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AUNT JANE'S VERSES,
MRSo Tl GCREWDSON.
CHARLES GILPIN, 5, BISHOPSGATE WITHOUT.
RICHARD BARRETT, PRINTER, MARK LANE.
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 the nursery.
It is very probable that readers, less par-
tial than those for whom they were ori-
ginally written, may find in my verses too
many signs of the circumstances under
which they have been composed. The
chamber of sickness is better adapted for
receiving instruction 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 and trial.
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
another; and that His blessing is needed to
energize sensibility into active and useful
MANCHESTER, MAY 12, 1851.
KATIE LEE, A SCOTCH STORY 1
CONWAY CASTLE 12
THE PRAIRIE DOG 16
THE TAME GEMZE 19
THE ZEBRA 25
OUR LOST KITTEN 29
THE RHINE. 32
LOST AND FOUND 37
POLLY, MY PARROT 43
LITTLE LILIAS 46
THE FAWN 53
MY TAME GOLDFINCH 56
THE BEAVER 60
THE ROBINS 63
MY TAME SQUIRREL 73
MY SQUIRREL'S BROTHER 76
THE TYBER 81
MY SISTERS IN HEAVEN 87
TO NANNY OF THE LAND'S END 91
TRY AGAIN 95
PANCHITO ; OR THE PRAIRIE FIRE 101
THE MARTYRDOM OF MARIUS 105
THE CHANCE SHOT 109
"WEE, WISE WILLIE." 113
USEFUL ANNIE 119
"GOOD NIGHT" 123
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 hast'ning 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 ?
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 loy 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 uncag'd 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 shew'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.
"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 passed, 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 uprais'd, 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.
Oh, 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 hply book outspread
Upon her father's knee;-
" 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow,' "--
Soft whispered Katie Lee.
BASKING in sunshine bright,
And musical with song,
A city lay in joy and light,
Campania's vines among!
The sea-wave kissed 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.
SPreviously to the great irruption 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 enrolled 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 all ready trimm'd.
Mosaic pavements, bright
As when by sandals prest;
And frescoed paintings, still as light
As when with garlands drest:
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!
EORGIE, when you passed through
Did thy memory ponder o'er
Tales historic of King Edward,
And his bright Queen Eleanore ?*
* Eleanora of Castile, the wife of Edward the First.
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, stained 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 Guadalquiver,
She hath brought the fair sweet-pea;
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. *
The wild Clematis.
She who drained the mortal poison,
Fearless from her husband's vein;*
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,
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!)
'Mongst the dust of ages laid!
Whilst the seeds of herbs and blossoms
Tended by Queen Eleiinore,
By the gales of peace are scattered
England's smiling valleys o'er!
SThe 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.
CONWAY CASTLE. 15
Little think we, when delighting
In some cherished 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
Ruxton's 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 Ye,!' or No,"
To every dog's appeal;
To him they walk, and sit, and talk
About their wo 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!
And let alone the prairie town,
With all its merry men!
N a sunny Alpine valley,
'Neath the snowy Wetterhorn,
See a maiden, by a chalet,
"B Playing with a gemze fawn.
S How he pricks his ears to hear her,
S How his soft eyes flash with pride,
THE TAME GEMZE.
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 a gushing glacier-fountain,
On the giant Wetterhorn,
'Midst the snow-fields of the mountain,
Was this little gemze 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 jiiger* watched her, gliding
In the silence of the dawn,
Seeking for a place of hiding
For her little tender fawn :
So he marked her, all unheeding,
THE TAME GEMZE.
(Swift and sure the bolt of death)
And he bore her, dead and bleeding,
To his Alpine home beneath.
And the orphan gemz6 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 gazed,
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 gemz6, stealing
Towards her, seem'd to understand,
THE TAME GEMZE.
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 gemz6 fawn,
While the kids and lambs she's bringing
Up or down the thymy lawn.
Spring is come! and little Bertha,
With her chamois 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 GEMZE.
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 ?
Gemze! 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 smil'd 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 shivered,
And the tame one-wild again!
To the next wild bleat that soundeth
Makes he answer strong and shrill;
THE TAME GEMZE.
Wild as wildest, off he boundeth,
Fleet as fleetest, o'er the hill.
Gemze! Gemz6 Kommt mein lieber !"*
Echoes faint, from height to height;-
Dry thy tears, sweet Bertha,-never
Will he glance again in sight.
But, when paling stars are twinkling,
In the twilight of the morn,
Thou may'st 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!
SKommt mien Lieber."-Come my darling.
In all the German-Swiss cantons, and throughout the
Tyrol, the Chamois-Goat is called the Gemz6 ; the other
name, "Chamois," prevailing only in those cantons in which
French is spoken.
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 conquered
Still, with ebony hoof, dost thou toss the red
And thy neck bendeth not to the rider's command!
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 laughed fiercely again;
The ibis was scared from her ancient domains,
An4 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
Oh zebra, wild zebra, who tossest in scorn,
The reins from thy neck, like the mists of the
Dost remember that day when thy beautiful chest,
With the yoke of thy victor was sternly comprest,
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 the
And, in place of the palm, with its feathery shade,
Rose the shaft of the pillar, and white colonnade.
I marvel how throbbed the wild pulse of thy will,
When compelled, in Rome's triumph, thy part to
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
28 THE ZEBRA.
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 sands,
To race with the ostrich, on wings of the morn:
And the hunter's swift arrow to distance, in scorn!
OUR LOST KITTEN.
FLORA, Daisy's little kitten,
Having tired herself with play,
By the kitchen-fire was sitting,
Very 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 is 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 fixed 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 '1 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 'U1 be back in two short hours-
None so soft as you, and furry,
And no bed so warm as ours!"
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!
LUE and winding" river Rhine!
SHow 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 peasants' 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 neighed,
And the rider bent his crest,
As he sheathed his glittering blade,
Or hath couched his lance in rest.
Then it floweth on in pride,
By the lordly palace halls,
Washing, with its azure tide,
Royal cities' 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 Casars had their camp,
And the Roman Eagle furled.
There the sage black-letters reads,
On old parchments dull and faint,
And the churchmen tell the deeds
Of some favoured patron-saint.
There the rude raft of the Hun,
There the Roman galley passed,
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,
Breathed 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 gaily-woven song,
Blending truth with poesy!
The Neckar flows by Heidelberg --the Maine by
Frankfort ;-the Moselle by Treves and Coblentz.
H, where can the little lad be
Who strayed from his father's
Here and there, and up and down,
They sought him, far and wide;
~ C.~4 r I
LOST AND FOUND.
Through the heather, and up the brae,
They sought him, with heart of care;
Whither can he have roam'd away ?
And each one answers,-" Where ?"
The shepherd, to seek a missing lamb,
Had left the child alone;
He brought the lamb to its bleating dam-
But his own little lamb was gone!
That night the father never slept,
Nor closed the mother's eye;
But they sought him still, and pray'd, and wept,
Till morn rose drearily;
And the mother's heart was sad and chill,
When they came back, one by one; -
No little porringer now to fill
With breakfast for her son!
The sun grows high, and the sun sinks low,
And another day is past,
And a wakeful night of care and woe,
And of seeking, like the last!
LOST AND FOUND.
'Till the mother sleeps from weariness,
And the father's cheek is wasted,
And the sisters pine in dreariness,
And the porridge is untasted!
But why is this ?-when you give the bread
To your trusty dog, you see
He eats it not,-but he runs instead,
In haste, and eagerly,
All along the brae, and up the hill,
With a self-important mien,
Through yarrow, and through broom, until
His track no more is seen.
Now follow him, for he seems to say,
By bark, and leap, and bound,
"If you come with me, I'll shew the way
Where a lost lamb may be found! "
Then the gudeman took his tartan plaid,
His bonnet, and his crook,
And he followed Luath, weary-sad,
Over crag, and knoll, and brook.
LOST AND FOUND.
No sound was heard but the plover's wail,
And the bittern's heavy boom,
And the nestled black-cock's rustling quail,
Amongst the yellow broom.
Poor shepherd!-well may thy courage sink,
And chilling fears arise,
When Luath leads thee to the brink
Of a craggy precipice!
But what can hinder a pastor's zeal,
When he seeks a lambkin dear P
And what can make the courage reel
Of a hardy mountaineer ?
Down! down!-But, beneath the rugged scaur
There boils a coal-black lynn;
He pauses,-but Luath bounds before,
In midst of spray and din:
In an agony he looks around
On the gloomy scene so wild;
But hush !-Oh can he have caught a sound
Like the wailing of a child ?
LOST AND FOUND.
But Luath, plunged in misty shade,
Is whining with eager joy,
As the oat-cake in the lap he laid
Of his master's darling boy!
And the father to his heart hath pressed
His long-lost little son,
As he looked to heaven, and thank'd, and bless'd
His God, for the mercy shewn!
Not a golden hair of the child was dim,
Nor bow'd with grief his head;
Kind guardian angels, over him,
Their shadowy wings had spread.
You well may guess,-but I cannot tell,
What the loving mother felt:
The smiles that shone, and the tears that fell,
And how they all down knelt;
And how the laddie did kneel between
His father and his mother;
How the sisters knelt, with solemn mien,
Their hands joined in each other!
LOST AND FOUND.
And how the porringers were fill'd,
(Without one portion missing,)
How the oaten-cakes were nobly grill'd,
Midst laughter, smiles, and kissing!
But first, how Luath had such a share
That it overflowed his bowl!
And he wagg'd his tail with a knowing air,
And thought he could eat the whole!
This incident took place in Scotland about three years ago.
POLLY MY PARROT.
POLLY, pretty Polly !-come, talk to me a bit,
While on my small forefinger you comfortably sit.
Here's a cherry for you, Polly, a ripe and rosy
So I think you ought to be quite talkative and
Shall I scratch your head, so smart, in its cap of
green and yellow P
Shall I stroke your glossy neck, you pretty little
Shall we talk about that land, beyond the glowing
Where you were stolen away from out your
mother's nest ?
In the broad pimento tree, with spicy nuts so rare,
Where shout your brothers free in the sunny
summer air ?
44 POLLY, MY PARROT.
Where the woodpeckers repeat the little negroes'
And the tiny humming-birds the nectar honey
And the cry of whip-poor-will," from far away,
And is mock'd at by the mimic and joyous mocking
Do you like pimento nuts and bitter buckle-berries
Better than bread and milk, and strawberries and
Would you rather scream and shout, amidst
your fellow Pollies
Than talk to robin redbreasts, amongst our oaks
and hollies ?
In the shallow of a creek, had you rather splash
Than,from a china saucer drink daintily and wash ?
We will not shut you up,-you may fly and strut
We will not tie your tongue,-you may talk, and
scream, and shout;
But puss must not be teased, nor the little dog
Nor must you chase about and pinch the tabby
POLLY, MY PABROT. 45
And, listen to me, Polly! you must not drive away
The tomtits and the finches, about, from spray to
The weakest and the strongest is each a welcome
To our crumbs, and our fountain, and to build
himself a nest.
| HE old man lay on his heather bed,
n In a lonely highland sealing,
. And, near her loving grandsire's head,
S Was little Lilias kneeling.
"I am not afraid of death, my wean,"*
(Said the old man to the child)
"For the blood of Christ hath wash'd me clean,
And my God on me hath smil'd."
"But the good old man, our minister,
If he could but come and pray,
While wait I here, heaven's gateway near,
It would lighten up my way:
"So up, my lassie! and wipe thine eye,
(Thou art lithe as a mountain roe)
And down to the valley quickly hie,
To fetch him, before I go."
Then Lilias rose from her grand-dad's side;
Her lips no word could speak,
But, with her pladdie, her tears she dried,
As she stoop'd and kiss'd his cheek.
And her silken snood she softly bound
Around her yellow hair;
And she wrapt her tartan firmly round
Her limbs, so lithe and fair.
The lassie !-she was but twelve years old,
And was gentle, kind, and mild;
But her heart was brave, and firm, and bold,
As it fits a mountain child.
Her shining feet had been ne'er comprest
By sandal nor by shoe,
But lightly brush'd, from the daisy's crest,
The glistening moorland dew.
Full well she knoweth each craggy path,
And knoweth the way it bends;
She kens the depth that each burnie* hath,
And the mountains are her friends.
And she kens, too well, the lowering cloud
That shrouds their giant forms,
And the thunder-voices pealing loud,
In the battle-field of storms!
The red-deer leaveth the beetling rock,
And hides in the birchen wood;
And the shepherd guideth his frighted flock,
In haste, from the rushing flood.
Burnie (diminutive for "bur"), a little brook.
The streamlet, once like a silver thread,
Is swoln to a mad cascade,
And the wimpling burns, she used to tread,
Are deep for a child to wade.
The rain-drops stream through her golden hair,
And the floods are round her dashing;
Her eye-balls ache with the lightning's glare,
And the thunder-peals are crashing.
But, with stout, brave heart, she breasts the
Like the sea-mew in a gale;
For she knew that God would shield from harm,
The lone, and the weak, and frail.
She set her foot in the torrent's bed,
With a bold and steady stand,
And made, for her dazzled eyes, a shade
'Gainst the lightning, with her hand.
And so she conquered the foamy beck,
And the torrent's eddying roll;
For what could hinder, or chain, or check
Such a brave and loving soul ?
Yet, neathh the pladdie, her bosom pants,
And her cheek is growing pale,
When she gains at last the pleasant manse,
Adown in the sheltered dale.
And they took her in, like a stricken dove,
And smoothed her with gentle care;
And they sooth'd her heart with words of love,
And they dried her dripping hair.
And the couch they spread for her was soft,
And the bowl of milk was warm;
Yet yearns her heart for the hills aloft,
And she recks not for the storm.
Now abide thee here, my bonnie child,
Thou'rt all too daring bold:
Poor little lambkin of the wild!
Rest in thy shepherd's fold."
My grand-dad dear is awaiting near
Heaven's bright and glorious gate;
I may not tarry nor rest me here,
Or I shall be too late.
" Oh, ye dinna ken how strong I am,
Nor how I crossed the beck;
For God took care of the mountain lamb,
And He held the floods in check."
" Now heaven forgive my faithlessness! "
Cried the good old minister,
This child has taught me a word of Grace
I'll heed it,-and go with her! "
Then, one by one, all stalwart-stout,
Stood up the highland men,
And they cheer'd the lassie with a shout,
And spake out boldly then:-
When the fawn can breast the flood and wind,
Nor swerve at the fear of death,
If the antler'd stag should lag behind,
He draws but a coward's breath!"
And so they struggled through beck and burn,
And they climb'd the craggy steep,
And they bore the lassie, each in turn,
Through whirling eddies deep.
52 LITTLE LILIES.
But ere they reached the glen aloft,
Where stood the lonely sealing,
The storms were hush'd to slumber soft,
And the dews fell sweet and healing;
And her grand-dad dear still waited near
Heaven's gate, so bright and glorious;
And the Minister is there to cheer,
Till he enters in, victorious!
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,
Wp heard a sound, and looking back,
A fawn all blithe and tripping,
Across a soft and mossy track,
Was coming towards 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 looked 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.
THE FAWN. 55
Oh spotted fawn! Oh speckled fawn!
He sees a soft eye glisten,
And there, across the grassy lawn,
An ear is pricked 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, about 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 tir'd, 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;
Stooping there to bathe, and splashing
O'er his wings, the dripping showers.
Pretty goldfinch! what beside
Would'st 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,
Tow'rds 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, entranc'd 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 gained his right,-- is own,
And he spurns my gentle thrall.
May thy fragile urn of pleasure
Overflow its narrow brink,
Gladness 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 I wrong 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 laws 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 clever dam is made,
And a quiet lake spreads, glassy;
There the torrent's force is stayed,
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!
62 THE BEAVER.
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 slaughtered for a skin
Soft and silky,-gentle beaver!
a" WAS a morning in April, delicious
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 swre to be stol'n!
And the Robin, brave fellow! is daintily drest
In his new velvet hood, and a scarlet-hued vest;
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.
THE ROBINS. 65
There the weasle 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 own.
And here we are shielded from all these alarms,
And are sheltered 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 listened, and twittered; and if a fear shot
Through her motherly heart when he show'd her
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;
66 THE ROBINS.
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 shred:
'Twas a snug little room, with a casement and
A shelf, and a table, and nicely-swept floor;
And a hail-storm had broken one diamond-shap'd
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 in
Why they flashed in and out, through the hole in
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:
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 listened, with conjugal pride,
To the best and the sweetest of warblings, out-
But to dozing, and cozing, and musings farewell,
When five hungry robinets broke from the shell!
Flashing in,-flying out,-flashing homeward
From morning to night, through that hole in the
If one mouth be filled, there are four open yet;-
Oh the wonderful stomach of each robinet!
So they grew, and were fledg'd, and the nest is
And the hen with her wings cannot cover them all.
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 trembling;
What daring adventures and timid dissemblings!
What joy at their freedom!-what yearnings, in
When their little wings ach'd, for the softness of
But their mother taught each to the branches to
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
THE ROBINS. 69
Their pinions were strong, and they wondered at
How they e'er could have relish'd their nest in
But their parents are thoughtfully peeping again
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 hath vanished !-the baby's
Could not give up, for ever, 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
Which panted and heav'd 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 re-settle their plan.
For an instant, they fancied how clever wouldd be
To build in the shears, like the fork of a tree ;
But its edge was too keen.-Then it entered
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" wondered 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 to
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
It is time, you will think, for our brave little pair,
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 Grecian, I never have heard
Which tongue, of the twain, held a charm for
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 rest,
'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 burrowed 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. 75
And none can tell what bunches
Of hazel-nuts were stored,
What dinners and what lunches
Were in that secret hoard!
Oh 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 pillared hall was garlanded
With polish'd ivy ;-and overhead
A dome of sapphire sky was spread.
With twisted branches clustered 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 brimmed 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 chesnuts, and tender shoots.
When the chequered 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 cozily.
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."
78 MY SQUIRREL'S BROTHER.
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.
"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 alarum that woke him, clear and strong,
Was a whistling blackbird's mellow song.
MY SQUIRREL'S BROTHER.
So Squirry guess'd it was time to rise;
And he stretched 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 waters dip.
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 chewed 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."
90 MY SQUIRREL'S BROTHER.
"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 Ithat thou got away,
When thy brother was caught, that summer's
HE classic Tyber we will sing, that
a pours its golden tide
By palaces, and towers, and fans, of
Roman wealth and pride:
The great men of the elder time, the
gifted, and the brave,
Have gloried to confess their birth
beside its ancient wave.
82 THE TYBER.
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.
And many a huge Pelasgic tower, and old Etrus-
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 fields
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 TYBER. 83
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-
How gladly toss'd thy tawny wave when victors,
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
84 THE TYBER.
The captive Dacian never heard in thee an an-
To his dark forest's breezy voice, or Danube's
The exiled Briton look'd in vain for image of
Her smiling vales, her rugged oaks, her girding
The cultur'd 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
thy stream ?
Deem'd they exulting songs of joy would always
o'er thee roll,
And fetter'd kings be ever led to thy proud
S THE TYBER. 85
Say, where is now the marble fane, the rich
The sacred way,"* where victors crown'd, in
triumph used to march,
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 hero's
And the tall palm of victory thy foes have smitten
The Goth reveng'd his country's wrongs; the
Vandal's iron hand
Pour'd vengeance o'er thy palaces, and ruin
through thy land;
The Via Sacra."
86 THE TYBER.
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
While breezes sigh all drearily the crumbling
And, through the Cesars' palaces, sing low the
dirge of death.
Imperial Tyber, sunk is now the murmur of thy
To some fast-dying melody, a disenchanted
Eternal" men have called thy towers; if such
earth's glory be,
And such her strength, we well may long for
MY SISTERS IN HEAVEN.
"He shall gather the lambs in his arm, and carry them in
his bosom."-IsAu. xl. 2.
ONCE, they were little pilgrims here;-
But they are angels now;
Their eye once glistened with the tear,
But now around their brow
Their Saviour binds a crown of light,
With jewels by his smile made bright.
I think I see them, as of yore,
So full of life and health,
When each within her sweet heart bore
A treasury of wealth;-
Such wealth as kind affections bless
The heart of love and gentleness.
MY SISTERS IN HEAVEN.
The one, within her dark eye, hid
Thoughts which her God had given:
In every thing she said or did
There was a touch of Heaven.
And yet she loved the things below,
As streamlets where God's mercies flow.
And there was one for whom her soul
Ran over with sweet love;
And often from her play she stole,
And, like a little dove,
Would nestle in his aged breast,
And there would feel her spirit blest!
It was her grandsire:-he was old,
And she a bud of spring;
But his affections were n6t cold,
Nor her's a worthless thing:
So they were bound in lovely yoke,
Like woodbine round an aged oak.
We never knew what words they said,
Thus banded, side by side,
But thought was o'er her features spread,
So calm and sanctified,