_Author of "Portraits of the Dead."_
Morn rose upon the purple hills,
In all his pomp display'd;
Flash'd forth like stars a hundred rills,
In valley, plain, and glade.
The foaming mist, day's chilly shrine,
Into the clouds upcurl'd,
Forth broke in majesty divine
The Grampians' giant world.
It was a glorious sight to view
Those mountain forms unfold,--
The Heavens above intensely blue,
The plains beneath like gold.
Day woke, a thousand songs arose,
Morn's orisons on high,
Earth's universal heart o'erflows
To Him beyond the sky.
The shepherd roused him from his sleep,
And down the vale be hied,
Like guardian good, to count his sheep,
His _firstling_ by his side.
His firstling! 'twas his only child--
A boy of three years old,
The father's weary hours beguiled
Whilst watching o'er his fold.
And many an hour the child and he
Joy'd o'er the vale together;
It was a lovely thing to see
That child among the heather.
The vale is pass'd, the mountains rear
Their rugged cliffs in air,
He must ascend to view more near
His distant fleecy care.
"My child! the flowers are bright for thee,
The daisy's pearl'd with dew;
Go, share them with the honey-bee,
Till I return for you,
Thy dog and mine with thee shall stay
Whilst I the flock am counting,"--
He said, and took his tedious way,
The hilly green sward mounting.
O'er crag and cliff the father toil'd,
Unconscious pass'd the hours:
He for a time forgot the child
He'd left among the flowers.
The boiling clouds come down and veil
Valley, and wood, and plain;
Then fears the father's heart assail,
He will descend again.
Morn melted into noon, and night
Dark on the shepherd shone,
Terror in vain impels his flight,
His child!--his child is gone!
He calls upon his darling's name,
His dog in vain he calls;
He hears naught but the eagle's scream,
Or roar of waterfalls.
He rushes home--he is not there--
With agony and woe;
He hunts him in the cold night air,
O'er hill and vale below.
Morn rose--the faithful dog appears,
He whines for food so mild,
The father hied him through his tears,
And said, "Tray, where's my child?"
Thrice rose the morn--the father's heart
With grief was almost dead;
But every morn the dog appeared,
And whined and begged for bread.
Yet through the night and through the day,
The dog was never seen--
"He is not wont to stay away,
Where can the dog have been?"
On the fourth morn this faithful friend,
As usual whined for meat--
They mark the way his footsteps tend,
And follow his retreat.
They watch him to a cave beside
The Grampians' craggy base--
Behold! the shepherd's wandering child
Within the dog's embrace.
He springs--he weeps away his cares,
He cries aloud with joy--
He kneels, he sobs to heaven his prayers,
For his redeemed boy.
Then, turning, hugs his favourite hound,
The trusty, true, and bold,
By whom was saved, through whom was found
The _firstling_ of his fold!
The Engravings, which are very numerous, are exclusively on wood. A few
of them are views in the Regent's Park Gardens; but in point of
execution, we think the best is a Portrait of the Satyr, or "_Happy_
Jerry," at Cross's Menagerie. Though by no means one of nature's
favourites, he appears to possess the companionable qualities of
sitting in a chair, smoking a pipe, and drinking spirits and water, and
appearing to understand every look, word, and action of his keeper;
indeed, so thoroughly contented is the creature, that he has obtained
the name of "Happy Jerry."
To speak _zoologically_, next year we hope the artist and editor will
put their best feet foremost, and improve upon the present volume. The
design is one of the best for a Juvenile Annual--for who does not
recollect the very amusing game of "Birds, Beasts, and Fishes, and
sometimes Insects and Reptiles." What a menagerie of guessing novelties
would have been a _Zoological Keepsake_ in our school days.
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