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peared restless and inconsolable for several days. On reaching New Orleans, I placed a looking-glass inside the place where she usually sat, and the instant she perceived her image, all her former fondness seemed to return, so that she could scarcely absent herself from it for a moment. It was evident that she was completely deceived. Always when evening drew on, and otien during the day, she laid her head close to that of the image in the glass, and began to doze with great composure and satisfaction. In a short time she had learned to know her name; to answer and come when called on; to climb up my clothes, sit on my shoulder, and eat from my mouth. I took her with me to sea, determined to persevere in her education.” And, to give an ending rather different to Mr. Wilson's, here we have presented her to our readers in the possession of an English lady, and with her education, for a Parrot, very complete.
To the exiled prophet good
POET. Wondrous miracle of love!
RAVEN on the blasted tree,
RAVEN. Doth it thus thy spirit more? Deeper truth than this shall reach thee, Christ he bade the raven teach thee: They plough not, said he, nor reap, Nor have costly hoards to keep; Storehouse none, nor barn have they, Yet God feeds them every day! Fret not then your souls with care What to eat, or what to wear, He who hears the ravens' cry Looketh with a pitying eye On his human family.
RAVEN I was there.
POET. I know it, bird. And when rain no more was heard Plashing down in torrents wild; When the face of heaven grew mild, And from mountain-summits brown The subsiding floods went down, And the prisoned creatures fain Scented the young earth again; Wherefore when the patriarch forth Sent thee to look round the earth And bring tidings to his door, Cam'st thou to the ark no more?
POET. Raven, thou art spirit-cheering; What thou say'st is worth the hearing: Never more be it averred That thou art a doleful bird!
RAVEN. Narrow was the ark, but wide And fair the earth on every side; And all around in glens and plains Lay of life the lorn remains; Man and beast and bird, like seed Scattered on the harvest mead: How could I return to bear Tidings? I was feasting there!
POET, Raven, ha! I thought the same. But in after times ye came,
FLOWER COMPARISONS. An cousin Blanche, let's see What's the power resembling thee! With those dove-like eyes of thine, And thy fair hair's silken twine; With thy low, broad forehead, white As marble, and as purely bright; With thy mouth so calm and sweet, And thy dainty hands and feet; What's the flower most like to thee ? Blossom of the orange-tree! Where may the bright flower be met That can match with Margaret, Margaret stately, staid, and good, Growing up to womanhood;
Loving, thoughtful, wise, and kind,
Now for madcap Isabel — What shall suit her, pr’ythee tell! Isabel is brown and wild ; Will be evermore a child; Is all laughter, all vagary, Has the spirit of a fairy. Are you grave? — The gipsy sly Turns on you her merry eye, And you laugh, despite your will. Isabel is never still, Always doing, never done, Be it mischief, work, or fun. Isabel is short and brown, Soft to touch as eider-down; Tempered, like the balmy south, With a rosy, laughing mouth; Cheeks just tinged with peachy red, And a graeeful Hebe-hend; Hair put up in some wild way, Decked with a hedge-rose's spray. Now, where is the bud or bell That may match with Isabel?
LITTLE STREAMS. LITTLE streams, in light and shadow Flowing through the pasture meadow; Flowing by the green way-side : Through the forest dim and wide : Through the hamlet still and small; By the cottage ; by the hall; By the rained abbey still; Turning, here and there, a mill; Bearing tribute to the river; Liule streams, I love you ever! Summer music is there flowing ; Flowering plants in them are growing ; Happy life is in them all, Creatures innocent and small; Little birds come down to drink Fearless on their leafy brink; Noble trees beside them grow, Glooming them with branches low, And between the sunshine glancing, In their Kittle waves is dancing. Little streams have flowers a many, Beautiful and fair as any; Typha strong, and green bur-reed; Willow-herb with cotton-seed ; Arrow-head with eye of jet, And the water-violet ; There the flowering rush you meet, And the plumy meadow-sweet; And in places deep and stilly, Marble-like, the water-lily. Little streams, their voices cheery Sound forth welcomes to the weary, Flowing on from day to day Without stint and without stay. Here, upon their flowery bank, In the old-times Pilgrims drank; Here have seen, as now, pass by Kingfisher and dragon-fly ; Those bright things that have their dwelling Where the little streams are welling. Down in valleys green and lowly, Murmuring not and gliding slowly; Up in mountain hollows wild, Frelling like a peevish child; Through the hamlet, where all day In their waves the children play, Running west, or running east, Doing good to man and beast, Always giving, weary never, Lillle streams, I love you ever!
Streaky tulip jet and gold, Dearly priced whenever sold; Rich in colour, low and sweet, This for Isabel is meet.
Last for Jeanie, grave and mild -
Soon poor Jeanie's flower is met, The meek, precious violet!
Think of the lamb in the fields of May Cropping the dewy flowers for play; Think of the sunshine, warm and clear; Of the bending corn in golden ear;
The night comes down, - and in they bound,
Of little children singing low
THE PASSION.FLOWER. I LOVE sweet flowers of every sort,
High-spired or trailing low; I love the musky roses red,
The lilies white as snow.
Sweet-pea and virgin-bower,
The good old passion-flower!
It bringeth to my mind,
Dim ages left behind.
The throng - the burning pyre, And Christians stand with clasped hands
Amid the raging fire.
The men with courage high, Preach their dear Lord amid their pangs,
Forgive their foes - and die.
In desert-places dwell,
In wood or mountain-cell.
By love and pity brought, To hear them tell of Jesus Christ,
And the new truths he taught. I see the fearless fathers stand,
Amid the eager throng, Preaching like Paul at Ephesus,
In burning words and strong. - Again I see a lonely man,
Of spirit sad and mild,
Or think thee now of a battle field,
The wild flowers of the desert
Grow round him thick as weeds,
Of holy things he reads.
The white, the pure from sin,
Christ was apparelled in.
The cross whereon he died;
That pierced his blessed side.
Beneath a forest-bower,
Before an open flower; Exclaiming with a fervent joy,
"I have found the Passion-flower! "The Passion of our blessed Lord,
With all his pangs and pain, Set forth within a little flower,
In shape and colour plain! * Behold the ladder, and the cord
With which his limbs were tied ;
In hands, and feet, and side!
The bloody crown of thorn;
Of God and man forlorn! "Up, I will forth into the world,
And take this flower with me,
As it was preached to me!"
Throughout the world was sent,
It's holy sentiment.
or Christian fathers came ; And to prosess the faith of Christ
No longer purchased shame : When abbeys rose in towered state;
And over wood and dell, Went sounding, with a royal voice,
The stately minster.bell : Then was the abbey-garden made
All with the nicest care ; Its little borders quaintly cut
In fancies rich and rare.
And there they kept the pious monks,
Within a garden small,
All herbs medicinal.
The moonstruck and the blind, For holy flower, for wort of power,
For charmed root and rind ! -Oh, those old abbey-gardens
With their devices rich, Their fountains, and green, solemn walks,
And saint in many a niche! I would I could call back again
Those gardens in their pride,
The abbot dignified.
Half dozing in his cell;
That loved the flowers so well; That laid the abbey-gardens out,
With all their fancies quaint, And loved a little flower as much
As his own patron saint ! That gardened late and early,
And twined into a bower, Wherein he set the crucifix
The good old passion-flower! Oh, would I could bring back again,
Those abbey-gardens old, And see the poor lay-brother
So busy in the mould; Tying up his flowers and thinking
The while, with streaming eyes Of Jesus in the garden;
Of Eve in Paradise !
- Alas, the abbey lieth low;
The Abbot's tomb is bare; And he, the abbey-gardener,
Is all forgotten there; His garden is a pasture field
Wherein the flocks repose ; And where his choicest flowers were set
The common clover grows! But still we have the passion-flower,
Although he lieth low,
In pleasant gardens grow!
And ever bring to mind,
Long ages left behind !
With its quaint beds and bowers,
And there they brought all curious plants,
With sainted names, a flower
For every holy hour;
The noble passion-flower.
Coined gold and silver fine,
REINDEER, not in fields like ours
When thou wast at first designed
Whai the camel is, thou art,
Afar in the woods of Winter-burn,
Now we are here :- the words I spoke
All round about 'mong its twisting boughs
Meek Reindeer, of wondrous worth; Treasure of the desert north, Which of thy good aid berest, Ten times desert must be left! Flocks and herds in other lands, And the labour of men's hands;