

The stately swan sailed statelier by,

As if thy home to grace.

But soon the mountain-flood came down,

And bowed the bulrush strong;

And far above those tall green reeds,

The waters poured along.

“And where is she, the Water-Coot,”

I cried, “that creature good?”

But then I saw thee in thine ark,

Regardless of the flood.

Amid the foaming waves thou sat’st,

And steer’dst thy little boat;

Thy nest of rush and water-reed

So bravely set afloat.

And on it went, and safely on

That wild and stormy tide;

And there thou sat’st, a mother bird,

Thy young ones at thy side.

Oh Coot! oh bold, adventurous Coot,

I pray thee tell to me,

The perils of that stormy voyage

That bore thee to the sea!

Hadst thou no fear, as night came down

Upon thy watery way,

Of enemies, and dangers dire

That round about thee lay?

Didst thou not see the falcon grim

Swoop down as thou passed by?

And ’mong the waving water flags

The lurking otter lie?

The eagle’s scream came wildly near,

Yet, caused it no alarm?

Nor man, who seeing thee, weak thing,

Did strive to do thee harm?

And down the foaming waterfall,

As thou wast borne along,

Hadst thou no dread? Oh daring bird,

Thou hadst a spirit strong!

Yes, thou hadst fear. But He who sees

The sparrows when they fall;

He saw thee, bird, and gave thee strength

To brave thy perils all.

He kept thy little ark afloat;

He watched o’er thine and thee;

And safely through the foaming flood

Hath brought thee to the sea.”

THE EAGLE.

No, not in the meadow, and not on the shore;

And not on the wide heath with furze covered o’er,

Where the cry of the Plover, the hum of the bee,

Give a feeling of joyful security:

And not in the woods, where the nightingale’s song,

From the chesnut and orange pours all the day long;

And not where the Martin has built in the eaves,

And the Red-breast e’er covered the children with leaves,

Shall ye find the proud Eagle! O no, come away;

I will show you his dwelling, and point out his prey!

Away! let us go where the mountains are high,

With tall splintered peak towering into the sky;

Where old ruined castles are dreary and lone,

And seem as if built for a world that is gone;

There, up on the topmost tower, black as the night,

Sits the old monarch Eagle in full blaze of light:

He is king of these mountains: save him and his mate,

No Eagle dwells there; he is lonely and great!

Look, look how he sits! with his keen glancing eye,

And his proud head thrown back, looking into the sky;

And hark to the rush of his out-spreading wings,

Like the coming of tempest, as upward he springs,

And now how the echoing mountains are stirred,

For that was the cry of the Eagle you heard!

Now, see how he soars! like a speck in the height

Of the blue vaulted sky, and now lost in the light!

And now downward he wheels as a shaft from a bow

By a strong archer sent, to the valleys below!

And that is the bleat of a lamb of the flock;--

One moment, and he re-ascends to the rock.--

Yes, see how the conqueror is winging his way

And his terrible talons are holding their prey!

Great bird of the wilderness! lonely and proud,

With a spirit unbroken, a neck never bowed,

With an eye of defiance, august and severe,

Who scorn’st an inferior, and hatest a peer,

What is it that giveth thee beauty and worth?

Thou wast made for the desolate places of earth;

To mate with the tempest; to match with the sea;

And God showed his power in the Lion and thee!

THE GARDEN.

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, 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 Spiræa 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 SPIDER AND THE FLY.

AN APOLOGUE.

A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY.

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly.

“Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I’ve many curious things to show when you are there,”

“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain,

For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;

Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly.

“There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and

thin,

And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in!”

“Oh, no, no,” said the little Fly, “for I’ve often heard it said,

They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!”

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, “Dear friend, what can I do,

To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?

I have within my pantry, good store of all that’s nice;

I’m sure you’re very welcome--will you please to take a slice?”

“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “kind sir, that cannot be,

I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!”

“Sweet creature!” said the Spider, “you’re witty and you’re wise,

How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!

I’ve a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,

If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”

“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say,

And bidding you good morning now, I’ll call another day.”

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,

For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come 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 sing,

“Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;

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 flitting by;

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and 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 came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read,

To idle, silly, nattering 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.

TALES IN VERSE.

ANDREW LEE.

THE FISHER BOY.

Ah! Fisher Boy, I well know thee,

Brother thou art to Marion Lee!

What! didst thou think I knew thee not,

Couldst thou believe I had forgot?

For shame, for shame! what? I forget

The treasures of thy laden net!

And how we went one day together,

One day of showery summer weather,

Up the sea-shore, and for an hour

Stood sheltering from a pelting shower,

Within an upturned, ancient boat,

That had not been for years afloat!

No, no, my boy! I liked too well

The old sea-stories thou didst tell;

I liked too well thy rougish eye--

Thy merry speech--thy laughter sly;

Thy old sea-jacket, to forget,--

And then the treasures of thy net!

Oh, Andrew! thou hast not forgot,

I’m very sure that thou hast not,

All that we talked about that day,

Of famous countries far away!

Of Crusoes in their islands lone,

That never were, nor will be known,

And yet this very moment stand

Upon some point of mountain land,

Looking out o’er the desert sea,

If chance some coming ship there be.

Thou know’st we talked of this--thou know’st

We talked about a ship-boy’s ghost--

A wretched little orphan lad

Who served a master stern and bad,

And had no friend to take his part,

And perished of a broken heart;

Or by his master’s blows, some said,

For in the boat they found him dead,

And the boat’s side was stained and red!

And then we talked of many a heap

Of ancient treasure in the deep,

And the great serpent that some men,

In far-off seas, meet now and then;

Of grand sea-palaces that shine

Through forests of old coralline;

And wondrous creatures that may dwell

In many a crimson Indian shell;

Till I shook hands with thee, to see

Thou wast a poet--Andrew Lee!

Though thou wast guiltless all the time

Of putting any thoughts in rhyme;

Ah, little fisher boy! since then,

Ladies I’ve seen and learned men,

All clever, and some great and wise,

Who study all things, earth and skies,

Who much have seen, and much have read,

And famous things have writ and said;

But Andrew, never have I heard

One who so much my spirit stirred,

As he who sate with me an hour,

Screened from the pelting thunder-shower--

Now laughing in his merry wit;

Now talking in a serious fit,

In speech that poured like water free;

And that was thou--poor Andrew Lee!

Then shame to think I knew thee not--

Thou hast not, nor have I forgot;

And long ’twill be ere I forget

How thou took’st up thy laden net,

And gave me all that it contained,

Because I too thy heart had gained!

THE WANDERER’S RETURN.

There was a girl of fair Provence,

Fresh as a flower in May,

Who ’neath a spreading plane-tree sate,

Upon a summer-day,

And thus unto a mourner young,

In a low voice did say.

“And said I, I shall dance no more;

For though but young in years,

I knew what makes men wise and sad,--

Affection’s ceaseless fears,

And that dull aching of the heart,

Which is not eased by tears.

“But sorrow will not always last,

Heaven keeps our griefs in view;

Mine is a simple tale, dear friend,

Yet I will tell it you;

A simple tale of household grief

And household gladness too.

“My father in the battle died,

And left young children three;

My brother Marc, a noble lad,

With spirit bold and free,

More kind than common brothers are;

And Isabel and me.

“When Marc was sixteen summers old,

A tall youth and a strong,

Said he, ‘I am a worthless drone,

I do my mother wrong--

I’ll hence and win the bread I eat,

I’ve burdened you too long!’

“Oh! many tears my mother shed;

And earnestly did pray,

That he would still abide with us,

And be the house’s stay;

And be like morning to her eyes,

As he had been alway.

“But Marc he had a steadfast will,

A purpose fixed and good,

And calmly still and manfully

Her prayers he long withstood;

Until at length she gave consent,

Less willing than subdued.

“Twas on a shining morn in June,

He rose up to depart;

I dared not to my mother show

The sadness of my heart;

We said farewell, and yet farewell.

As if we could not part.

“There seemed a gloom within the house,

Although the bright sun shone;

There was a want within our hearts--

For he, the dearest one,

Had said farewell that morn of June,

And from our sight was gone.

“At length most doleful tidings came,

Sad tidings of dismay;

The plague was in the distant town,

And hundreds died each day;

We thought, in truth, poor Marc would die,

’Mid strangers far away.

“Weeks passed, and months, and not a word

Came from him to dispel

The almost certainty of death

Which o’er our spirits fell;

My mother drooped from fear, which grew

Each day more terrible.

“At length she said, ‘I’ll see my son

In life if yet he be,

Or else the turf that covers him!’

When sank she on her knee,

And clasped her hands in silent prayer

And wept most piteously.

“She went into the distant town,

Still asking everywhere

For tidings of her long lost son:--

In vain she made her prayer;

All were so full of woe themselves,

No pity had they to spare.

“To hear her tell that tale would move

The sternest heart to bleed;

She was a stranger in that place,

Yet none of her took heed;

And broken-hearted she came back,

A bowed and bruised reed.

“I marked her cheek yet paler grow,

More sunken yet her eye;

And to my soul assurance came

That she was near to die,

And hourly was my earnest prayer

Put up for her on high.

“Oh, what a woe seemed then to us,

The friendless orphan’s fate!

I dared not picture to my mind,

How drear, how desolate--

But, like a frightened thing, my heart

Shrunk from a pang so great!

“We rarely left my mother’s side,

’Twas joy to touch her hand,

And with unwearying, patient love,

Beside her couch to stand,

To wait on her, and every wish

Unspoke to understand.

“At length, oh joy beyond all joys!

When we believed him dead,

One calm and sunny afternoon,

As she lay on her bed

In quiet sleep, methought below

I heard my brother’s tread.

“I rose, and on the chamber stair,

I met himself--no other--

More beautiful than ere before,

My tall and manly brother!

I should have swooned, but for the thought

Of my poor sleeping mother.

“I cannot tell you how we met;--

I could not speak for weeping;

Nor had I words enough for joy,--

My heart within seemed leaping,

I should have screamed, but for the thought

Of her who there lay sleeping!

“That Marc returned in joy to us,

My mother dreamed e’en then,

And that prepared her for the bliss

Of meeting him again;--

To tell how great that bliss, would need

The tongue of wisest men!

“His lightest tone, his very step,

More power had they to win

My drooping mother back to life,

Than every medicine;

She rose again, like one revived

From death where he had been!

“The story that my brother told

Was long, and full of joy;

Scarce to the city had he come,

A poor and friendless boy,

Than he chanced to meet a merchant good,

From whom he asked employ.

“The merchant was a childless man;

And in my brother’s face,

Something he saw that moved his heart

To such unusual grace;

‘My son,’ said he, ‘is dead, wilt thou

Supply to me his place?’

“Even then, bound to the golden East,

His ship before him lay;

And this new bond of love was formed

There, standing on the quay;

My brother went on board with him,

And sailed that very day!

“The letter that he wrote to us,

It never reached our hand;

And while we drooped with anxious love,

He gained the Indian strand,

And saw a thousand wondrous things,

In that old, famous land.

“And many rich and curious things,

Bright bird and pearly shell;

He brought as if to realize

The tales he had to tell;

My mother smiled, and wept, and smiled,

And listened, and grew well.

“The merchant loved him more and more,

And did a father’s part;

And blessed my brother for the love

That healed his wounded heart;

He was a friend that heaven had sent

Kind mercy to impart.

“So do not droop, my gentle friend,

Though grief may burden sore;

Look up to God, for he hath love

And comfort in great store,

And ofttimes moveth human hearts

To bless us o’er and o’er.”

A SWINGING SONG.

Merry it is on a summer’s day,

All through the meadows to wend away;

To watch the brooks glide fast or slow,

And the little fish twinkle down below;

To hear the lark in the blue sky sing,

Oh, sure enough, ’tis a merry thing--But

’tis merrier far to swing--to swing!

Merry it is on a winter’s night,

To listen to tales of elf and sprite,

Of caves and castles so dim and old,--

The dismallest tales that ever were told;--

And then to laugh, and then to sing,

You may take my word is a merry thing,--

But ’tis merrier far to swing--to swing!

Down with the hoop upon the green;

Down with the ringing tambourine;--

Little heed we for this or for that;

Off with the bonnet, off with the hat!

Away we go like birds on the wing!

Higher yet! higher yet! “Now for the King!”

This is the way we swing--we swing!

Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light,

Mount up behind him--there, that is right!

Down bends the branch now;--swing him away;

Higher yet--higher yet--higher I say!

Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us sing

“A pear for the Queen--an apple for the King!”

And shake the old tree as we swing--we swing!

ELLEN MORE.

“Sweet Ellen More,” said I, “come forth

Beneath the sunny sky;

Why stand you musing all alone,

With such an anxious eye?

What is it, child, that aileth you?”

And thus she made reply:

“The fields are green, the skies are bright,

The leaves are on the tree,

And ’mong the sweet flowers of the thyme

Far flies the honey-bee;

And the lark hath sung since morning prime,

And merrily singeth he.

“Yet not for this shall I go forth

On the open hills to play,

There’s not a bird that singeth now,

Would tempt me hence to stray;--

I would not leave our cottage door

For a thousand flowers to-day!”

“And why?” said I, “what is there here

Beside your cottage door,

To make a merry girl like you

Thus idly stand to pore?

There is a mystery in this thing,--

Now tell me, Ellen More!”

The fair girl looked into my face,

With her dark and serious eye;

Silently awhile she looked,

Then heaved a quiet sigh;

And, with a half-reluctant will,

Again she made reply.

“Three years ago, unknown to us,

When nuts were on the tree,

Even in the pleasant harvest-time,

My brother went to sea--

Unknown to us, to sea he went,

And a woful house were we.

“That winter was a weary time,

A long, dark time of woe;

For we knew not in what ship he sailed

And vainly sought to know;

And day and night the loud, wild winds

Seemed evermore to blow.

“My mother lay upon her bed,

Her spirit sorely tossed

With dismal thoughts of storm and wreck

Upon some savage coast,

But morn and eve we prayed to Heaven

That he might not be lost.

“And when the pleasant spring came on,

And fields again were green,

He sent a letter full of news,

Of the wonders he had seen;

Praying us to think him dutiful

As he afore had been.

“The tidings that came next were from

A sailor old and gray,

Who saw his ship at anchor lie

In the harbor at Bombay;

But he said my brother pined for home,

And wished he were away.

“Again he wrote a letter long,

Without a word of gloom;

And soon, and very soon he said,

He should again come home;

I watched, as now, beside the door,

And yet he did not come.

“I watched and watched, but I knew not then

It would be all in vain;

For very sick he lay the while,

In a hospital in Spain.--

Ah, me! I fear my brother dear

Will ne’er come home again!

“And now I watch--for we have heard

That he is on his way,

And the letter said, in very truth,

He would be here to-day.

Oh! there’s no bird that singeth now

Could tempt me hence away!”

--That self-same eve I wandered down

Unto the busy strand,

Just as a little boat came in

With people to the land;

And ’mongst them was a sailor-boy

Who leaped upon the sand.

I knew him by his dark blue eyes,

And by his features fair;

And as he leaped ashore he sang

A simple Scottish air,--

“There’s nae place like our ain dear hame

To be met wi’ onywhere!”

A DAY OF DISASTERS.

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN PETER AND ZEDEKIAH.

PETER.--Zedekiah, come here!

ZEDEKIAH.--Well now, what’s the matter?

PETER.--Look at my hat; the more I set it right, it only gets the

flatter.

ZEDEKIAH.--Why, Peter, what’s come to your hat? I never saw such a

thing.

PETER.--I’ve had nothing but ill-luck to-day; I did this with the

swing;

I’ve been tossed into the apple-tree just as if I was a ball,

And though I caught hold of a bough, I’ve had a terrible fall;

I’m sure I should have cracked my scull, had it not been for my hat.

You may see what a fall it was, for the crown’s quite flat;

And it never will take its shape again, do all that ever I may!

ZEDEKIAH.--Never mind it, Peter! Put it on your head, and come along,

I say!

PETER.--Nay, I shall not. I shall sit down under this tree;

I’ve had nothing but ill-luck to-day. Come, sit down by me,

And I’ll tell you all, Zedekiah, for I feel quite forlorn;

Oh dear! oh dear! I’m lamed now!--I’ve sate down upon a thorn!

ZEDEKIAH.--Goodness’ sake! Peter be still--what a terrible bellow--

One would think you’d sate on a hornet’s nest; sit down, my good

fellow.

PETER.--I’ll be sure there are no more thorns here, before I set

down;

Pretty well of one thorn at a time, Master Zedekiah Brown!

There, now, I think this seat is safe and easy--so now you must know

I was fast asleep at breakfast time; and you’ll always find it so,

That if you begin a day ill, it will be ill all the day.

Well, when I woke, the breakfast-things were clattering all away:

And I know they had eggs and fowl, and all sort of good things;

But then none may partake who are in bed when the morning bell

rings;

So, sadly vexed as I was, I rolled myself round in bed,

And, “as breakfast is over, I’ll not hurry myself,” I said,

So I just got into a nice little doze, when in came my mother;

And “for shame, Peter,” she said, “to be a-bed now! well, you can’t

go with your brother!”

Then out of the door she went, without another word;

And just then a sound of wheels, and of pawing horses’ hoofs I

heard;

So I jumped up to the window to see what it was, and I declare

There was a grand party of fine folks setting off somewhere:

There was my brother, mounted on the pony so sleek and brown;

And Bell in her white frock, and my mother in her satin gown;

And my father in his best, and two gentlemen beside;

And I had never heard a word about it, either of drive or ride!

I really think it was very queer of them to set off in that way--

If I’d only known over-night, I’d have been up by break of day!

As you may think, I was sadly vexed, but I did not choose to show

it,

So I whistled as I came down stairs, that the servants might not

know it;

Then I went into the yard, and called the dog by his name,

For I thought if they were gone, he and I might have a good game;

But I called and called, and there was no dog either in this place

or th’ other;

And Thomas said, “Master Peter, Neptune’s gone with your brother.”

Well, as there was no dog, I went to look for the fox,

And sure enough the chain was broke, and there was no creature in

the box;

But where the fellow had gone nobody could say,

He had broken loose himself, I suppose, and so had slipped away;

I would give anything I have but to find the fox again--

And was it not provoking, Zedekiah, to lose him just then?

ZEDEKIAH.--Provoking enough! Well, Peter, and what happened next?

PETER.--Why, when I think of it now, it makes me quite vexed;

I went into the garden, just to look about

To see, if the green peas were ready, or the scarlet-lychnis come

out;

And there, what should I clap my eyes on but the old sow,

And seven little pigs, making a pretty row!

And of all places in the world, as if for very spite,

They had gone into my garden, and spoiled and ruined it quite!

The old sow, she had grubbed up my rosemary and old-man by the root,

And my phlox and my sunflowers, and my hollyhocks that were as black

as soot;

And every flower that I set store on was ruined for ever;

I never was so mortified in all my life--never!

ZEDEKIAH.--You sent them off, I should think, with a famous swither!

PETER.--Grunting and tumbling one over the other, I cared not

whither.

Well, as I was just then standing, grieving over the ruin,

I heard Thomas call, “Master Peter, come and see what the rats have

been doing--

They’ve eaten all the guinea-pigs’ heads off!”

ZEDEKIAH.--Oh, Peter, was it true?

PETER.--Away I ran, not knowing what in the world to do!--

And there--I declare it makes me quite shudder to the bone--

Lay all my pretty little guinea-pigs as dead as a stone!

“It’s no matter of use,” says Thomas, “setting traps; for you see

They no more care for a trap, than I do for a pea;

I’ll lay my life on’t, there are twenty rats now down in that hole,

And we can no more reach ’em, than an underground mole!”

I declare, Zedekiah, I never passed such a day before--not I;

It makes me quite low-spirited, till I’m ready to cry.

All those pretty guinea-pigs! and I’ve nothing left at all,

Only the hawk, and I’ve just set his cage on the wall.

ZEDEKIAH.--Hush! hush, now! for Thomas is saying something there,

PETER.--What d’ye say, Thomas?

THOMAS.--The hawk’s soaring in the air! The cage-door was open, and

he’s flown clean away!

PETER.--There now, Zedekiah, is it not an unfortunate day?

I’ve lost all my favourites--I’ve nothing left at all,

And my garden is spoiled, and I’ve had such a dreadful fall!

I wish I had been up this morning as early as the sun,

And then I should have gone to Canonley, nor have had all this

mischief done!

I’m sure its quite enough to make me cry for a year--

Let’s go into the house, Zedekiah; what’s the use of sitting here?

THE YOUNG MOURNER.

Leaving her sports, in pensive tone,

’Twas thus a fair young mourner said,

“How sad we are now we’re alone,--

I wish my mother were not dead!

“I can remember she was fair;

And how she kindly looked and smiled,

When she would fondly stroke my hair,

And call me her beloved child.

“Before my mother went away,

You never sighed as now you do;

You used to join us at our play,

And be our merriest playmate too.

“Father, I can remember when

I first observed her sunken eye,

And her pale, hollow cheek; and then

I told my brother she would die!

“And the next morn they did not speak,

But led us to her silent bed;

They bade us kiss her icy cheek,

And told us she indeed was dead!

“Oh, then I thought how she was kind,

My own beloved and gentle mother!

And calling all I knew to mind,

I thought there ne’er was such another!

“Poor little Charles, and I! that day

We sate within our silent room;

But we could neither read nor play,--

The very walls seemed full of gloom.

“I wish my mother had not died,

We never have been glad since then!

They say, and is it true,” she cried,

“That she can never come again?”

The father checked his tears, and thus

He spake, “My child, they do not err,

Who say she cannot come to us;

But you and I may go to her.

“Remember your dear mother still,

And the pure precepts she has given;

Like her, be humble, free from ill,

And you shall see her face in heaven!”

THE SOLDIER’S STORY.

“Heaven bless the boys!” the old man said,

“I hear their distant drumming,--

Young Arthur Bruce is at their head,

And down the street they’re coming.

“And a very noble standard too

He carries in the van;

By the faith of an old soldier, he

Is born to make a man!”

A glow of pride passed o’er his cheek,

A tear came to his eye;

“Hurra, hurra! my gallant men!”

Cried he, as they came nigh.

“It seems to me but yesterday

Since I was one like ye,

And now my years are seventy-two,--

Come here, and talk with me!”

They made a halt, those merry boys,

Before the aged man;

And “tell us now some story wild,”

Young Arthur Bruce began;

“Of battle and of victory

Tell us some stirring thing!”

The old man raised his arm aloft,

And cried, “God save the King!

“A soldier’s is a life of fame,

A life that hath its meed--

They write his wars in printed books,

That every man may read.

“And if you’d hear a story wild,

Of war and battle done,

I am the man to tell such tales,

And you shall now have one.

“In every quarter of the globe

I’ve fought--by sea, by land;

And scarce for five and fifty years

Was the musket from my hand.

“But the bloodiest wars, and fiercest too,

That were waged on any shore,

Were those in which my strength were spent,

In the country of Mysore.

“And oh! what a fearful, deadly clime

Is that of the Indian land,

Where the burning sun shines fiercely down

On the hot and fiery sand!

“The life of man seems little worth,

And his arm hath little power

His very soul within him dies,

As dies a broken flower.

“Yet spite of this, was India made

As for a kingly throne;

There gold is plentiful as dust,

As sand the diamond stone;

“And like a temple is each house,

Silk-curtained from the sun;

And every man has twenty slaves,

Who at his bidding run.

“He rides on the lordly elephant,

In solemn pomp;--and there

They hunt the gold-striped tiger,

As here they hunt the hare.

“Yet it is a dreadful clime! and we

Up in the country far

Were sent,--we were two thousand men,

In a disastrous war.

“The soldiers died in the companies

As if the plague had been;

And soon in every twenty men,

The dead were seventeen.

“We went to storm a fort of mud--

And yet the place was strong--

Three thousand men were guarding it,

And they had kept it long.

“We were in all three hundred souls,

Feeble and worn and wan;

Like walking spectres of the tomb,

Was every living man.

“Yet Arthur Bruce, now standing there,

With the ensign of his band,

Reminds me of a gallant youth,

Who fought at my right hand.

“Scarce five and twenty years of age,

And feeble as the rest,

Yet with the bearing of a king,

That noble soul expressed.

“But a silent grief was in his eye,

And oft his noble frame

Shook like a quivering aspen leaf,

And his colour went and came.

“He marched by my side for seven days,

Most patient of our band;

And night and day he ever kept

Our standard in his hand.

“They fought with us like tigers,

Before that fort of mud;

And all around the burning sands

Were as a marsh with blood.

“We watched that young man,--he to us

Was as a kindling hope;

We saw him pressing on and on,

Bearing the standard up.

“At length it for a moment veered--

A ball had struck his hand,

But he seized the banner with his left,

Without a moment’s stand.

“He mounted upward to the wall;

He waved the standard high,--

But then another smote him!--

And the captain standing by

“Said, ‘Of this gallant youth take care,

He hath won for us the day!’

I and my comrades took him up,

And bore him thence away.

“There was no tree about the place,

So ’neath the fortress shade

We carried him, and carefully

Upon the red sand laid.

“I took the feather from my cap,

To fan his burning cheek;

I gave him water, drop by drop,

And prayed that he would speak.

“At length he said, ‘mine hour is come!

My soldier-name is bright;

But a pang there is within my soul,

That hath wrung me day and night:

“‘I left my mother’s home without

Her blessing;--she doth mourn,

Doth weep for me with bitter tears,--

I never can return!

“‘This bowed my eagle-spirit down,

This robbed mine eye of rest;

I left her widowed and alone:--

Oh that I had been blessed!’

“No more he said,--he closed his eyes.

And yet he died not then;

He lived till the morrow morning came,

But he never spoke again.”

This tale the veteran soldier told,

Upon a summer’s day;--

The boys came merrily down the street,

But they all went sad away.

THE CHILD’S LAMENT.

I like it not--this noisy street

I never liked, nor can I now--

I love to feel the pleasant breeze

On the free hills, and see the trees,

With birds upon the bough!

Oh, I remember long ago,--

So long ago, ’tis like a dream--

My home was on a green-hill side,

By flowery meadows, still and wide,

’Mong trees, and by a stream.

Three happy brothers I had then,

My merry playmates every day--

I’ve looked and looked through street and square,

But never chanced I, anywhere,

To see such boys as they.

We all had gardens of our own--

Four little gardens in a row,--

And there we set our twining peas;

And rows of cress; and real trees,

And real flowers to grow.

My father I remember too,

And even now his face can see;

And the gray horse he used to ride,

And the old dog that at his side

Went barking joyfully!

He used to fly my brothers’ kites,

And build them up a man of snow,

And sail their boats, and with them race;

And carry me from place to place;

Just as I liked to go.

I’m sure he was a pleasant man,

And people must have loved him well!

Oh, I remember that sad day

When they bore him in a hearse away,

And tolled his funeral bell!

Thy mother comes each night to kiss

Thee, in thy little quiet bed--

So came my mother years ago;

And I loved her--oh! I loved her so,

’Twas joy to hear her tread!

It must be many, many years

Since then, and yet I can recall

Her very tone--her look--her dress,

Her pleasant smile and gentleness,

That had kind words for all.

She told us tales, she sang us songs,

And in our pastimes took delight,

And joined us in our summer glee,

And sat with us beneath the tree!

Nor wearied of our company,

Whole days, from morn till night.

Alas! I know that she is dead,

And in the cold, cold grave is hid;

I saw her in her coffin lie,

With the grim mourners standing by;

And silent people solemnly

Closed down the coffin lid.

My brothers were not there--ah me!

I know not where they went; some said

With a rich man beyond the sea

That they were dwelling pleasantly--

And some that they were dead.

I cannot think that it is so,

I never saw them pale and thin,

And the last time their voice I heard,

Merry were they as a summer-bird,

Singing its bowers within.

I wish that I could see their faces,

Or know at least that they were near;

Ah! gladly would I cross the sea,

So that with them I might but be,

For now my days pass wearily,

And all are strangers here.

A DAY OF HARD WORK.

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN HARRY AND KITTY.

KITTY.--Well, now you’ve been running about so, pray can’t you sit

still?

I want to have some talk with you, and I certainly will:

I’ve got all this unpicking to do, for while I talk I must work;

You boys can run about idling--I sit stitching like a Turk,

Come, now tell me, can’t you, something about the farm-yard?

How many eggs has the turkey laid--and is that muddy place dry and

hard?

Come, tell me in a minute, I haven’t patience to wait;

And till you begin, sir, there’s a thimble-pie for you on the top of

your pate.

HARRY.--Oh Kitty! you’ve knocked me so, I’ll tell my mother, that I

will!

If you do so, miss, nobody will like you, so you’d better be still.

KITTY.--Well, then, tell me something! why should I be still and

nobody talking?

HARRY.--Oh! I’m tired with this running about, and this riding, and

this walking;

I wish there was no such thing as running or walking at all;

And I wish every horse were in the fields, or else tied up in its

stall!

What’s your work, Kitty? sitting still in the house at ease;

You’ve nothing to do but to sit down, and get up again, just as you

please;

And yet you talk of your work, as if ’twas the hardest that e’er was

done,

Why compare it with mine, child, and I’m sure it’s nothing but

fun!

KITTY.--Child! I’m no more child than you; I’m but younger by a

year,

I desire you to speak respectfully to me, now, sir,--do you hear?

HARRY.--Yes, yes, I hear! But I really am so tired, as I was just

now saying;

I wish you’d get your work done, and let’s begin playing!

You can’t believe, I’m sure, all the work I’ve done this day--

I’ve weeded two carrot beds, and the onions-- and carried all the

weeds away;

And I’ve been down to Thomas Jackson’s to tell him to get the horse

shod;

And in coming back there was a great, big, rusty nail, upon which I

trod,

And it lamed me so, I don’t believe I shall walk for a week,

At least as I ought to do, for my ancle has quite a creak!

KITTY.--Oh dear, let me look at it! Why, I’m sure it is quite

shocking--

See, there’s a hole as large as my thimble in the ancle of your

stocking!

HARRY.--Oh no, ’tis the other foot--that I tore with a bramble;

And that reminds me, Jack Smith and I had such a terrible scramble!

We were catching the pony that I might ride down to the mill,

To bid him bring the flour home, for I declare he has it still;

And we shan’t have a bit of white bread in the house, nor a pudding,

nor a pie,

If he don’t bring it home--every one says he’s shamefully idle, and

so do I.

Well, but I haven’t told you after all, what a deal of work I’ve

done;

And I’m sure if you knew what weeding was, you would not call it

fun;

It makes one’s back ache so, stooping to weed all day,

I shall be famously glad when it’s done!

KITTY.--But are you quite ready for play?

I’ve but a little bit to do--I shall have done in half a quarter of

an hour;

And as you’ve nothing to do, just run and see if that lavender’s in

flower--

There’s a good Harry, do; I’ll do seven times as much for you;

You know I sewed, yesterday, that old clasp in your shoe.

HARRY.--I’d go, if I thought you’d have done by the time I come

back:

KITTY.--To be sure I shall!--I wish you would not waste so much

time with your clack!

HARRY.--Well, just let me pull up my shoe, and put by this peacock’s

feather,

KITTY.--Nay, you may as well stay now; I’ve just done, and we’ll

both go together;

For I want to show you something like a magpie’s nest up in a tree,

Only I don’t think it is a magpie’s nest, and I can’t think what it

can be;

And it is just by the lavender bush, and ’twill save us going there

twice:--

There, now I’ve done my work! and I shall be ready in a trice!

HARRY.--Well, then let us begone; we shall have two whole hours for

play;

I didn’t think we should have had so much time, and I’ been working

all day!

THE OLD MAN AND THE CARRION CROW.

There was a man and his name was Jack,

Crabbed and lean, and his looks were black--

His temper was sour, his thoughts were bad;

His heart was hard when he was a lad.

And now he followed a dismal trade,

Old horses he bought and killed and flayed,

Their flesh he sold for the dogs to eat;

You would not have liked this man to meet.

He lived in a low mud-house on a moor,

Without any garden before the door.

There was one little hovel behind, that stood,

Where he used to do his work of blood;

I never could bear to see the place,

It was stained and darkened with many a trace;

A trace of what I will not tell--

And then there was such an unchristian smell!

Now this old man did come and go,

Through the wood that grew in the dell below;

It was scant a mile from his own door-stone,

Darksome and dense, and overgrown;

And down in the drearest nook of the wood,

A tall and splintered fir-tree stood;

Half-way up, where the boughs outspread,

A carrion crow his nest had made,

Of sticks and reeds in the dark fir-tree,

Where lay his mate and his nestlings three;

And whenever he saw the man come by,

“Dead horse! dead horse!” he was sure to cry,

“Croak, croak!” if he went or came,

The cry of the crow was just the same,

Jack looked up as grim as could be,

And says, “what’s my trade to the like of thee!”

“Dead horse! dead horse! croak, croak! croak, croak!”

As plain as words to his ear it spoke.

Old Jack stooped down and picked up a stone,

A stout, thick stick, and dry cow’s bone,

And one and the other all three did throw,

So angry was he, at the carrion crow;

But none of the three reached him or his nest,

Where his three young crows lay warm at rest;

And “Croak, croak! dead horse! croak, croak!”

In his solemn way again he spoke;

Old Jack was angry as he could be,

And says he, “On the morrow, I’ll fell thy tree,--

I’ll teach thee, old fellow, to rail at me!”

As soon as t’was light, if there you had been,

Old Jack at his work you might have seen;

I would you’d been there to see old Jack,

And to hear the strokes as they came “thwack! thwack!”

And then you’d have seen how the croaking bird

Flew round as the axe’s stroke he heard,

Flew round as he saw the shaking blow,

That came to his nest from the root below,

One after the other, stroke upon stroke;

“Thwack! thwack!” said the axe, said the crow, “Croak! croak!”

Old Jack looked up with a leer in his eye,

And “I’ll hew it down!” says he, “by and bye!

I’ll teach thee to rail, my old fellow, at me!”

So he spit on his hands, and says, “have at the tree!”

“Thwack!” says the axe, as the bark it clove;

“Thwack!” as into the wood it drove;

“Croak!” says the crow in a great dismay,

“Croak!” as he slowly flew away.

Flap, flap went his wings over hedge and ditch,

Till he came to a field of burning twitch;

The boy with a lighted lantern there,

As he stood on the furrow brown and bare,

He saw the old crow hop hither and thither,

Then fly with a burning sod somewhither.

Away flew the crow to the house on the moor,

A poor, old horse was tied to the door;

The burning sod on the roof he dropped,

Then upon the chimney stone he hopped,

And down he peeped that he might see,

How many there were in family--

There was a mother and children three.

“Croak! croak!” the old crow did say.

As from the roof he flew away,

As he flew away to the tree, to watch

The burning sod and the dry grey thatch,

He stayed not long till he saw it smoke,

Then he flapped his wings, and cried, “Croak, croak!”

Away to the wood again, flew he,

And soon he espied the slanting tree,

And Jack, who stood laughing with all his might,

His axe in his hand--he laughed for spite;

In triumph he laughed, and took up a stone,

And hammered his axe-head faster on;

“Croak, croak!” came the carrion crow,

Flapping his wings with a motion slow;

“Thwack, thwack!” the spiteful man,

When he heard his cry, with his axe began;

“Thwack, thwack!” stroke upon stroke;

The crow flew by with a “Croak, croak!”

With a “Croak, croak!” again he came,

Just as the house burst into flame.

With a splitting crash, and a crackling sound,

Down came the tree unto the ground;

The old’s crow’s nest afar was swung;

And the young ones here and there were flung;

And just at that moment came up a cry,

“Oh Jack, make haste, or else we die;

The house is on fire, consuming all,

Make haste, make haste, ere the roof tree fall!”

The young crows every one were dead;

But the old crow croaked above his head;

And the mother-crow on Jack she springs,

And flaps in his face her great, black wings;

And all the while he hears a wail,

That turns his cheek from red to pale--

’Twas wife and children standing there

Wringing their hands and tearing their hair!

“Oh woe, our house is burnt to cinder,

Bedding and clothes all turned to tinder;

Down to the very hearth-stone clean,

Such a dismal ruin ne’er was seen:

What shall we do?--where must we go?”

“Croak, croak!” says the carrion crow.

* * * * *

Now ye who read this story through,

Heed well the moral--’tis for you;--

Strife brings forth strife; be meek and kind

See all things with a loving mind;

Nor e’er by passion be misled,--

Jack by himself was punished.

THE LITTLE MARINER.

Ay, sitting on your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee,

How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea!

My father was a mariner, and from my earliest years,

I can remember, night and day, my mother’s prayers and tears.

I can remember how she sighed when blew the stormy gale;

And how for days she stood to watch the long-expected sail:

Hers was a silent, patient grief; but fears and long delay,

And wakeful nights and anxious days were wearing her away.

And when the gusty winds were loud, and autumn leaves were red,

I watched, with heavy heart, beside my mother’s dying bed;

Just when her voice was feeblest, the neighbors came to say,

The ship was hailed an hour before, and then was in the bay.

Alas! too late the ship returned, too late her life to save;

My father closed her dying eyes, and laid her in the grave.

He was a man of ardent hopes, who never knew dismay;

And, spite of grief, the winter time wore cheerfully away.

He had crossed the equinoctial line, full seven times or more,

And sailing northward, had been wrecked on icy Labrador:

He knew the Spicy-isles, every one, where the clove and nutmeg grow,

And the aloe towers a stately tree with clustering bells of snow.

He had gone the length of Hindostan, down Ganges’ holy flood;

Through Persia, where the peacock broods a wild bird of the wood;

And, in the forests of the West, had seen the red-deer chased,

And dwelt beneath the piny woods, a hunter of the waste.

Oh! pleasant were the tales he told of lands so strange and new;

And, in my ignorance I vowed, I’d be a sailor too:

My father heard my vow with joy,--so in the early May,

We went on board a merchant-man, bound for Honduras’ bay.

Right merrily, right merrily, we sailed before the wind,

With a briskly heaving sea before, and the landsman’s cheer behind.

There was joy for me in every league, delight on every strand,

And I sate for days on the high fore-top, on the long look-out for

land.

There was joy for me in the nightly watch, on the burning Tropic

seas,

To mark the waves, like living fires, leap up to the freshening

breeze.

Right merrily, right merrily, our gallant ship went free,

Until we neared the rocky shoals within the Western sea.

Yet still none thought of danger near, till in the silent night,

The helmsman gave the dreadful word of “breakers to the right!”

The moment that his voice was heard, was felt the awful shock;

The ship sprang forward with a bound, and struck upon a rock.

“All hands aloft!” our captain cried;--in terror and dismay

They threw the cargo overboard, and cut the masts away;

’Twas all in vain, ’twas all in vain! the sea rushed o’er the deck,

And shattered with the beating surf, down went the parting wreck.

The moment that the wreck went down, my father seized me fast,

And leaping ’mid the thundering waves, seized on the broken mast:

I know not how he bore me up, my senses seemed to swim,

A shuddering horror chilled my brain, and stiffened every limb.

What next I knew, was how at morn, on a bleak barren shore,

Out of a hundred mariners, were living only four.

I looked around, like one who wakes from dreams of fierce alarm,

And round my body still I felt, firm locked, my father’s arm.

And with a rigid, dying grasp, he closely held me fast,

Even as he held me when he seized, at midnight on the mast.

With humbled hearts and streaming eyes, down knelt the little band,

Praying Him who had preserved their lives, to lend his guiding hand.

And day by day, though burning thirst and pining hunger came,

His mercy, through our misery, preserved each drooping frame:

And after months of weary woe, sickness, and travel sore,

He sent the blessed English ship that took us from that shore.

And now, without a home or friend, I wander far and near,

And tell my miserable tale to all who lend an ear.

Thus sitting by your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee,

How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea!

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB OF THE COTTAGE.

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, ’tis full of grief and pain,

It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain,

It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!

The children of the rich man have not their bread to win:

They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin;

Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin.

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear;

In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share;

They walk among life’s pleasant ways, and never know a care.

The children of the poor man--though they be young, each one,

Early in the morning they rise up before the rising sun,

And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is done.

Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with

pride,--

The sunshine of the summer’s day, the flowers on the highway side,

Or their own free companionship, on the heathy common wide.

Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three;

But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty:--

It may not have one thing to love, how small soe’er it be.

A thousand flocks were on the hills--a thousand flocks, and more,--

Feeding in sunshine pleasantly,--they were the rich man’s store;

There was the while, one little lamb, beside a cottage door;

A little lamb that did lie down with the children ’neath the tree;

That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled on their knee;

That had a place within their hearts, as one of the family.

But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed,

The father laboured all day long, that his children might be fed;

And, one by one, their household things, were sold to buy them bread.

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,

Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued;

“What is the creature’s life to us?” said he, “’twill buy us food!

“Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head

Each does his small craft mournfully!--the hungry must be fed;

And that which has a price to bring, must go, to buy us bread!”

It went--oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring,

But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,

With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing!

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,

Most sorrowful to hear them plead for their pet so piteously;--

“Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?

“Let’s take him to the broad, green hills,” in his impotent despair,

Said one strong boy, “let’s take him off, the hills are wide and

fair;

I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there!”

’Twas vain!--they took the little lamb, and straightway tied him

down,

With a strong cord they tied him fast;--and o’er the common brown,

And o’er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow

From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow;

The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow!--

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, ’tis full of grief and pain--

It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;

It maketh even the little child, with heavy sighs complain!

AMERICA.

A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR.

“I was at William Penn’s country-house, called Pensbury, in

Pennsylvania, where I staid some days. Much of my time I spent in

seeing William Penn, and many of the chief men among the Indians, in

council concerning their former covenant, now renewed on his going

away for England. To pass by several particulars, I may mention the

following: ‘They never broke covenant with any people,’ said one of

their great chiefs; and, smiting his hand upon his head, he said, ‘they

made not their covenants there, but _here_,’ said he, smiting on his

breast three times.

* * * * *

“I, being walking in the woods, espied several wigwams, and drew

towards them. The love of God filled my heart; and I felt it right to

look for an interpreter, which I did. Then I signified that I was come

from a far country with a message from the Great Spirit (as they call

God,) and my message was to endeavour to persuade them that they should

not be drunkards, nor steal, nor kill one another, nor fight, nor put

away their wives for small faults; for if they did these things, the

Great Spirit would be angry with them, and would not prosper them, but

bring trouble on them. On the contrary, if they were careful to refrain

from these evils, then would he love them, and prosper them, and speak

peace to them. And when the interpreter expressed these things to them

in their own language, they wept till tears ran down their naked bodies.

* * * * *

“They manifested much love towards me in their way, as they did mostly

to upright, plain-dealing Friends; and whilst I was amongst them my

spirit was very easy: nor did I feel that power of darkness to oppress

me, as I had done in many places amongst people calling themselves

_Christians_.”--_Journal of John Richardson, one of the early Friends._

* * * * *

They read of rapine, war, and woe,

A party by an English fire,--

Of Indian warfare in the wood,

Of stern and ruthless ire.

They read of torture worse than death--

Of treachery dark--of natures base--

Of women savage as the beast--

Of the red Indian race.

“Hold!” said the matron of the hearth,

A woman beautiful in age;

“And let me of the Indian speak;

Close, close that faithless page!

“My father was the youngest born

In an old rural English hall;

The youngest out of five stout sons,

With patrimony small.

“His boyhood was in greenwood spent;

His youth was all a sylvan dream;

He tracked the game upon the hills;

He angled in the stream.

“Quiet was he, and well content,

With naught to fret, and none to chide;

For all that his young heart desired

The woods and streams supplied.

“Small knowledge had a youth so trained,

College or school ne’er knew his face;

And yet as he grew up, he grew

Superior to his race.

“His brethren were of sordid sort,

Men with coarse minds, and without range;

He grew adventurous and bold,

Inquisitive of change.

“And, as he grew, he took to books,

And read what’er the hall supplied;

Histories of admirals, voyages old,

And travels far and wide.

“He read of settlers, who went forth

To the far west, and pitched their tent

Within the woods, and grew, ere long,

To a great, prosperous settlement.

“He read of the bold lives they led,

Full of adventure, hardy, free;

Of the wild creatures they pursued,

Of game in every tree.

“And how the Indians, quaintly gay,

Came down in wampum-belt and feather,

To welcome them with courteous grace;

How they and the free forest race

Hunted and dwelt together.

“And how they and their chosen mates

Led lives so sweet and primitive:

Oh! in such land, with one dear heart,

What joy it were to live!

“So thought he, and such life it were

As suited well his turn of mind;

For what within his father’s house

Was there to lure or bind?

“Four needy brothers, coarse and dull;

A patrimony, quite outspent;

A mother, long since in her grave;

A father, weak and indolent!

“At twenty he had ta’en a mate,

A creature gentle, kind, and fair;

Poor, like himself, but well content

The forest-life to share.

“She left an old white-headed sire;

A mother loving, thoughtful, good;

She left a home of love, to live

For him, within the wood.

“And that old couple did provide,

Out of their need, for many a want

Else unforseen; their daughter’s dower

In gifts of love, not scant.

“His father with cold scorn received

So dowered a daughter, without name;

Nor could his purposed exile win

Either assent or blame.

“All was a chill of indifference;

And from his father’s gate he went,

As from a place where none for him

Had kindred sentiment.

“And in the westren world they dwelt;

Life, like a joyous summer morn,

Each hope fulfilled; and in the wild

To them were children born.

“All that his youth had dreamed he found

In that life’s freshness; peril strange;

Adventure; freedom; sylvan wealth;

And ceaseless, blameless change.

“And there he, and his heart’s true mate,

Essay’d and found how sweet to live,

’Mid nature’s store, with health and love,

That life so primitive!

“But that sweet life came to an end.--

As falls the golden-eared corn

Before the sickle, earthly bliss

In human hearts is shorn.

“Sickness--bereavement--widowhood--

Oh, these three awful words embrace

A weight of mortal woe that fell

Upon our sylvan dwelling place!

“It matters not to tell of pangs,

Of the heart broken, the bereft;

I will pass over death and tears,

I will pass on to other years,

When only two were left!

“I and a sister; long had passed

The anguish of that time, and we

Were living in a home of love,

Though in a stranger’s family.

“Still in the wilderness we dwelt,

And were grown up towards womanhood;

When our sweet life of peace was stirred

By tales of civil feud.

“By rumors of approaching war,

Of battle done, of armed bands;

Of horrid deeds of blood and fire,

Achieved by Indian hands.

“We heard it first with disbelief:

And long time after, when had spread

Wild war throughout the land, we dwelt

All unassailed by dread.

“For they with whom our lot was cast,

Were people of that Christian creed

Who will not fight, but trust in God

For help in time of need.

“The forest round was like a camp,

And men were armed day and night;

And every morning brought fresh news

To heighten their affright.

“Through the green forest rose the smoke

Of places burn’d the night before;

And from their victims, the red scalp

The excited Indian tore.

“This was around us, yet we dwelt

In peace upon the forest bound;

Without defence, without annoy,

The Indian camp’d all round.

“The door was never barr’d by night,

The door was never closed by day;

And there the Indians came and went,

As they had done alway.

“For ‘these of Onas are the sons,’

Said they, ‘the upright peaceful men!’

Nor was harm done to those who held

The faith of William Penn.

“But I this while thought less of peace,

Than of the camp and battle stir;

For I had given my young heart’s love

Unto a British officer.

“Near us, within the forest-fort,

He lay, the leader of a band

Of fierce young spirits, sworn to sweep

The Indian from the land--

“The native Indian from his woods--

I deem’d it cowardly and base;

And, with a righteous zeal I pled

For the free forest-race.

“But he, to whom I pled, preferr’d

Sweet pleading of another sort;

And we met ever ’neath the wood

Outside the forest-fort.

“The Indian passed us in the wood,

Or glared upon us from the brake;

But he, disguised, with me was safe,

For Father Onas’ sake.

“At length the crisis of the war

Approach’d, and he, my soul’s beloved,

With his hot band, impatient grown,

Yet further west removed.

“There he was taken by the foe,

Ambush’d like tigers ’mid the trees:

You know what death severe and dread

The Indian to his foe decrees

“A death of torture and of fire--

Protracted death; I knew too well,

Outraged and anger’d, as of late

Had been the Indian spirit, fell

Would be their vengeance, and, to him,

Their hate implacable.

“When first to me his fate was told,

I stood amazed, confounded, dumb;

Then wildly wept and wrung my hands,

By anguish overcome.

“‘Wait, wait!’ the peaceful people said;

‘Be still and wait, the Lord is good!’

But when they bade me trust and wait,

I went forth in my anguish great,

To hide me in the wood.

“I had no fear; the Indian race

To me were as my early kin:

And then the thought came to my brain,

To go forth, and from death and pain,

My best beloved to win.

“With me my fair, young sister went,

Long journeying on through wood and swamp:

Three long days’ travel, ere we came

To the great Indian camp.

“We saw the Indians as we went,

Hid ’mong the grass with tiger ken;

But we were safe, they would not harm

The daughters of the peaceful men.

“In thickets of the woods at length

We came to a savannah green;

And there, beneath the open day,

The Indian camp was seen.

“I turned me from that scene of war,

And from the solemn council-talk,

Where stood the warriors, stern, and cold,

War-crested, and with bearing bold,

Listening unto a sachem old,

Who held aloft a tomahawk.

“I knew they were athirst for blood;

That they had pity none to spare;--

Besides, bound to a tree, I saw

An English captive there.

“I saw his war plume, soil’d and torn;

I knew that he was doom’d to die;

Pale, wounded, feeble, there he stood;

The ground was crimson’d with his blood;

Yet stood he as a soldier should--

Erect, with calm, determined eye.

“I would not he should see me then,--

The sight his courage had betray’d;

Therefore unseen we stepp’d aside,

Into the forest-glade.

“An Indian woman there was set,

We knew her, and to her were known;

The wife of a great chief was she,

Deck’d in her Indian bravery;

Yet there she sat alone.

“‘Woman,’ I said, the silence breaking,

‘Thou know’st us--know’st that we belong

To peaceful people, who have ne’er

Done to thy nation wrong.

‘Thou know’st that ye have dwelt with us,

As friend upon the hearth of friend;--

When have ye ask’d and been denied,

That this good faith should end?’

“The Indian did not raise her head,

As she replied in accents low,

‘Why come ye hither unto me,

When I am sitting in my woe?’

“‘Woman,’ I said, ‘I ask for life--

For life, which in your hands doth lie;

Go bid thy tribe release the bands

Of him now doomed to die!

“‘Go, Indian woman, and do this,

For thou art mighty with thy race!’

The Indian made me no reply,

But looked into my face.

“‘Mighty! said’st thou?’ at length she spoke,

‘Mighty!--to one no longer wife!

The hatchet and the tomahawk

Lie by me on the forest-walk;

The great chief in my hut lies low,

The ruthless pale-face struck the blow--

And yet thou com’st to me for life!’

“‘By that chief’s memory,’ I cried,

‘Whom ne’er the peaceful men gainsaid;

To whom the peaceful men were dear;

Rise, though thou stricken be, and aid!

“‘Crave not REVENGE,’ and with my words

My tears flow’d fast, though hers were dry;

‘But look upon this pictured face,

And say if such a one shall die!’

“Long looked she on the pictured face,

Which from my neck I took and gave;

Long looked she ere a word was spoke,

And then she slowly silence broke,

‘The hatchet is not buried yet;

The tomahawk with blood is wet;

And the great chief is in his grave!

“‘Yet for the father Onas’ sake--

For their sakes who no blood have shed,

We will not by his sons be blamed

For taking life which they have claimed;--

The red man can avenge his dead!’

“So saying, with her broken heart--

She went forth to the council-stone;

And when the captive was brought out,

’Mid savage war-cry, taunt and shout,

She stepp’d into the fierce array,

As the bereaved Indian may,

And claim’d the victim for her own.

“He was restored. What need of more

To tell the joy that thence ensued!

But sickness followed long and sore,

And he for a twelvemonth or more,

With our good, peaceful friends abode.

“But we, two plighted hearts, were wed;

A merry marriage ye may wis;--

And guess ye me a happy life--

In England here, an honoured wife,--

Sweet friends, ye have not guess’d amiss!

“But never more let it be said,

The red man is of nature base;

Nor let the crimes that have been taught,

Be by the crafty teachers brought

As blame against the Indian race!”

MOURNING ON EARTH.

She lay down in her poverty,

Toil-stricken, though so young;

And the words of human sorrow

Fell trembling from her tongue.

There were palace-houses round her;

And pomp and pride swept by

The walls of that poor chamber,

Where she lay down to die.

Two were abiding with her,

The lowly of the earth,--

Her feeble, weeping sister,

And she who gave her birth.

She lay down in her poverty,

Toil-stricken, though so young;

And the words of human sorrow

Fell from her trembling tongue.

“Oh, Lord, thick clouds of darkness

About my soul are spread,

And the waters of affliction

Have gathered o’er my head!

“Yet what is life? A desert,

Whose cheering springs are dry,

A weary, barren wilderness!--

Still it is hard to die!

“For love, the clinging, deathless,

Is with my life entwined;

And the yearning spirit doth rebel

To leave the weak behind!

“Oh Saviour, who didst drain the dregs

Of human woe and pain,

In this, the fiercest trial-hour,

My doubting soul sustain!

“I sink, I sink! support me;

Deep waters round me roll!

I fear! I faint! O Saviour,

Sustain my sinking soul!”

REJOICING IN HEAVEN.

“Oh spirit, freed from bondage,

Rejoice, thy work is done!

The weary world is ’neath thy feet,

Thou brighter than the sun!

“Arise, put on the garments

Which the redeemed wore!

Now sorrow hath no part in thee,

Thou sanctified from sin!

“Awake and breathe the living air

Of our celestial clime!

Awake to love which knows no change,

Thou, who hast done with time!

“Awake, lift up thy joyful eyes,

See, all heaven’s host appears;

And be thou glad exceedingly,

Thou, who hast done with tears!

“Awake! ascend! Thou art not now

With those of mortal birth,--

The living God hath touch’d thy lips,

Thou who hast done with earth!”

AN ENGLISH GRAVE AT MUSSOOREE.

Mussooree, the site of a station which is now one of the chief resorts

of the visiters from the plains, stands at an elevation of seven

thousand five hundred feet above the level of the sea, and is situated

on the southern face of the ridge called the Landour Range, and

overlooking the village of that name, which has been chosen for the

establishment of a military sanitarium, for those officers and privates

belonging to the Bengal army, who have lost their health in the plains.

Nothing can be imagined more delicious to an invalid, half dying

under the burning sun of India, than the being removed into the fine,

bracing, and cool atmosphere of this station. All round him are the

most sublime natural objects--the most stupendous rivers and mountains

of the world, but all subdued into a character of astonishing beauty;

while the growth of the hills, and of the very ground under his feet,

must transport him back into his native Britain.

* * * * *

“Tell me about my son, dear friend, for I can bear to know,

Now that my heart is stayed by prayer, that history of woe!

But whence was it, of seven sons, all men of strength and pride,

This only one--the gentlest one--forsook his mother’s side!

“That he in whom a flower, a star, a love-inspired word,

The poet’s heart, all tenderness, even from his boyhood stirred;

Who was my dearest counsellor, in his dead father’s place;

Who was a daughter unto me, who ne’er did one embrace.

“How was it that he only left his home, his native land,

He only, kindest, gentlest, and youngest of my band?

That he whom I had looked to close mine eyes--to lay me low,

Died first, and far away! Oh God, thy counsels who shall know!

“But murmuring thus, I sin! Dear friend, forgive a mother’s grief,

And tell me of my son; thy words will bring assured relief:

Tell me of each minutest look--even of his sufferings tell,

My heart takes comfort from thy voice, for thou didst love him well!”

“I loved him well, oh, passing well! all he had been to thee--

Friend, counsellor, the spirit’s life--so had he been to me!

Yet murmur not, thou broken heart, our vision fails to show

The scope of that mysterious good whose base is human woe!

“Thy best-beloved murmured not, his faith was never dim,

And that strong love which was his life, sprang everywhere for him,

We saw him droop, and many a one, else scarce to love beguiled,

Watched him, as tender parents watch a favourite drooping child.

“For the hot plains where he had lain, by cureless wounds oppressed,

We bore him to the northern hills, to a sweet land of rest.

Oh, what a joy it was to him to feel the cool winds blow,

To see the golden morning light array the peaks of snow!

“What joy to see familiar things where’er his footsteps trod;

The oak-tree in the mountain-cleft; the daisy on the sod;

The primrose and the violet; the green moss of the rill;

The crimson wild-briar rose, and the strawberry of the hill!

“How often these sweet living flowers were bathed in blissful tears,

For then his loving spirit drank the joy of bygone years;

And sitting ’mong those giant hills, his boyhood round him lay--

That sunny time of careless peace, so long since past away.

“He told me of his English home; I knew it well before:

Mine eyes had seen its trees, or ere my shadow crossed the door;

The very sun-dial on the green, I knew its face again;

And the small summer parlour with its jasmine-wreathed pane.

“And thou! all thou hadst been to him, he told me; bade me seek

Thy face, and to thy broken heart dear words of comfort speak:

Oh, mother of the blessed dead, weep not; sweet thoughts of thee,

Like ministering angels at the last, the joyous soul set free!

“Oh, mother of the dead, weep not as if that far-off grave

Possessed thy spirit’s best beloved--‘thy beautiful, thy brave;’

The gifted, living soul lies not beneath that Eastern sod,

All thou hast cherished liveth still, and calleth thee to God!”

A FOREST SCENE

IN THE DAYS OF WICKLIFFE.

A little child she read a book

Beside an open door;

And, as she read page after page,

She wonder’d more and more.

Her little finger carefully

Went pointing out the place;--

Her golden locks hung drooping down,

And shadow’d half her face.

The open book lay on her knee,

Her eyes on it were bent;

And as she read page after page,

The colour came and went.

She sate upon a mossy stone

An open door beside;

And round, for miles on every hand,

Stretch’d out a forest wide.

The summer sun shone on the trees,

The deer lay in the shade;

And overhead the singing birds

Their pleasant clamour made.

There was no garden round the house.

And it was low and small,--

The forest sward grew to the door;

The lichens on the wall.

There was no garden round about,

Yet flowers were growing free,

The cowslip and the daffodil,

Upon the forest-lea.

The butterfly went flitting by,

The bees were in the flowers;

But the little child sate steadfastly,

As she had sate for hours.

“Why sit you here, my little maid?”

An aged pilgrim spake;

The little child look’d upward from her book,

Like one but just awake.

Back fell her locks of golden hair,

And solemn was her look,

And thus she answer’d, witlessly,

“Oh, sir, I read this book!”

“And what is there within that book

To win a child like thee?--

Up! join thy mates, the merry birds,

And frolic with the bee!”

“Nay, sir, I cannot leave this book,

I love it more than play;--

I’ve read all legends, but this one

Ne’er saw I till this day.

“And there is something in this book

That makes all care be gone,--

And yet I weep, I know not why,

As I go reading on!”

“Who art thou, child, that thou shouldst read

A book with mickle heed?--

Books are for clerks--the King himself

Hath much ado to read!”

“My father is a forrester--

A bowman keen and good;

He keeps the deer within their bound,

And worketh in the wood.

“My mother died in Candlemas,--

The flowers are all in blow

Upon her grave at Allonby

Down in the dale below.”

This said, unto her book she turned,

As steadfast as before;

“Nay,” said the pilgrim, “nay, not yet,

And you must tell me more.

“Who was it taught you thus to read?”

“Ah, sir, it was my mother,--

She taught me both to read and spell--

And so she taught my brother;

“My brother dwells at Allonby

With the good monks alway;--

And this new book he brought to me,

But only for one day.

“Oh, sir, it is a wondrous book,

Better than Charlemagne,--

And, be you pleased to leave me now,

I’ll read in it again!”

“Nay, read to me,” the pilgrim said;

And the little child went on,

To read of CHRIST, as was set forth

In the Gospel of St. John.

On, on she read, and gentle tears

Adown her cheeks did slide;

The pilgrim sate, with bended head,

And he wept at her side.

“I’ve heard,” said he, “the Archbishop,

I’ve heard the Pope of Rome,

But never did their spoken words

Thus to my spirit come!

“The book, it is a blessed book!

Its name, what may it be?”

Said she, “They are the words of Christ

That I have read to thee;

Now done into the English tongue

For folks unlearn’d as we!”

“Sancta Marie!” said the man,

Our canons have decreed

That this is an unholy book

For simple folks to read!

“Sancta Maria! Bless’d be God!

Had this good book been mine,

I need not have gone on pilgrimage

To holy Palestine!

“Give me the book, and let me read!

My soul is strangely stirr’d;--

They are such words of love and truth

As ne’er before I heard!”

The little girl gave up the book,

And the pilgrim, old and brown,

With reverent lips did kiss the page,

Then on the stone sat down.

And aye he read page after page;

Page after page he turn’d;

And as he read their blessed words

His heart within him burn’d.

Still, still the book the old man read,

As he would ne’er have done;

From the hour of noon he read the book,

Unto the set of sun.

The little child she brought him out

A cake of wheaten bread;

But it lay unbroke at eventide;

Nor did he raise his head

Until he every written page

Within the book had read.

Then came the sturdy forester

Along the homeward track,

Whistling aloud a hunting tune,

With a slain deer on his back.

Loud greeting gave the forester

Unto the pilgrim poor;

The old man rose with thoughtful brow,

And enter’d at the door.

The two had sate them down to meat,

And the pilgrim ’gan to tell

How he had eaten on Olivet,

And drank at Jacob’s well.

And then he told how he had knelt

Where’er our LORD had pray’d;

How he had in the Garden been,

And the tomb where he was laid;--

And then he turned unto the book,

And read, in English plain,

How CHRIST had died on Calvary;

How he had risen again;

And all his comfortable words,

His deeds of mercy all,

He read, and of the widow’s mite,

And the poor prodigal.

As water to the parched soil,

As to the hungry, bread,

So fell upon the woodman’s soul

Each word the pilgrim read.

Thus through the midnight did they read,

Until the dawn of day;

And then came in the woodman’s son

To fetch the book away.

All quick and troubled was his speech,

His face was pale with dread,

For he said, “The King hath made a law

That the book must not be read,--

For it was such a fearful heresy,

The holy Abbot said.”

THE END.

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious punctuation mistakes have been corrected.

Page 10: “better caculated” changed to “better calculated”

Page 42: “ice-montains” changed to “ice-mountains”

Page 71: “hung a peice” changed to “hung a piece”

Page 129: “trees were” changed to “trees where”