And the tawny owl and the noisy daw,
In many a hollow and many a flaw;

By night or by day, were you there about,

You might see them creep in, or see them creep out.

And there, on the top of that ancient oak,
The Carrion-crow he sits to croak;-

The words of his croaking I fain would know;
What does he say that Carrion-crow?

He says, and he's merry as he can be,—
"To-night there's a famous feast for me;
For me and my mate so beautiful,
Where the hound lies dead by the forest-pool.

"His master he knows not where he lies,
So we shall go down to peck out his eyes;
His master he mourneth, early and late; -
But 'tis joy to me and my beautiful mate!

"And the miller last week he killed his mare,-
She lies in a hollow, I know where,-
There's an ancient cross of crumbling stone
Down in that hollow dank and lone!

"And there bleats a lamb by the thundering linn,
The mother ewe she has tumbled in;
Three days ago and the lamb was strong,
Now he is weak with fasting long.

"All day long he moans and calls,
And over his mother the water falls;
He can see his mother down below,
But why she comes not he does not know.

"His little heart doth pine away,
And fainter and fainter he bleats to-day;
So loud o'er the linn the waters brawl,
That the shepherd he hears him not at all!
"Twice I've been down to look at him,
But he glanced on me his eyeballs dim;
And among the stones so cold and bare,
I saw the raven watching there.

"He'll have the first peck at his black eye,
And taste of his heart before it die :-
Aha! though the hungry raven is there,
As soon as he's ready we 'll have our share!"
These are the words of the Carrion-crow,
As he first croaks loud and then croaks low,
And the spiders and millipedes hear him croak,
As he sits up aloft on the ancient oak.

While the trees are leafless;

While the fields are bare,
Buttercups and Daisies

Spring up here and there.
Ere the snow-drop peepeth;
Ere the crocus bold;
Ere the early primrose

Opes its paly gold,
Somewhere on a sunny bank

Buttercups are bright;

Somewhere 'mong the frozen grass

Peeps the Daisy white.

Little hardy flowers

Like to children poor, Playing in their sturdy health By their mother's door; Purple with the north-wind,

Yet alert and bold, Fearing not and caring not, Though they be a-cold!

What to them is weather!

What are stormy showers! Buttercups and Daisies

Are these human flowers! He who gave them hardship

And a life of care,

Gave them likewise hardy strength
And patient hearts, to bear.

Welcome yellow buttercups,
Welcome daisies white,
Ye are in my spirit

Visioned, a delight!

Coming ere the spring-time

Of sunny hours to tellSpeaking to our hearts of HIM Who doeth all things well.

THE TITMOUSE, OR BLUE-CAP.
THE merry Titmouse is a comical fellow;
He weareth a plumage of purple and yellow,
Barred over with black, and with white interlaced;-
Depend on 't, the Titmouse has excellent taste.

And he, like his betters of noble old blood,
Keeps up, with great spirit, a family feud;
A feud with the owl;-and why? would you know
An old, by-gone quarrel of ages ago: —

Perhaps in the ark might be taken offence,-
But I know not, indeed, of the where and the
whence; -

Only this is quite true,-let them meet as they may, Having quarrelled long since, they would quarrel to

day.

But we'll leave them to settle this ancient affair, And now look at his nest, made with exquisite care Of lichen, and moss, and the soft downy feather. And the web of the spider to keep it together.

Is a brick out of place by your window ?—don't send For the man with the trowel the fracture to mend, Through the dry months of summer, just leave it alone,

For the poor little Titmouse has made it his own.

Peep in now, and look at that wonderful labour;
And be glad to have near you so merry a neighbour;
His work unto him is no trouble - behold
For one moment his motions, so tricksy and bold.

How he twists, how he turns with a harlequin grace!

He can't lift a feather without a grimace;
He carries the moss in his bill with an air;
And he laughs at the spider he robs of his lair.

See his round, burly head, that is like a Friar Tuck,
And his glancing black eye that is worthy of Puck;
Saw you ever a merrier creature than he?

Ob, no!-make him welcome, as welcome can be!
His nest now is finished with fine cobweb thread,
And the eggs are laid in it, white speckled with red;
Now knock at the wall, or rap loud on the pane,
Hark! what is that rapping so briskly again!

Tis the blithe mother-bird, all alive and alert,
As her mate, every whit, is she comic and pert;
Rap you once, she raps twice; - she has nothing
to do,

But to keep her eggs warm, and be neighbourly too! Oh, what! did you say that the Titmouse was stealing,

That he ate your pear-buds while he shammed to be reeling;

And nipped off the apricot-bloom in his fun? -
And that shortly you'll end his career with a gun!
Oh! hold back your hand,-'twere a deed to repent;
Of your blame the poor fellow is quite innocent,
Stand back for one moment-anon he 'll be here,
He believes you his friend, and he thinks not of fear.
Here he comes!-see how drolly he looketh askew ;—
And now hangs head downward; now glances on
you!

Be not rash, though he light on your apricot-bough,—
Though he touches a bud,-there, he touches it now!
There, he's got what he wanted, and off he has
flown!-

Now look at the apricot bud, is it gone?

I love it when it streameth in
The humble cottage door,
And casts the chequered casement shade
Upon the red-brick floor.

I love it where the children lie
Deep in the clovery grass,
To watch among the twining roots
The gold-green beetles pass.

I love it on the breezy sea,

To glance on sail and oar, While the great waves, like molten glass, Come leaping to the shore.

I love it on the mountain-tops,

Where lies the thawless snow, And half a kingdom, bathed in light, Lies stretching out below.

And when it shines in forest-glades, Hidden, and green, and cool, Through mossy boughs and veined leaves, How is it beautful!

How beautiful on little stream,

When sun and shade at play,
Make silvery meshes, while the brook
Goes singing on its way.

How beautiful, where dragon-flies
Are wondrous to behold,
With rainbow wings of gauzy pearl,
And bodies blue and gold!
How beautiful, on harvest slopes,
To see the sunshine lie;
Or on the paler reaped fields,
Where yellow shocks stand high!
Oh, yes! I love the sunshine!

Like kindness or like mirth,
Upon a human countenance,

Is sunshine on the earth! Upon the earth; upon the sea;

And through the crystal air, Or piled-up cloud; the gracious sun Is glorious everywhere!

THE ELEPHANT. ELEPHANT, thou sure must be Of the Titan progeny;

One of that old race that sleep.
In the fossil mountains deep!
Elephant, thou must be one! —
Kindred to the Mastodon, -
One that didst in friendship mix
With the huge Megalonix;
With the Mammoth hadst command

O'er the old-world forest-land.
Thou, those giant ferns didst see,
Taller than the tallest tree;

And with up-turned trunk didst browse,

On the reed-palm's lowest boughs;
And didst see, upcurled from light,
The ever-sleeping ammonite;
And those dragon-worms at play
In the waters old and grey!

Tell me, creature, in what place,
Thou, the Noah of thy race,
Wast preserved when death was sent
Like a raging element,

Like a whirlwind passing by,-
In the twinkling of an eye,
Leaving mother earth forlorn
Of her mighty eldest-born;-
Turning all her life to stone
With one universal groan!
In what cavern drear and dark,
Elephant, hast thou thine ark?
Dost thou in thy memory hold
Record of that tale untold?
If thou do, I pray thee tell,
It were worth the knowing well.

Elephant, so old and vast,
Thou a kindly nature hast;
Grave thou art, and strangely wise,
With observant, serious eyes,
Somewhat in thy brain must be
Of an old sagacity.

Thou art solemn, wise and good;
Thou livest not on streaming blood;
Thou, and all thine ancient frere,
Were of natures unsevere;
Preying not on one another;
Nourished by the general mother
Who gave forests thick and tall,
Food and shelter for you all.
Elephant, if thou hadst been
Like the tiger fierce and keen,
Like the lion of the brake,
Or the deadly rattle-snake,
Ravenous as thou art strong,
Terror would to thee belong;
And before thy mates and thee,
All the earth would desert be!
But instead, thou yield'st thy will,
Tractable, and peaceful still;
Full of good intent, and mild
As a humble little child;
Serving with obedience true,
Aiding, loving, mourning too;
For each noble sentiment

In thy good, great heart is blent!

THE WILD SWAN.

FAIR flows the river,

Smoothly gliding on; Green grow the bulrushes

Around the stately swan.

What an isle of beauty

The noble bird hath formed,
The greenest trees and stateliest
Grow all the isle around.
Low bend the branches

In the water bright,
Up comes the swan sailing,
Plumy all and white.
Like a ship at anchor,

Now he lies at rest,
And little waves seem daintily
To play about his breast.
Wild bird of beauty,

Strong, and glad, and free!
Dwelling on these waters,--

How pleasant it must be! Like a gleam of sunshine

In shadow passing on,Like a wreath of snow, thou art, Wild and graceful swan! Thick grow the flowers

'Neath the chestnut shade; Green grow the bulrushes

Where thy nest is made: Lovely ye, and loving, too,

The mother bird and thee, Watching o'er your cygnet brood, Beneath the river tree. Kings made laws a-many,

Laws both stern and strong, In the days of olden time,

You to keep from wrong; And o'er their palace-waters

Ye went, a gallant show, And Surrey and his Geraldine, Beheld ye sailing slow. Tell me, Swan, I pray thee, Art of that high race,

Or a sylvan creature

From some far, lone place? Saw ye in woody Athelney,

True Alfred's care and pain, Or, riding out among his men,

Good King Canute the Dane? No, from 'mid the icebergs,

Through long ages piled,
Sometime ye were driven

By the winter wild;
From where the ermine hunters,

On their far journeys go;
From where the rein-deer sledges speed
Over the wastes of snow;
From northern wildernesses,

Wild, and lone, and drear, Ice-lakes, cold and gleaming,

Ye have hastened here. The pleasant streams of England

Your homeward flight have stayed, And here among the bulrushes

Your English nest is made.

THE MILL-STREAM.

LONG trails of cistus-flowers

Creep on the rocky hill; And beds of strong spear-mint

Grow round about the mill; And from a mountain tarn above, As peaceful as a dream, Like to child unruly, Though schooled and counselled truly, Foams down the wild mill-stream! The wild mill-stream it dasheth,

In merriment away,

And keeps the miller and his son
So busy all the day!

Into the mad mill-stream

The mountain-roses fall;

And fern and adder's tongue

Grow on the old mill-wall. The tarn is on the upland moor,

Where not a leaf doth grow; And through the mountain-gashes, The merry mill-stream dashes

Down to the sea below: But, in the quiet hollows,

The red trout groweth prime,

For the miller and the miller's son
To angle when they 've time.

Then fair befall the stream

That turns the mountain-mill;
And fair befall the narrow road

That windeth up the hill!
And good luck to the countryman,
And to his old grey mare,
That upward toileth steadily,
With meal-sacks laden heavily,
In storm as well as fair!
And good luck to the miller,

And to the miller's son;

And ever may the mill-wheel turn
While mountain-waters run!

SUMMMER.

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

And birds sing by thousands on every green tree; They may call it the loveliest, the greenest, the rarest ;

But the summer's the season that's dearest to me! For the brightness of sunshine; the depth of the shadows;

The crystal of waters'; the fulness of green, And the rich flowery growth of the old pasture meadows,

In the glory of summer can only be seen. Oh, the joy of the green-wood! I love to be in it, And list to the hum of the never-still bees, And to hear the sweet voice of the old mother linnet, Calling unto her young 'mong the leaves of the trees!

To see the red squirrel frisk hither and thither,
And the water-rat plunging about in his mirth;
And the thousand small lives that the warm summer
weather,

Calls forth to rejoice on the bountiful earth!

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

Towering up in the sunshine, and drinking the light,

While adown their deep chasms, all splintered and riven,

Fall the far-gleaming cataracts silvery white! And where are the flowers that in beauty are glowing

In the garden and fields of the young, merry spring, Like the mountain-side wilds of the yellow broom blowing,

And the old forest pride, the red wastes of the ling? Then the garden, no longer 'tis leafless and chilly, But warm with the sunshine and bright with the sheen

Of rich flowers, the moss rose and the bright tiger-lily, Barbaric in pomp as an Ethiop Queen.

Oh, the beautiful flowers, all colours combining,

The larkspur, the pink, and the sweet mignionette, And the blue fleur-de-lis, in the warm sunlight shining.

As if grains of gold in its petals were set!

Yes, the summer,-the radiant summer's the fairest, For green-woods and mountains, for meadows and

bowers,

For waters, and fruits, and for flowers the rarest,
And for bright shining butterflies, lovely as flowers!

THE FALCON.

HARK! hark! the merry warden's horn
Far o'er the wooded hills is borne,
Far o'er the slopes of ripening corn,
On the free breeze away!

The bolts are drawn; the bridge is o'er
The sullen moat, and steeds a score
Stand saddled at the castle-door,

For 'tis a merry day!

With braided hair, of gold or jet,
There's many a May and Margaret,
Before her stately mirror set,

With waiting-woman by;
There's scarlet cloak, and hat and hood;
And riding-dress of camlet good,
Green as the leaf within the wood,
To shroud those ladies high.

And presently they are arrayed,
And plaits are smoothed and folds are laid,
And all the merry gabble stayed

That showered down like rain;

A hooded hawk, that's stroked and kissed
By knight and lady fair.

And sitting in their saddles free,
The brave, the fair of high degree,
Forth rides that gallant company,

Each with a bird on hand;
And falconers with their hawking-gear,
And other birds bring up the rear;
And country-folk from far and near

Fall in and join the band.

And merrily thus in shine and shade,
Gay glancing through the forest glade,
On rides the noble cavalcade,

To moorlands wild and grey;
And then the noble sport is high!
The jess is loosed, the hood thrown by;
And leurre the jolly falconers cry;
And wheeling round the falcons fly
Impatient for their prey.

A moment and the quarry 's ta'en;
The falconers' cry sounds forth amain;
The true hawk soars and soars again.
Nor once the game is missed!
And thus the jocund day is spent,
In jolly sport and merriment:
And baron bold were well content,
To fell his wood, and pawn his rent
For the hawk upon his wrist!

Oh gay goshawk and tercel bold,
Then might ye rule it as ye "wold;"
Then sate ye on a perch of gold,

And kings were your compeers!
But that was in the days gone by;
The days of Norman chivalry,
When the low crouched unto the high ;-
The times of other years!

Oh gay goshawk, your days were when Came down at night the ruffian men, To slay the sleeping children then

Lying in London Tower;

Yours were the days of civil feud;
Of Rufus slain within the wood;
Of servile John; of Robin Hood;

Of Woodstock's bloody bower!
Oh, gay goshawk, you but belong
To troubadour and minstrel song;
To shirt of mail and hauberk strong
To moat and castle-wall;

To serf and baron, page and dame;
To abbot sleek, as spaniel tame;
To kings who could not sign their name;
To times of wrong and thrall!

Times are not now as they were then;
Ours is a race of different men,
Who loathe the sword and love the pen;
For right, not rapine, bold.

No more, as then, the ladies bright
Work tapestry-work from morn till night;
The very children read and write,

Like learned clerks of old!

Oh, Falcon proud, and goshawk gay,
Your pride of place has passed away;
The lone wood is your home by day,
Your resting perch by night;

The craggy rock your castle-tower;
The gay green-wood your ladies' bower;
Your own wild will, the master power
That can control your flight!

Yet, noble bird, old fame is thine;
Still livest thou in the minstrel's line;
Still in old pictures art the sign

Of high and pure degree;
And still, with kindling hearts we read
How barons came to Runymede,
Falcon on wrist, to do the deed,
That made all England free!