The Baldwin Library
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AUNT JANE'S VERSES
BY JANE CREWDSON.
FROM THE SECOND LONDON EDITION.
BOOK ASSOCIATION OF FRIENDS,
No. 109 NORTH TENTH STREET.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
THIS unpretending volume needs no expla-
nation by way of Preface. The title-page
speaks for itself. The verses were written
for various stages of childhood,-some for
the early, some for the middle, and others
for the higher steps in the ascending ladder
of intelligence. Therefore, though the lan-
guage will, I hope, be found simple in all,
yet many of these pieces are not intended for
It is very probable that readers, less par-
tial than those for whom they were originally
written, may find in my verses too many
signs of the circumstances under which they
have been composed. The chamber of sick-
ness is better adapted for receiving instruc-
tion than for imparting pleasure; yet one of
the many lessons taught therein is this:-
that to cultivate a kindly sympathy towards
all living things, favours the exercise of
cheerfulness and of patience, under suffering
May we ever remember that there is
One-and One alone-whose influence can
make our hard hearts tender, and keep them
so, from one stage of life's journey to an-
other; and that His blessing is needed to
energize sensibility into active and useful
MANCHESTER, MAY 12, 1851.
KATIE LEE, A SCOTCH STORY................................... 11
PO PEII......................... .................................... 17
CONWAY CASTLE.................................................... 22
THE PRAIRIE DOG....................... .......................... 25
THE DESERT WELL............. ............................ ......... 28
THE TAME GEMSE.................................................. 32
THE ZEBRA......................................................... 88
OUR LOST KITTEN................................................... 42
THE RHINE ..... ...... .......................................... 45
THE SINGER OF EISENACH. ...................................... 49
TO NANNY OF THE LAND'S END................................... 64
THE FAWN......................................... ................. 68
MY TAME GOLDFINCH.......................... ................. 71
THE BEAVER......................................................... 75
THE ROBINS................ .......................................... 78
MY TAME SQUIRREL.............................................. 88
MY SQUIRREL'S BROTHER................. ........................ 91
THE TYBER......................................................... 95
MY SISTERS IN HEAVEN .............. ................ .... ........ 101
LOST AND FOUND............................... ................... 104
TRY AGAIN......................................................... 109
BERNARD GILPIN.................................................... 113
PANCHITO; OR, THE PRAIRIE FIRE............................. 119
THE MARTYRDOM OF MARIUS............................. .... 125
THE CHANCE SHOT............................................. 129
"WEE, WISE WILLIE"................................. ..1.... 133
USEFUL ANNIE........................................................ 139
"GOOD NIGHT"........................................ ...1.... 148
A SCOTCH STORY.
"Now sweep the shining hearth once more,
And spare another peat;
And let the light rise broad and bright,
Our lassie's smile to greet.-
-Our Katie who, with gleeful heart,
Is hastening through the gloaming;
From far away, across the brae,
On lightsome step she's coming.
All through the week she work'd and toil'd,
With true heart cheerily,
To spend the happy Sabbath hours
At home, with you and me.
So spread the cloth,-the snow-white cloth,
Your cannie hands have wove,-
And she shall eat the bannocks sweet
She used so well to love;
With home-made cheese, and honey-comb
From last year's finest swarm;
And she shall sup, from her own cup,
The new milk rich and warm."
So spoke the "Gudeman;"-and his heart
With joy was overflowing;
And on the mother's careful cheek
The smile of love was glowing.
The winter's sun had just gone down,
So calm, and soft, and still,
That neathh its crust of ice is heard
Each little tinkling rill;
And scarcely rustled sedge or reed,
Beside the frozen loch,
Nor shook the sparkling icicles
From off the beetling rock.
But wherefore, then, doth Collie start,
And prick his ears intent,
And sniff the air, as if, from far,
Some coming storm to scent ?
~ r -
- --------- -- ~- -
-~~ ~ ~ -~-- -
Brave dog he learned to mark the signs
Of gathering tempests well,
When watching o'er his master's flock
Upon the upland fell.
And well he knows the wind's low sough,
That tells of coming squalls;
And knows the snow-cloud, long before
A single snow-flake falls.
But where is Katie ? She hath donn'd
Her kirtle and her plaid,
And gathered up her bonnie hair
All in a shining braid;
Then folded she her Sunday gown
Within a kerchief gay,
And, singing like an uncaged lark,
Tripp'd merrily away.
She thinks her of her parents' hearth,
Her mother's tender care,-
The little chamber where she used
To bend her knee in prayer;-
The father who first show'd to her
A heavenly Father's love,
And told her of that blessed home
Which Christ prepared above.
And as she ponder'd, Katie's eyes
With tears of gladness swim,
And th' ballad she began to sing
Ascended to a hymn !
'Tis well that, in thy youth and weal,
Thou know'st the God of grace,
Sweet Katie for the stormy hour
Is clouding in apace!
Now suddenly, down the glen
There rush'd a whirling blast,
And, from the blacken'd sky, the flakes
Of snow fell thick and fast:
They dim the air,-they blink her eyes,
And, thicker, faster still,
They blot the way-marks of her track,
And drift along the hill.
Then, wearily and drearily,
Across the moorland wild,
Half numb'd with frost, (her pathway lost)
Paced on the wilder'd child.
r My heavenly Father's will be done,"
She murmur'd faint and low;-
Then clasp'd her little hands, and sank
Beneath a wreath of snow
Oh! had you pass'd, that wintry night,
Across that upland high,
You might have seen a way-worn man,
With pale cheek, hurrying by:
He feeleth not the arrowy sleet,
Nor hears the storm-notes wild:
One cry is on his quivering lips,
-" My child My only child !"
Cheer up, poor Duncan Lee !-a friend,
-A fast friend at thy side
Is Collie,-who, with steady pace,
Acts pioneer and guide:
With head upraised, and ears erect,
Intent he sniffs the wind,
And marks each sign, and weighs each fact,
Within his pondering mind.
Why stands he there all motionless,
As marble statue still,
Chain'd to that spotless drift of snow
By instinct of his will?
Then suddenly, with leap and bound,
And every joyful sign,
He digs amongst the yielding snows
With yelp, and bark, and whine;
Nor ceased he till, on pillow chill,
With face serene and mild,
And little hands still clasp'd in prayer,
He found the sleeping child.
O Duncan spare a father's tear,
And hush that heavy moan;-
The life-blood in her purple veins
Still moveth gently on !-
He lapp'd her softly in his arms,
(Like slumbering babe once more,)
And thaw'd the frost-rime from her cheek
With kisses o'er and o'er:
And when she waken'd, faint and slow,
The sounds that met her ear
Were psalms of gladness and of praise,
Sung by each parent dear!
She found that she was pillow'd soft,
With tender skill and care,
In that same chamber where she used
So oft to kneel in prayer:
She saw the holy book outspread
Upon her father's knee;-
"'Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,'
Soft whisper'd Katie Lee.
BASKING in sunshine bright,
And musical with song,
A city lay in joy and light,
Campania's vines among !
The sea-wave kiss'd her gate,
With ripple, low and sweet;
And galleys brought their golden freight,
And laid it at her feet.*
There came a day for feast,
And dance, and ruby wine;
And Bacchanalian brows are drest
With ivy and the vine:-
The choric steps are led,
The choric measure flows,
And colonnades are garlanded
With amaranth and rose.
Previously to the great eruption from Vesuvius which
buried Herculaneum and Pompeii, both these towns were
The cruel circus reels
With maddening roar and cry;
And anguish blends with victor-peals
And glee with agony!-
Then roar'd a deadlier blast;
And death unroll'd his pall,
And thunder-peals of ruin pass'd
O'er circus, shrine, and hall!
Earth groan'd,-and heaven grew dim,
And lurid darkness spread,
To dash the wine-cup, hush the hymn,
And pale the garlanded !
A hurrying to and fro!
The shrieks of wild despair,
Amidst the lava's sulphur glow
And lightning's fiery glare !
The ashes' choking cloud,-
The suffocating shower,-
The cry of terror, deep and loud,
From palace, fane, and bower.
The multitude rush'd by;
The living all are fled,
And 'stead of halls for revelry,
A City of the Dead !
Then silence,-not of rest;
Then stillness,-not of sleep,
On buried homes of gladness prest
Their pall, opaque and deep.
Then seasons came and went,
And ages rolled on,
And kingly thrones were built and rent;
And empires raised and thrown.
The peasant pruned his vine,
The bride entwined her wreath,
Unconscious all of bower and shrine,
That, slumbering, lay beneath.
The glowing sunsets fling
The rosy light of song
Across each sparkling, classic spring,
Campania's groves among.
But not in endless sleep
Such buried secrets lie:
They wake, to utter lessons deep,
For human sympathy!
The lonely chambers shine,
Once more, with light of day;
And, o'er each desolated shrine,
The sunbeams brightly play.
Tread softly !-here revealed,
Are secrets, dark and dread:
Speak low !-before thee stand unseal'd
The secrets of the dead!
Behold the miser's gold,
Clutch'd in his bony grasp!
Behold the mothers, who enfold
Their babes in dying clasp !
Here lie rich jewell'd rings;
There lies a Bacchic crown;
There lies a lute, with broken strings,
A wine-cup dashed down!
Libation-urns, half pour'd;
And flower-wreaths, scorch'd and dimm'd;
Rich viands on the festal board,
And lamps already trimm'd.
Mosaic pavements, bright
As when by sandals pressed;
And frescoed paintings, still as light
As when with garlands dress'd:
The poet's radiant dreams
Story the glowing walls,
And many a hint of beauty gleams
Forth from those silent halls.
Sculptures, in whose soft grace,
The Grecian mind we read;
And fanes, whose shadowy hints retrace
The Nile's mysterious creed;-
And haunts for childhood's plays;
Or household converse sweet:
All open'd to the stranger's gaze,
And trod by stranger feet !
GEORGIE, when you pass'd through Conway,
Did thy memory ponder o'er
Tales historic of King Edward,
And his-bright Queen Eleinore?*
How he built this castle hoary,
With its dungeons, courts, and towers;
How a garden-plot she planted
There, with sweetly-scented flowers?
How he waved, from lofty turret,
Britain's banner, stain'd with tears,
And his hall did flash with trophies-
Turkish sword and Syrian spears?
Crescents, torn from Moslem castles,
Huge claymores from Scottish dales,
Blades of steel from old Damascus,
And the silent harp of Wales!
From the banks of Guadalquivir,
She hath brought the fair sweet-pea;
Eleanora of Castile, the wife of Edward the First.
From her own Castile's sierras,
She hath won the chestnut-tree.
From the laughing glades of Cyprus,
Candytuft and spicy pink;
And the mournful Flos Adonis"
From Ilyssus' murmuring brink.
Near the shores of cool Siloam,
She hath found the lily-flower;
In the happy vales of England,
Columbine and virgin-bower.*
She who drain'd the mortal poison,
Fearless, from her husband's vein ;t
She whose noble cheek is flushing
With the best blood of old Spain,-
See her, through the low-arch'd portal,
In her beauty moving forth;
See her tending herb and blossom,
On that narrow plot of earth!
Conway's Castle, with its dungeons,
And its battlements and keep,
The wild clematis.
t The popular tradition, that Queen Eleanora did literally
suck the poison from the wound on her husband's arm, has, I
believe, never been contradicted on any but negative authority.
4 CONWAY CASTLE.
And its halls with trophies flashing,
Now in silent ruin sleep !
Turkish crescent, Moslem banner,
Moorish scimitar and blade,
Cambria's harp, (too rudely broken!)
'Mid the dust of ages laid!
Whilst the seeds of herbs and blossoms
Tended by Queen Elelnore,
By the gales of peace are scattered
England's smiling valleys o'er!
Little think we, when delighting
In some cherish'd bud or flower,
That perchance its seed was wafted
From her garden neathh the tower!
THE PRAIRIE DOG.
My account of this interesting little animal is taken from
Buxton'8 Travels in Mexico.
The Prairie Dog is properly a species of Marmot, and is only
called a dog because of its little jerking bark.
OH the little prairie dogs,
Who build their pleasant towns,
Where, far and wide, on every side,
Wave the lone prairie downs.
There strides the grizzly bear,
And coward wolves skulk slow,
The blood to quaff of feeble calf,
Or dying buffalo.
There the rattle of the snake
Sends warning on the breeze,
And song of bird is never heard,
Or hum of honey bees.
THE PRAIRIE DOG.
Yet the little prairie dog
Leads there a merry life,
While round him frisk his puppies brisk,
With his busy little wife !
And the pleasant towns they build
Are all compact and nice,
A grand town-hall in midst of all,
And streets and lanes precise.
And in the town-hall lives
Their king and governor;
And their troubles and their squabbles
To him they all refer.
His bark says "Yes," or "No,"
To every dog's appeal;
To him they walk, and sit and talk
About their woe or weal.
He is an old, grave dog,
Of sober face, and grim;
His puppy days and puppy plays
Are all forgot by him.
THE PRAIRIE DOG.
Each dog must build a hut,
With temper'd earth and clay,
With rooms complete, and bedding sweet-
Such happy homes are they !
So warm, the winter's wind
Can never rough one hair;
So strong the latch, the wolf may scratch
And scrape, nor enter there.
And yet he tears and strains,
So stubborn and so hard,
The mother moans,-the little ones
All tremble in their ward.
Away, thou coward wolf!
Back to thy greedy den 1
And let alone the prairie town,
With all its merry men!
THE DESERT WELL.
Genesis xxi. 15-20.
No feathery palm is waving,
By gentle breezes fann'd;
No shadow lies reclining
Across the hot, red sand;
No wild gazelle is bounding,
To seek some cooling spring;
No wandering bird down stoopeth
To rest his tired wing.
Each herb and flower lies wither'd;
Parch'd each young blade of grass;
And the sulky sky bends o'er them,
A dome like molten brass!
With burning thirst dilateth
The boy's wild, flashing eye,
THE DESERT WELL.
And the mother's heart is breaking
With mighty agony;
For the shrivell'd water-bottle
Is empty now, and dry !-
No answer to her weeping
Is heard amid the wild,
Save the echoes of the desert,
And the wailing of the child.
But the Angel of the Mighty
Is speaking from above !-
Listen !-Earth's desert-voices
Breathe no such tones of love.
He heard the cry of anguish,
And on wings of love he came:
Poor Hagar dost thou hearken?
He calls thee by thy name !
She look'd. And, lo! a fountain,
From forth its hidden cell,
Amid the waste is gusning;-
-A sparkling, living well I
THE DESERT WELL.
She tarried not, nor questioned,
But, kneeling at the brink,
"She filled her empty bottle,"
And gave her child to drink.
And his ebbing strength returneth,
And his eye grows soft and glad,
And his step is strong and bounding;
For "God was with the lad !"
He loved the shoreless desert,
With its craggy mountains high,
Its wild, unfetter'd freedom,
Its blue expanse of sky.
He grew a mighty archer,
And chased the wild gazelle,
And pitch'd his tent, at sunset,
Beside the desert well.
Ah! when we read the story
Of the bottle spent and dry,
Of the child athirst and fainting,
And the angel voice on high,
THE DESERT WELL.
May He, the gracious Saviour,
In gospel message sweet,
Show us the living Fountain
That floweth at our feet !
- -- '
Na sunn y Alpine valley,
'Neath the snowy Wetterhorn,
See a maiden, by a chalet,
Playing with a gems6 fawn.
How he pricks his ears to hear her,
How his soft eyes flash with pride,
THE TAME GEMSE.
As she tells him he is dearer
Than the whole wide world beside!
Dearer than the lambkins gentle,
Dearer than the frisking kids,
Or the pigeon on the lintel,
Coming,-going,-as she bids!
Dearer than the first spring lily,
Peeping on the snowy fell,
Dearer than his little Willie
To the heart of William Tell.
By the gushing glacier-fountain,
On the giant Wetterhorn,
Midst the snow-fields of the mountain,
Was this little gems6 born:
And his mother, though the mildest
And the gentlest of the herd,
Was the fleetest and the wildest,
And as lightsome as a bird.
But the jdger* watch'd her, gliding
In the silence of the dawn,
Seeking for a place of hiding
For her little tender fawn:
So he mark'd her, all unheeding,
(Swift and sure the bolt of death,)
" The hunter.
THE TAME GEMSk.
And he bore her, dead and bleeding,
To his Alpine home beneath.
And the orphan gemse follows,
Calling her, with plaintive bleat,
O'er the knolls, and through the hollows,
Trotting on, with trembling feet.
See, the cabin's latch is raised
By a small and gentle hand,
And the face that upward gaz6d,
Had a smile serene and bland.
Bertha was the Switzer's daughter,
And herself an orphan child;
But her sorrows all had taught her
To be gentle, kind, and mild.
You might see a tear-drop quivering,
In her honest eye of blue,
As she took the stranger, shivering,
To her heart, so warm and true.
"I will be thy mother, sweetest,"
To the fawn she whisper'd low,
"I will heed thee when thou bleatest,
And will solace all thy woe."
Then the tottering gemse, stealing
Towards her, seem'd to understand,
THE TAME GEMSE.
Gazing on her face, and kneeling,
Placed his nose within her hand !
Every day the Switzer maiden
Shared with him her milk and bread,
Every night the fawn is laid on
Moss and ling, beside her bed.
Blue as mountain periwinkle,
Is the ribbon round his throat,
Where a little bell doth tinkle,
With a shrill and silvery note!
When the morning light is flushing
Wetterhorn, so cold and pale,
Or when evening shades are hushing
All the voices of the vale,
You might hear the maiden singing
To her happy gems6 fawn,
While the kids and lambs she's bringing
Up or down the thymy lawn.
Spring is come and little Bertha,
With her gems6 at her side,
Up the mountain wander'd further
Than the narrow pathways guide.
Every step is paved with flowers.-
-Here the bright mezereon glows,
THE TAME GEMSE.
Here the tiger-lily towers,
And the mountain cistus blows.
There the royal eagle rushes
From his eyrie overhead;
There the roaring torrent gushes
Madly o'er its craggy bed.
Hark !-from whence that distant bleating,
Like a whistle clear and shrill?
Gems ah, thy heart is beating,
With a wild and sudden thrill.
Voices of thy brothers, scouring
Over sparkling fields of ice,
Where the snow-white peaks are towering
O'er the shaggy precipice!
Bertha smiled to see him listening,
(Arching neck, and quivering ear,
Panting chest, and bright eyes glistening,)
To that whistle wild and clear.
Little knew she that it sever'd
All that bound him to the glen,
That her gentle bands are shiver'd,
And the tame one-wild again!
To the next wild bleat that soundeth
Makes he answer strong and shrill;-
THE TAME GEMSE.
Wild as wildest, off he boundeth,
Fleet as fleetest, o'er the hill.
Gems6! Gems6 Come, my sweet one !"
Echoes faint, from height to height;-
Vain thy call, dear child that fleet one
Never more will glad thy sight.
But, when paling stars are twinkling,
In the twilight of the morn,
Thou mayst hear his bell, a-tinkling
Midst the snows of Wetterhorn.
And the kindness thou bestowest
On the helpless, thou shalt prove,
Somehow, when thou little knowest,
In a blessing from above!
In all the German-Swiss cantons, and throughout the Tyrol,
the Chamois-Goat is called the "Gemse;" the other name,
"Chamois," prevailing only in those cantons in which French
WILD ass of the desert, who tossest in scorn,
The yoke from thy neck, like the breath of the
Who defiest the snaffle, the rein, and the curb,
And drinkest the dew from the wilderness herb,
Who, with nostril dilated, dost snuff up the wind,
And leaves the blast of the desert behind !
Wild zebra though ages have over thee roll'd,
And have changed the heart of the firm and the
And have forged the chain and have plaited the
And have humbled the haughty, and conquer'd
Still, with ebony hoof, dost thou toss the red
And thy neck bendeth not to the rider's com-
The traveller came from the sea-girded isle,
To explore the lone founts of the lotus-crown'd
He startled the lion, asleep in his den,
And the laughing hyena laugh'd fiercely again;
The ibis was scared from her ancient domains,
And his wings flapp'd the vulture o'er desolate
But the river's deep secret,-its fount and its
Is known to the zebra who drinks at the source:
His wild, thirsty eye knows the gleam of the
Circled round with green herbs, like an emerald
And his velvety neck oft he bendeth to drink,
And to browse on the grasses that wave round
O zebra, wild zebra, who tossest in scorn
The reins from thy neck, like the mists of the
Dost rememberthat day when thy beautiful chest,
With the yoke of a victor was sternly com-
When an emperor march'd from the Tiber afar,
And tether'd thy neck to his ivory car?*
How flash'd the wild orb of thine eye to behold
Thy housings of purple, and scarlet, and gold!
When thy mouth felt the bit, and thy shoulder
And thy hoof dash'd the pavement, instead of
And, in place of the palm, with its feathery shade,
Rose the shaft of the pillar, and white colonnade.
I marvel how throbb'd the wild pulse of thy will,
When compell'd, in Rome's triumph, thy part
When Hadrian stood in his chariot of pride,
And there sate a pale, beautiful boy at his side;t
The Emperor Adrian made his triumphal entrance into
Rome, on his return from his African provinces, in a chariot
drawn by four zebras,-the first and the last time that these
wild creatures are said to have been broken to the collar How
they conducted themselves is not recorded,-sufficiently self-
willed no doubt they were!
t Young Antinous. He was a beautiful Asiatic youth, and
a great favourite of the emperor, who mourned for him as for a
son when accidentally drowned while bathing in the river Nile.
THE ZEBRA. 41
How panted thy breast for the desert again,
The palm, and the fount, and wide rolling plain!
And again are they thine! Men have found that
Not thy heart, nor thy will, to the curb and the
So they loosen'd thy neck, and they sever'd thy
And thou pawest, in freedom, the wilderness
To race with the ostrich, on wings of the morn,
And the hunter's swift arrow to distance, in
OUR LOST KITTEN.
FLORA, Daisy's little kitten,
Having tired herself with play,
By the kitchen-fire was sitting,
Yery prim, the other day.
One eye opening,-one eye closing,-
Just'as sleepy pussies do;
Sometimes waking-sometimes dozing,
Thus her thoughts at random flew:
"What a tedious life I'm leading !
Crabbie is my only toy;
Nothing to be done but feeding,-
Very little fun or joy !
"If the bird-cage were hung lower,
Dickey soon should feel my nail;
If that mousey had run slower,
I had caught him by the tail!
OUR LOST KITTEN.
" A delicious world lies yonder,
Further than the garden-door;
Are there birds to chase, I wonder?
There are crowds of mice, I'm sure!
"Who can ever guess the reason
Why the servants shut the gate?
But I've fix'd to watch my season,
And slip out, some evening, late.
"Then what fun, and what enjoyment!
Threads and bobbins, corks and strings!
Chasing mice my chief employment,
'Mongst a thousand glittering things
"True, the sounds from thence are rougher,
And men's voices seem more rude,
And the dogs do bark, there, gruffer
Than our Crabbie ever could!
"But I'll try-Good evening, Daisy!
You may stay at home and doze;
You are getting old and lazy,
But your little daughter goes !
OUR LOST KITTEN.
"Now you need not fuss and flurry,-
I'll be back in two short hours-
None so soft as you, and furry,
And no bed so warm as ours I"
Flora then stole out, and watching
Till the cook came home at night,
As the garden-door was latching,
She departed out of sight.
Whether birds were found for chasing,
Ready waiting in her way,-
Whether there were mice for racing,
I have never heard them say:
But I know-though long we sought her,
'Midst the boys, and dogs, and men-
Little Flora, Daisy's daughter,
Never more was found again !
"BLUE and winding" river Rhine!
How it flasheth into light,
Far above the waving pine,
On St. Gothard's misty height!
Forth from crystal urns it gusheth,
High in palaces of ice,
And down it headlong rusheth
O'er the shaggy precipice !
Onwards, then, through fields of snow
How the youthful waters sweep !
To the glens and dales below,
Sparkling merrily, they leap;
While the voices of the valley
With a loving welcome ring,
And the homestead and the chalet
Joyful salutations sing.
There, her flock the goatherd leads,
Browsing near the verdant brim;
There, the while she tells her beads,
Singing soft her vesper hymn.
There the gentian and the cistus
Ope their blossoms round the brink,
And the beautiful hybiscus,
And the little Alpine pink.
Now it winds its course along,
Through the realms of corn and wine,
Where is heard the peasant's song
At the gathering of the vine;
Where is heard the merry lay
Of the forest-loving bird,
And of children at their play,
When their hearts with joy are stirr'd.
Now, beneath the feudal steep
Flows the river calmly on,
Where the towers in ruin sleep,
And the banners, torn and gone !
There, where once the war-horse neigh'd,
And the rider bent his crest,
As he sheathed his glittering blade,
Or hath couch'd his lance in rest.
Then it floweth on in pride,
By the lordly palace halls,
Washing, with its azure tide,
Many a city's crumbling walls.
Fair cathedrals lift their spires,
Temples spread their jewell'd shrine,
And the poets tune their lyres,
On the borders of the Rhine.
There the schoolmen trim their lamp,
As they tell the listening world
Where the Csesars had their camp,
And the Roman Eagle furl'd.
There the sage black-letters reads,
On old parchments dull and faint,
And the churchmen tell the deeds
Of some favour'd patron-saint.
There the rude raft of the Hun,
There the Roman galley, pass'd,
There the glance of beauty shone,
'Mid the tournay's trumpet blast.
Now, along the margin rove
Tourist-groups, in merry throng,
Where the Minnesingers wove
Tale and legend into song.
Oh, their song,-their thrilling song!
It could make the tear-drop start,
From deep places, hard and strong,
In the indurated heart !
It could bring the smile of joy
Back, though long had set its light;
And dilate the listening boy
To a bold heroic knight.
Nobly flows the azure Rhine,
And its stream fair rivers swell,
The sweet Neckar, and the Maine,
And the beautiful Moselle!
And they each a tribute bring,
From the tales of olden days,
BreathBd forth from minstrel string,
Murmur'd into storied lays !*
Onward flow, thou winding Rhine,
Bearing on thy rolling wave,
Memory's ideal shrine
To the gifted and the brave!
Ever bearest thou along,
In thy course, so blue and free,
Many a gayly-woven song,
Blending truth with poesy !
The Neckar flows by Heidelberg;-the Maine by Frank-
fort;-the Moselle by Treves and Coblents.
THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
THROUGH dark Thuringian forest,
Cold blew the wintry blast;
And a ruddy glow, on plains of snow,
By the setting sun was cast.
And slow and dull, the heavy bell,
In the ancient convent tower,
To the burghers of old Eisenach
Rang forth the vesper hour.
On many a gable, old and quaint,
Stream'd forth a flickering light,
From low-arch'd door, and casement tall,
In flashes warm and bright.
"Now stir the log, Dame Ursula,
And spread the ample board;
And, from the silver-rimmed horn,
Let the foamy ale be pour'd.
50 THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
"And though dull care, and cold, and storm,
Without, make wildest din
And rap and rattle at our gate,
They cannot enter in."
A burgher of old Eisenach,
With wealth and honors bless'd,
Thus, many a long, long year ago,
His goodly wife addressed.
A comely dame was Ursula,
And wealthily array'd:
She wore a coif of Flemish lace,
And a kirtle of brocade.
She had a round and dimpled cheek,
A sweet and kindly voice;
And, with her father's blessing, wed
The husband of her choice.
And time roll'd on; and with its course,
Her gladness grew more deep;
For in a carved oak cradle lay
A little babe, asleep!
THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
But hark!-Amidst the tempest's hush,
Out in the silent street,
Is heard a young voice musical,
Clear, rich, and passing sweet;
In language of the Fatherland,
Singing, in heavenly tone,
The psalms which royal David sang,
Upon his gilded throne.
"God is our refuge and our strength!"
Sang Israel's king of yore;
And thus the poor young scholar sang,
Begging from door to door.
A kindly heart had Ursula:-
The casement open flew,
And on the singer's wan, pale face
The flashing light she threw.
She look'd upon that face, so young,
So hunger-pinch'd, yet mild,
And then she turn'd, and look'd upon
Her own fair, sleeping child.
52 THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
"Come in, come in, young caroller!
Our comforts be not scant;
And our full measure runneth o'er
To succour those that want.
Come in !-Where stands thy mother's cot,
Where thou wast sung to rest ?-
-Bearest thou her blessing on thy head,
Her love within thy breast ?"
-"My father delveth in the mines,
An honest man, though poor;
And when I left my mother's cot,
Her blessing thence I bore.
"I crave to be a learned man,
A letter'd man, and wise."-
-"Ay! that thou wilt," quoth Ursula:
"I see it in thine eyes !
"I see in them an untried might,
To will, or to endure;
The sparkle of a latent fire,
Strong, resolute, and pure 1"
THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
A loving friend was Ursula;-
Through many a wintry night,
The gentle scholar did she house,
Like a good "Shunammite !"
He had a place beside her hearth,
And at her board his share,
And a little chamber in the roof,
With a bed, and lamp, and chair.
She knows not that the miner's son
A wondrous mission bears;-
A mighty servant of the Lord
She fosters, unawares !
Years pass'd:-and twice ten summers' suns
Ripen'd the yellow grain,
And twice ten winters shed their snows
On forest, mount, and plain.
54 THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
And, in their course, full many a change
Had swept o'er bower and hall;
And lowly ones had gathered strength,
And strong ones wept their fall.
A mighty call, like thunder-peal,
Strong, resonant, and deep,
From north to south, from west to east,
Roused nations from their sleep.
The kaiser, in his palace halls,
The craftsman, at his loom,
The pontiff, in his Vatican,
The knight, with lance and plume,
The peasant, in his lowly hut,
-All quail'd at voice of one,-
A simple monk of Wittenberg,
An honest miner's son !
His soul had found a chained book:-
He seized it in his grasp,
Wiped off the dust of centuries,
And wrenched its iron clasp;
THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
Then open'd wide its holy page,
And read of Christ's free grace:
The very Saviour that he sought,
He welcomed, face to face.
Then was he strong !-What card he
For stern, imperial ban,
For kaiser's frown, or priestly curse,
Or thundering Vatican?
He brandish'd in his strong right hand
The gospel's flaming sword:
Now wielded he the daring pen,
And now, the living word 1
A freeman of the holy truth,
Through conflicts, storms, and strife
He walk'd at large; and preach'd to men,
In burning words of life.
And at his bidding nations rent
Their dark, time-honour'd creeds,
Question'd their saintly images,
And found them-broken reeds !
56 THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
And prince and peasant flock'd to hear
The marvels that were wrought
By LUTHER, and the holy book,
Which he to light had brought.
It is a summer Sabbath morn,
And brightly rose the sun,
Like monarch in his golden car,
His cloudless race to run.
He looked o'er green Thuringian hills,
And through the leafy wood;
O'er flowery plains, and harvest-fields,
All beautiful and good!
And cheerily the ponderous bell,
In the ancient convent tower,
To the burghers of old Eisenach
Rang forth the matin hour.
THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
Then, up and down the gabled street,
The goodly townsmen press'd;
And kirtled dames walk'd side by side,
All in their Sunday best.
A startling hour for Eisenach
And her old minster gray !-
The wondrous monk from Wittenberg
Will preach therein, this day.
The baron, from his feudal tower;
The student, pale and wan;
The peasant, from the hamlet lone;
The thrifty artisan;
The mendicant with cowl and cord;
The friar stout and strong;
Rich citizens, and chiefs of "guilds,"
All swell the gathering throng.
But not amongst the rich and great,
Though look we left and right,
Our friendly burgher can we see,
Nor the dear Shunammite.*
D'Aubign6 says, that the old chroniclers of Eisenach gene-
rally call Ursula Cotta "The good Shunammite," in grateful
memory of her early kindness to their great Reformer.
58 THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
Alas the storms of life had reft
Away each worldly trust,
And wealth, and pride, and honours lay
All crumbled into dust!
Now, bent by years, bereft, and poor,
A lowly path they trod;
Forgotten by the proud and great,
But not forgot of God.
He took the silver and the gold,
To make them rich in grace;
He quench'd their lamp, that they might see
The shining of his face.
"My Conrad," quoth Dame Ursula,
"At Eisenach, they say,
The famous monk of Wittenberg
Will preach, this very day.
"They say he preaches to the poor;
And warns the rich and wise,
That God's salvation is not bought
With money or with price."
THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
"His doctrine then might suit us well!"
Said Conrad, with a smile;
And so they mingled with the crowd
That throng'd the minster aisle.
But all men held their breath intent,
(Like hush before a storm,)
When in the dark, old pulpit rose
The preacher's stately form.
He was a man still young in years;
Yet on his steadfast brow
Had deep soul-conflicts grooved their lines,
As with an iron plow.
He had an eye that ne'er had blench'd
'Neath prince nor potentate;
Whose light could soften into love,
Or kindle into hate.
He held the open, unchain'd book,
Within his nervous grasp:
The dust of centuries was gone,
And gone its rusty clasp !
60 THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
He turn'd its hallow'd pages o'er,
With earnest, rapid move:
Then paused where, luminous, stand forth
Christ's own dear words of love.
Words for the labouring, burden'd soul!
Words for the weary breast !
Words for the way-worn :-" Come to me,
And I will give you rest."
He open'd, as with golden key,
The treasures of free grace;
He show'd the glory of the Lord
In the dear Saviour's face.
Then from the gospel's heaven-born truth
He stripp'd each false disguise,
And with the hand of faith, laid bare
Man's "refuges of lies."
As softly fall refreshing showers
Upon the thirsty ground,
On Conrad and his Ursula
Fell soft the gospel's sound.
THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
"Come ye to me, and ye shall rest,"
Were words that dropped like dew
On their parch'd souls : they went to Christ,
And found his promise true.
No longer toil-worn wayfarers,
Sin-burden'd, poor, and sad,
Their souls had found a resting-place,
And they were rich and glad!
And as he spake, the preacher's voice,
Rich, musical, and clear,
Woke some dull echo of the past,
Familiar to their ear.
And though the heaven-sent messenger
A stranger's semblance wore,
There seem'd an accent in his speech
They thought they'd heard before.
But when, in full, melodious strain,
With look composed and calm,
He lifted up his voice, and sang
The well-remember'd psalm.
62 THE SINGER OF EISENACH.
"God is our refuge and our strength,"
The missing clew was won:
"'Tis he! 'tis he!" cried Ursula,
"The miner's student son!
"'Tis he, my youthful caroller !
Ah me! an hundredfold
Hath Christ repaid us for the loss
Of silver and of gold.
"A cup of water did we give
To that dear houseless boy;
And God hath sent us, by his hand,
A cup of heavenly joy !"
She turn'd; for Luther's strong right hand,
Now trembling with delight,
Hath grasp'd her arm:-" Dame Ursula!
My good, dear Shunammite !"
Oh, who shall tell what converse sweet
Then held they, side by side,
And how with manna from above,
Their souls were satisfied?
THE SINGER OF EISENACH. 63
They parted :-he, to breast the storm,
And wrestle with the gale;
They, to walk humbly with their God,
In life's sequester'd vale.
They meet again; but not 'mid storm,
Nor 'midst uncertain calm:
But in the glorious courts of heaven,
Waving the victor's palm,
And singing, 'mongst the seraph choir,
The saints' triumphant psalm.
ANNY, little Cornish maiden,
With thy cottage posy laden !-
Cabbage-rose, and tall sweet pea,
Southernwood and rosemary,
Woodbine, with its honey-cells,
Canterbury's azure bells,
With the white and queenly lily,
Gilliflower, and prim sweet-willy !
But, of all thy flowers, the best
Is thyself, my blooming guest!
With a cheek as round and rosy
As the best rose in thy posy,
And a kind voice which excels
Canterbury's azure bells,
And a step, as free and bold
As thy Celtic race of old,
Soften'd to the mild and calm,
By thy mother's cradle psalm !
Thou canst tell me many a story
Of the wild Atlantic's glory,
When these granite cliffs he dashes,
And the beacon-turret lashes;
While the sea-bird on the billow,
And thyself on cosy pillow,
Dream, with softly sealed eye,
'Midst the roaring lullaby.
Palaces, and halls of pride,
Sculptured by the surging tide,
Are thy play-grounds!-granite caves,
Polish'd by the ocean waves,
Arch'd, and fringed, and draperied
With the shaggy, salt sea-weed,
Through whose tangles brightly shine
Diamond spars and coraline:
There, what glittering treasures hide,
Left thee by the ebbing tide!
Little shells with rosy lip,
Pearly hinge, and purple tip;
Cowries, with their teeth of white;
Fairy fans, so frail and light;
Turbo, with its tiny stair,
And the little trumpets* fair I
Or, perchance, thou wanders o'er
Furzy croft and healthy moor,
Where, from far, the honey bee
Sips wild thyme and rosemary;
Where the lark, on lowly nest,
Panting, hides her speckled breast,
Watching, with her bright black eye,
Every rustle passing by;
While her mate, on pinion strong,
Bears to heaven his thrilling song.
Oh the breezy Cornish croft!
Scented with the heather soft,
And the prickly yellow furze,
Where, beneath, the fieldmouse stirs,
Trembling lest some ill surprise
His small crib and little mice !
Softly pass --we would not bring
Grief to any living thing !
Softly pass !-but Nanny knows
Where the whortle-berry grows,
And the rushes for her crown,
And the nodding cotton down:
Yet she little knows the story
Of those piles of granite hoary,
Whore, of old, the Druid stood,
Pouring forth the victim's blood,
And, in raiment white as snow,
Waved the mystic mistletoe.
Let the creeping lichen spread
Slowly o'er the altar's head;
Let the dows and showers erase
Every darkly-chisell'd trace;
Let the chiming Sabbath-bell
Better tidings sweetly tell!
Now farewell, my little maiden;
Come again with posy laden;
Welcome be thy cottage flowers,
Dripping fresh with Cornish showers I
HAVE you ever seen a fawn, quite near,
And standing at your side?
And did you stroke his silky ear,
And pat his spotted hide?
When we were little girls like you,
Once walking neathh the trees,
In the dim shadows of Carclew,
'Mongst wood anemonies,
We heard a sound, and looking back,
A fawn all blithe and tripping,
Across a soft and mossy track,
Was coming toward us, skipping !
He stood beside us, and his eyes,
So large, and black, and bright,
Did seem to speak of kind surprise,
And fondness and delight.
His tiny hoofs of polished black
Deep in the moss were dinted;
His arching neck and velvet back
With glossy specks were printed.
He rubb'd his little silky nose
Against my cheek and hand,
And look'd as if he'd like to coze,-
So kind he seem'd, and bland!
He search'd our basket, smelt our gloves,
And how he sneezed and grunted,
For we had nothing that he loves,
And so he felt affronted !
Our cuckoo flowers, and prickly rose,
And wood anemonies,
At such he twisted up his nose,
And could not relish these.
70 THE PAWN.
O spotted fawn 0 speckled fawn !
He sees a soft eye glisten,
And there, across the grassy lawn,
An ear is prick'd to listen.
He sees that ear, he knows that eye,
(There dare approach no other,)
Away his glinting footsteps fly,
It is the doe,-his mother.
MY TAME GOLDFINCH.
The habits of my little pet, in his mild captivity, are here
faithfully described. He seemed to make choice of the most
picturesque situations, and most ornamental perches within his
reach. It was his delight to select the brim of some vase, or
the extreme apex of a miniature obelisk, for his orchestra, and
he always preened his feathers before a looking-glass.
LET them search the Indian plain,
Forest, valley, glade, and hill,
Islands of the tropic main,
Flowery thickets of Brazil;
Let them choose of birds the rarest
On the Oronoco's brink,
Thou, to me, wert first and fairest,
England's little golden spink !
Not a dreary cage of wire
Did I make his prison-home;
Soon his panting breast would tire
Of its sad and cheerless dome.
So, aoout our pleasant dwelling,
He might fly, on sprightly plume,
MY TAME GOLDFINCH.
While his merry song came swelling,
Here and there, from room to room.
Glad was he to stretch that wing,
With its shining streak of gold;
Glad, when tired, to stoop and sing,
And his downy pinion fold:
But his notes grew louder, clearer,
When the songster caught a sight,
In the crystal of the mirror,
Of his own small figure bright.
Then, he'd softly polish down
Glossy pinions, light and slim;
Stroking smooth his scarlet crown,
Setting every feather trim;
Till the charming beau array'd is
Proudly in his shining best,
And as vain as vainest lady's
Is his little throbbing breast !
Now his silky wings are spread,
And he flutters swiftly up
To old Chaucer's honest head,
Or to Hebe's marble cup:
MY TAME GOLDFINCH.
Seeming always bent on choosing
To avoid the low and dull,
And his taste refined amusing
With the high and beautiful!
But a moment's sudden pause,
And he lights, all gay and brisk,
'Mongst the doves on Hadrian's vase,
Or on Carnak's obelisk:
With his glossy pinions dashing
Past a crystal urn of flowers;
SStooping there to bathe, and splashing
O'er his wings, the dripping showers.
Pretty goldfinch! what beside
Wouldst thou crave of transient bliss?
Could the wider world, if tried,
Yield thee more of joy than this ?
Wherefore art thou ever turning
Such a longing, restless eye,
Trembling, quivering, and yearning,
Towards the free and open sky?
Wherefore are those shining wings,
With their glossy line of gold,
MY TAME GOLDFINCH.
Spread in eager flutterings,
With an anxious thought untold?
As I speak-a shrill note ringeth,
Of surprised, entranced delight,
Ere I look-my captive singeth
In the fields of ether bright !*
All in vain the fondest tone
Of my well-remember'd call;
He hath gain'd his right,-his own,
And he spurns my gentle thrall.
May thy fragile urn of pleasure
Overflow its narrow brink,
'G Ldness pass my skill to measure,
England's little golden spink!
Relying too confidently upon the bird's personal attach-
ment to myself, we had allowed the window to remain open.
On former occasions he had stoutly resisted temptation, but this
time the impulse was too strong; and I felt, in my heart, that
he was right, and Iwrong in desiring to deprive him, for my own
Gratification, of his natural freedom.
Some of these particulars are gathered from Ruxton's Travels.
BY Missouri's giant flood,
Or El Norde's rolling river,
In the lonely cedar wood
Dwells the little gentle beaver.
Gifted with such wondrous skill
In the art of engineering,
Felling mighty trees at will,
And their course o'er rapids steering;
With his teeth so keen and strong,
Into logs the bole dividing,
Gently guiding each along,
To the right spot for abiding !
There the skilful dam is made,
And a quiet lake spreads, glassy;
There the torrent's force is stay'd,
And the hut's foundation laid
Near the margin cool and grassy.
Yet how many a toilsome hour,
And how oft must limbs grow weary,
Ere the builder sees his bower
Firm, and dry, and warm, and cheery!
Yes! the clay must first be wet,
And his flat tail lash the mortar;
And the roof with bark be set,
To exclude the rain and water.
But the day of joy will come,
When his hut is all completed,
And he sees his mate at home,
Midst her little kittens seated.
Jumping, frisking, bounding light,
Swimming now in shallow river,
How they chase the sunbeams bright,
Where the nodding rushes quiver!
Now they watch their busy mother,
Now they pluck the red wild cherry,
Now they duck and splash each other,
Ever sportive, ever merry !
Beaver !-He, the Good-The Wise
Gave that skin, so soft, to wrap thee,
Not that it might e'er entice
Greedy man to come and trap thee.
And it seems a cruel sin,
That an architect so clever,
Who our kindness ought to win,
Should be slaughter'd for a skin
Soft and silky,-gentle beaver!
* -...- .
WAS a morning in April, deli-
cious and bright,
With scarcely a shadow to che-
quer the light:
Each tree and each hedge-row
was budding all o'er
With that delicate beauty which
The leaf in its sheath, and the bud in its fold,
And the flower in its calyx, were tenderly roll'd,
Just waiting the call of the south wind's low
To throw off their cerements, and burst from the
The birds were all.busy with household affairs,
With family prospects, and family cares;
The beautiful thrush, with her velvety breast,
Was shaping and moulding the round of her nest;
While the yellow-beak'd merle, in his glossy,
Had a twig in his bill, and a song in his throat;
And the trustful hedge-warbler already did own,
Five lovely blue eggs,-that are sure to be stolen !
And the robin, brave fellow! is daintily drest
In his new velvet hood, and a scarlet-hued
And he said to his mate, "I have found, my
Such a beautiful place for our nestlings this
To the wild-wood, and forest, and desolate glen,
We never will rove from the cottage again.
There the weasel doth lurk, and the hawk, and
And the harlequin pye, in his black and his white.
" Here the insolent cuckoo hath never been
To intrude his big nestling and turn out our
And here we are shielded from all these alarms,
And are shelter'd from hunger, from cold, and
By the warmth of the eaves, and the crumbs on
The smile of the lattice, and shade of the door:
-So I'll show you the place where you'll sit, as
The sweetest hen-redbreast that ever was seen!"
She listen'd, and twitter'd; and if a fear shot
Through her motherly heart when he show'd
her the spot,
Or a doubt for the future, you never had guess'd
That such a thought ruffled the down of her
Like a good little wife, all contented the while,
Who does as he wills, with a nod and a smile;
Though she said to herself, "I would rather, I
Not sit as a queen on that wonderful throne !"
Now, adjoining the cottage, there stood a warm
For rake, and for spade, and for matting and
'Twas a snug.little room, with a casement and
A shelf, and a table, and nicely-swept floor;
And a hail-storm had broken a diamond-shaped
Where the robins might enter, and fly out again:
And the gardener's dinner of bread and of meat
Had yielded in winter an exquisite treat.
He wondered, and watch'd them, and wondered
Why they flash'd in and out, through the hole
in the pane;
The one little bill always tufted with moss,
While a delicate twig lay the other across.
With beak, and with claw, and with quivering
Too busy to pick up his crumbs, or to sing:
82 THE ROBINS.
Then he found that the baby's small cart was
By a softly-lined, rounded, and beautiful nest!
Five days! and each morning the little hen laid
A single white egg, speckled over with red.
And her sparkling black eyes shone like two
As she sat in her chariot and peep'd through the
While her throat of pale orange peer'd over the
When settling her treasures, or preening her
And daily she listen'd, with conjugal pride,
To the best and the sweetest of warblings, out-
But to dozing, and cozing, and musings fare-
When five hungry robinets broke from the
Flashing in,-flying out,-flashing homeward
From morning to night, through that hole in the
If one mouth be fill'd, there are four open yet;
Oh, the wonderful stomach of each robinet!
So they grew, and were fledged, and the nest is
And the hen with her wings cannot cover them
Then a council was held, when, with pride and
'Twas agreed that each pinion was ready for flight.
What chirpings !-what coaxings !-what glad-
ness !-what tremblings !
What daring adventures and timid dissemblings!
What joy at their freedom !-what yearnings, in
When their little wings ached, for the softness
But their mother taught each to the branches
And to tuck, when he slept, his head under his
And they soon loved the sunshine, the shower,
and the breeze,
And they loved to "see-saw," with the wind, in
84 THE ROBINS.
Their pinions were strong, and they wondered
How they e'er could have relish'd their nest in
But their parents are thoughtfully peeping
Through that little round hole in.the diamond-
And the hen whisper'd softly, "I've never forgot
My safety and peace, in that exquisite spot !"
But her throne ?-it had vanish'd !-the baby's
Could not give up, forever, her claim on the
She had patiently waited, content and resigned,
Because her sweet mother had said "it were
And had shown her those two sparkling eyes,
and that breast,
Which panted and heaved o'er the edge of the
And had said that her darling should soon have
When the eggs were all hatch'd and the nest-
lings had flown.
Nought daunted, the brave-hearted robins began
At once to adjust and resettle their plan.
For an instant, they fancied how clever wouldd
To build in the shears, like the fork of a tree;
But its edge was too keen.-Then it enter'd
To build, at small cost, in a box full of shreds;
And had even begun a few fibres to twine,
When the gardener took it to pin up a vine.
The cock-bird was angry, and rough'd up his
And wonderedd that any dare hinder his nest;"
That "the box was his own, and the nails, and
The shears, and the rake, and, in fact, the whole
That "he'd build where he list, and would please
his own self:"
-So they fix'd on a place, high aloft, on the
By the side of a mouse-trap, still baited with
Though the mice all preferred crocus-roots and
Again was a nest finely woven with care,
And five speckled.eggs were deposited there;
Again did five nestlings, all hearty and bright,
Keep those busy wings restless, from morning
Flashing in,-flashing out, with a zeal and a love,
Which never a moment of weariness prove;
Till they taught each again how to fly from the
And to roost on a bough, and to shift for him-
It is time, you will think, for our brave little
To retire from business and family care!
But no !-they are chatting, and nodding again,
In the same old direction,-that hole in the pane!
There is plenty of time, ere the summer be past,
For five pretty nestlings, as dear as the last:
There is plenty of time for the growth of the
And to teach them to shift for themselves, and
Now, in a snug corner, there happened to lie
A heap of old manuscripts, learned and dry.
Whether Latin or Greek, I have never yet heard
Which tongue, of the twain, held a charm for the
But the bold little fellow most stoutly did choose
To throne his last nest in the lap of the muse:
And never, for certain, did classical lore
Yield such a sure basis for gladness before.
If a rustle ere troubled the mother-bird's nest,
'Twas the musty Greek characters under her
But the robinets broke from their egg-shell again,
Like other young nestlings, in morals and brain.
Now, peace to the parents, and joy to their song,
And health to their nurslings, all blithesome and
And glad be the anthem, and sweet be the notes,
That swell the soft plumage of fifteen young
NOTE.-All the leading incidents in this story are strictly true.
MY TAME SQUIRREL.
I HAD a little Squirry;-
His step was quick and light,
His tail was long and furry,
* And his eyes were large and bright.
He burrow'd neathh my pillow,
And curl'd himself to sleep,
Or in my basket willow
He slyly loved to creep.
It was no use to scold him,
He always had his way,
Though oft and oft I told him
To be quiet in his play.
MY TAME SQUIRREL.
But bolder still and bolder
He grew with every week;
He'd spring upon my shoulder,
And frisk across my cheek:-
And nibble at the drawers,
Where almonds were, and dates,
And pull to rags the flowers,
And run across the plates !
A bunch of cowslips yellow
To him was matchless fun,
But, oh, the greedy fellow!
He ate them every one !
He built his nest aloft there,
Behind a barricade;
And none can tell how soft there
The little crib he made.
What piles of woolly cotton!
What balls of worsted bright!
What skeins of silk, forgotten,
Or left within his sight!
MY TAME SQUIRREL.
And none can tell what bunches
Of hazel-nuts were stored,
What dinners and what lunches
Were in that secret hoard!
O Squirry, nimble Squirry!
I loved thy merry ways,
And never felt it weary
To watch thee in thy plays.
MY SQUIRREL'S BROTHER.
BUT though my Squirry was full of glee,
A freer and merrier life than he,
Did his brother lead, in the old beech-tree.
His pillar'd hall was garlanded '
With polish'd ivy;-and overhead
A dome of sapphire sky was spread.
With twisted branches cluster'd o'er,
In a gothic arch, was his corridor,
With a mossy carpet on its floor.
Branch, and stem, and elastic spray,
Brown, and green, and silvery gray,
High, and low,-were his haunts for play.
He stopped to drink at the forest rills,
Bubbling forth from the ferny hills,
And golden brimm'd with daffodils
MY SQUIRREL'S BROTHER.
He ran to pluck, when he chose to dine,
The juicy buds of the fragrant pine,
Running o'er with turpentine !
Then, for dessert, he had hazel-nuts,
Noble filberts, and mealy roots,
Mast, and chestnuts, and tender shoots.
When the chequer'd lines of light and shade
Slanted, at eve, through his colonnade,
Said Squirry, I think it is time for bed."
Then back to the old beech-tree he'd frisk,
With a sleepy eye, but a footstep brisk,
And into its hollow nimbly whisk.
And if you could climb that beechen-tree,
A snug little chamber you might see,
And a squirry sleeping cosily.
When the autumn's sky of red and gold
Lit up his hall, like a minster old,
Said he, I must think me of winter's cold."
Then a pack. of wool, and a load of hay,
And a bundle of moss, he bore away,
To the hole within that beech-tree gray.
MY SQUIRREL'S BROTHER.
" Now, if I should wake ere pine-cones bud,"
Said Squirry, "I think it would do me good
To find in my chamber a hoard of food!"
So he brush'd with his tail his garner-floor,
And on it he piled a goodly store;
Then, barking defiance, shut the door!
Barking defiance to man and dog,
To stormy winds, and to frost, and fog,
Complacently patted his heap of prog.
To his fragrant nest he then did creep,
And buried his nose in mosses deep,
And softly sunk to a quiet sleep.
He dream'd of spring;-and his nap was long.
The alarm that woke him, clear and strong,
Was a whistling blackbird's mellow song.
So Squirry guess'd it was time to rise;
And he stretch'd his legs, and rubb'd his eyes:
"I'll try," said he, "if my nuts are nice."
Then Squirry thought he should like a sip
At the fountain's daffodilly lip,
And his fingers in the water dip.
94 MY SQUIRREL'S BROTHER.
But he never dream'd of the good, and fair,
And beautiful sights that met him there,
The emerald light, and the breezy air.
The tender buds on the old brown spray,
The snowy white on the thorny May,
And the russet beech in its green array,
The juicy cones on the pine and fir,
And the aspen leaflets all astir,
And the trembling threads of the gossamer.
He chew'd the buds of the larch and spruce,
And he suck'd the cowslip's sugary juice,
And sipp'd the dew from the "fleur de luce."
"I'm glad that I woke so soon," said he,
"From that short nap in the old beech-tree,
For much has been going on, I see."
O wild-wood Squirry, so free and gay !
How glad am I that thou got away,
When thy brother was caught, that summer's
THE classic Tyber we will sing, that pours its
By palaces, and towers, and fanes, of Roman
wealth and pride:
The great men of the elder time, the-gifted, and
Have gloried to confess their birth beside its
It gushes from its mountain urns, high on the
Above the shadowy ilex groves, and 'midst the
It slowly winds its downward course, beneath
the olive's shade,
And waters, with its yellow tide, the vineyard
and the glade.
96 THE TYBER.
And many a huge Pelasgic tower, and old
With giant walls of dateless fame, upon its
stream look'd down;
And nations that have pass'd away, and left no
Save in their frescoed sepulchres-earth's only
But still old Tyber rolleth on, the fruitful field-
And chimes, from many a convent bell, ring
sweetly o'er its wave;
And still the peasant leads his flock along its
And stops at some low wayside shrine, to say
his vesper prayer.
The sunsets still suffuse thy tide with floods of
And tuneful reeds along thy marge make music
as of old:
And forth the glowing morning comes, her rosy
light to pour,
Fresh as when patriot poets sang her beauty as
How proudly flow'd thy troubled stream in
glory's ancient days,
Thou darling of the poet's heart, and fond his-
torian's praise !
How gladly toss'd thy tawny wave when vic-
Return'd in conquest's ivory car, with captive
Alas! thou hadst no pitying tear to pour from
thy cold urn,
For prisoners dragg'd in chains to grace the
No echo whisper'd 'midst thy reeds to lonely
Or orphan's wailing plaint,-thy songs were all
The captive Dacian never heard in thee an an-
To his dark forest's breezy voice, or Danube's
The exiled Briton looked in vain for image of
Her smiling vales, her rugged oaks, her girding
98 THE TYBER.
The cultured Grecian found in thee no sympa-
To call to mind the attic shell and shady laurel-
The banish'd Lydian dream'd in vain of Asiatic
And captive Hebrews wept at thought of Salem's
Proud river of the Seven Hills! and did thy
That laurel crowns of victory were fadeless by
Deem'd they exulting songs of joy would always
o'er thee roll,
And fetter'd kings be ever led to thy proud
Say, where is now the marble fane, the rich
The "sacred way,"* where victors crown'd, in
triumph used to march,
* The "Via Sacra."
The gilded halls where emperors did quaff
The cruel circus, trophied gate, and colonnaded
Alas for thee !-thy haughty towers in dust are
And, o'er the goodly and the brave, thy troubled
And laurels bud, but ne'er again to twine a
And the tall palm of victory thy foes have
The Goth revenged his country's wrongs; the
Vandal's iron hand
Pour'd vengeance o'er thy palaces, and ruin
through thy land;
From northern forests rush'd the Hun, like some
.And Tyber toss'd his tawny waves, flush'd with
his children's blood.
The cactus and the aloe now creep o'er thy
And leaves of true acanthus clothe Corinthian