She thought for such a gentleman,

That he was wondrous kind;
But ere the midnight clock had tolled,
Like a tiger of the wood,

He had eaten the flesh from off her bones,
And drank of her heart's blood!

Now after this fell deed was done,
A little season's space,
The burly Baron of Bluebottle

Was riding from the chase:

The sport was dull, the day was hot,
The sun was sinking down,
When wearily the Baron rode
Into the dusty town.

Says he, "I'll ask a lodging

At the first house I come to;"

With that the gate of Web-Spinner

Came suddenly in view:

Loud was the knock the Baron gaveDown came the churl with glee.

Says Bluebottle, "Good sir, to-night I ask your courtesy ;

I'm wearied with a long day's chase

My friends are far behind."

Web-Spinner ran and locked the door,

And a loud laugh, laughed he;
With that each one on the other sprang,
And they wrestled furiously.
The Baron was a man of might,

A swordsman of renown;
But the Miser had the stronger arm,
And kept the Baron down:
Then out he took a little cord,

From a pocket at his side,
And with many a crafty, cruel knot
His hands and feet he tied;
And bound him down unto the floor,

And said in savage jest,
"There's heavy work in store for you;
So, Baron, take your rest!"
Then up and down his house he went,
Arranging dish and platter.
With a dull heavy countenance,
As if nothing were the matter.
At length he seized on Bluebottle,
That strong and burly man,

And with many and many a desperate tug,
To hoist him up began:

And step by step, and step by step,
He went with heavy tread;

But ere he reached the garret door,
Poor Bluebottle was dead!

Now all this while, a Magistrate,
Who lived the house hard by,
Had watched Web-Spinner's cruelty
Through a window privily:

So in he bursts, through bolts and bars,
With a loud and thundering sound,
And vowed to burn the house with fire,
And level it with the ground;
But the wicked churl, who all his life
Had looked for such a day,
Passed through a trap-door in the wall,
And took himself away:

But where he went no man could tell;

"T was said that under ground,

He died a miserable death,

But his body ne'er was found.

They pulled his house down stick and stone,"For a caitiff vile as he,"

Said they," within our quiet town
Shall not a dweller be!"

THE actions of the Spider above described, were told me by a very intelligent man, who permitted the web to remain for a considerable time in his counting-house window, that he might have the means of closely observing its occupier's way of life. It was, as described above, under the semblance of a dwell ing-house, seven stories high, and in each story was a small circular hole by which the spider ascended and descended at pleasure; serving, in fact, all the purposes of a stair-case. His usual abode was in his seventh, or garret story, where he sat in a sullen sort of patience waiting for his prey. The small downywinged moth was soon taken; she was weak, and made but little resistance; and was always eaten on the spot. His behaviour towards a heavy and noisy bluebottle fly was exactly as related. The fly seemed bold and insolent; and hurled himself, as if in defiance, against the abode of his enemy. The spider descended in great haste, and stood before him, when an angry pariey seemed to take place. The bluebottle appeared highly affronted, and plunged about like a wild horse; but his efforts were generally unsuc cessful; the spider, watching an unguarded moment, darted behind him, and falling upon him with all his force, drew a fine thread from his side, with which he so completely entangled his prostrate victim, that it was impossible he could move leg or wing. The spider then set about making preparations for the feast, which, for reasons best known to himself, he chose to enjoy in his upper story. The staircase, which would admit his body, was too strait for that of his victim; he accordingly set about enlarging it, with a delicate pair of shears with which his head was furnished, and then with great adroitness he hoisted the almost exhausted Bluebottle to the top of his dwelling, where he fell upon him with every token of satisfaction.

SPRING.

BRIGHT Creature, lift thy voice and sing,
Like the glad birds, for this is Spring!
Look up the skies above are bright,
And darkly blue as deep midnight;
And piled-up, silvery clouds lie there,
Like radiant slumberers of the air:
And hark! from every bush and tree
Rings forth the wild-wood melody.
The Blackbird and the Thrush sing out;
And small birds warble round about,
As if they were bereft of reason,
In the great gladness of the season;
And though the hedge be leafless yet,
Still many a little nest is set
'Mong the twisted boughs so cunningly,
Where early eggs lie, two or three.
And hark! those Rooks the trees among,
Feeding their never-silent young;
A pleasant din it is, that calls
The fancy to ancestral halls.

But hush! from out that warm wood's side,
I hear a voice that ringeth wide-
O, joyful Spring's sweet minstrel, hail!
It is indeed the Nightingale,
Loud singing in the morning clear,
As poets ever love to hear!

Look now abroad.—All creatures see,
How they are filled with life and glee:
This little Bee among the flowers
Hath laboured since the morning hours,
Making the pleasant air astir,
And with its murmuring, pleasanter.
See there! the wavering Butterfly,
With starting motion fluttering by.
From leaf to leaf, from spray to spray,
A thing whose life is holiday;
The little Rabbits too, are out,
And Leverets skipping all about;
And Squirrels, peeping from their trees,
A-start at every vagrant breeze;
For life, in the glad days of Spring,
Doth gladden each created thing.
Now green is every bank, and full
of flowers and leaves for all to pull.
The Ficary, in each sunny place,
Doth shine out like a merry face;
The strong green Mercury, and the dear
Fresh Violets of the early year,

Peering their broad green leaves all through,
In odorous thousands, white and blue;
And the broad Dandelion's blaze,
Bright as the sun of summer's days;
And in the woods beneath the green
Of budding trees are brightly seen,
The nodding Blue-bell's graceful flowers,
The Hyacinth of this land of ours —
As fair as any flower that blows;
And here the pale Stellaria grows,
Like Una with her gentle grace,
Shining out in a shady place;

And here, on open slopes we see
The lightly-set Anemone;
Here too the spotted Arum green,
A hooded mystery, is seen;
And in the turfy meadows shine,
White Saxifrage and Cardamine;
And acres of the Crocus make*
A lustre like a purple lake.

And overhead how nobly towers
The Chestnut, with its waxen flowers,

And broad green leaves, which all expand,
Like to a giant's open hand.

Beside you blooms the Hawthorn tree;
And yonder the wild Cherry-tree,
The fairy-lady of the wood;

And there the Sycamore's bursting bud,
The Spanish-chestnut, and the Lime,
Those trees of flowery summer-time.
Look up, the leaves are fresh and green,
And every branching vein is seen
Through their alinost transparent sheen!
Spirit of Beauty, thou dost fling
Such grace o'er each created thing,
That even a little leaf may stir
The heart to be a worshipper;
And joy, which in the soul has birth
From these bright creatures of the earth,—
Good is it thou shouldst have thy way,
Thou art as much of God as they!

Now let us to the garden go,

And dig and delve, and plant and sow;
The fresh dark mould is rich and sweet,
And each flower-plot is trim and neat;
And Daffodil and Primrose see,
And many-hued Anemone,
As full of flower as they can be;
And here the Hyacinth sweetly pale,
Recalling some old Grecian tale;
And here the mild Narcissus too;
And every flower of every hue,
Which the glad scason sends, is here;
The Almond, while its branch is sere,
With myriad blossoms beautified,
As pink as the sea-shell's inside;
And, under the warm cottage-eaves,
Among its clustered, budding leaves,
Shines out the Pear-tree's flowers of snow,
As white as any flowers that grow:
And budding is the southern Vine,
And Apricot and Nectarine;
And Plum-trees in the garden warm,
And Damsons round the cottage-farm,
Like snow-showers shed upon the trees,
And like them shaken by the breeze.
'Dear ones! 't is now the time, that ye
Sit down with zeal to botany;

And names which were so hard and tough,
Are easy now, and clear enough;

For from the morn to evening's hours

Your bright instructers are sweet flowers.

As in the Nottingham Meadows.

Go out through pleasant field and lane,
And come back, glad of heart again,
Bringing with you life's best of wealth,
Knowledge, and joy of heart, and health;
Ere long each bank whereon ye look
Will be to you an open book,
And flowers, by the Creator writ,
The characters inscribed on it!

Come let us forth into the fields!
Unceasing joy the season yields-
Why should we tarry within door?
And see, the children of the poor
Are out, all joy, and running races,
With buoyant limbs and laughing faces.
Thank heaven! the sunshine and the air
Are free to these young sons of care!
Come, let us, too, be glad as they,
For soon is gone the merry May!

THE NORTHERN SEAS.

UP! up! let us a voyage take;
Why sit we here at ease?
Find us a vessel tight and snug,
Bound for the Northern Seas.

I long to see the Northern-Lights,

With their rushing splendours fly; Like living things with flaming wings, Wide o'er the wondrous sky.

I long to see those ice-bergs vast,

With heads all crowned with snow; Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep,

Two hundred fathoms low.

I long to hear the thundering crash
Of their terrific fall;

And the echoes from a thousand cliffs,

Like lonely voices call.

There shall we see the fierce White Bear;
The sleepy Seals a-ground,
And the spouting Whales that to and fro
Sail with a dreary sound.
There may we tread on depths of ice,
That the hairy Mammoth hide;
Perfect, as when in times of old,

The mighty creature died.

And while the unsetting sun shines on
Through the still heaven's deep blue,
We'll traverse the azure waves, the herds
Of the dread Sea-horse to view.
We'll pass the shores of solemn pine,
Where Wolves and Black Bears prowl;
And away to the rocky isles of mist,

To rouse the northern fowl.

Up there shall start ten thousand wings
With a rushing, whistling din;
Up shall the Auk and Fulmar start,-
All but the fat Penguin.

THE SOUTHERN SEAS.

YES! let us mount this gallant ship;
Spread canvas to the wind
Up! we will seek the glowing South-
Leave Care and Cold behind.

Let the Shark pursue through the waters blue
Our flying vessel's track;

Let strong winds blow, and rocks below

Threaten, we turn not back.
Trusting in Him who holds the Sea

In his Almighty hand,
We'll pass the awful waters wide-
Tread many a far-off strand.
Right onward as our course we hold,

From day to day, the sky

Above our head its arch shall spread

More glowing, bright, and high.

And from night to night-oh, what delight!
In its azure depths to mark

Stars all unknown come glittering out

Over the ocean dark.

The moon uprising like a sun,

So stately, large, and sheen,

And the very stars like clustered moons
In the crystal ether keen.

While all about the ship below,

Strange fiery billows play,-
The ceaseless keel through liquid fire
Cuts wondrously its way.
But O, the South! the balmy South!
How warm the breezes float!

How warm the amber waters stream

From off our basking boat.

Come down, come down from the tall ship's side
What a marvellous sight is here!
Look-purple rocks and crimson trees,

Down in the deep so clear.

See! where those shoals of Dolphins go,
A glad and glorious band,
Sporting among the day-bright woods
Of a coral fairy-land.

See! on the violet sands beneath,

How the gorgeous shells do glide! O Sea! old Sea, who yet knows half Of thy wonders and thy pride?

Look how the sea-plants trembling float

All like a Mermaid's locks, Waving in thread of ruby red

Over those nether rocks.
Heaving and sinking, soft and fair,

Here hyacinth- there green-
With many a stem of golden growth,
And starry flowers between.
But away! away! to upper day-
For monstrous shapes are here,-
Monsters of dark and wallowing bulk,
And horny eyeballs drear.

The tusk'd mouth, and the spiny fin,
Speckled and warted back,

The glittering swift. and the flabby slow,
Ramp through this deep-sea track.
Away! away! to upper day,

To glance o'er the breezy brine,
And see the Nautilus gladly sail,
The Flying-fish leap and shine.

But what is that? ""Tis land!-'tis land!— "Tis land!" the sailors cry.

Nay!-'tis a long and narrow cloud

Betwixt the sea and sky.

""Tis land! 'tis land!" they cry once moreAnd now comes breathing on An odour of the living earth,

Such as the sea hath none.

But now I mark the rising shores!-
The purple hills!-the trees!
Ah! what a glorious land is here,

What happy scenes are these!

See, how the tall Palms lift their locks
From mountain clefts,-what vales,
Basking beneath the noon-tide sun,

That high and hotly sails.
Yet all about the breezy shore,
Unheedful of the glow,

Look how the children of the South
Are passing to and fro.

What noble forms! what fairy place!
Cast anchor in this cove,-

Push out the boat, for in this land

A little we must rove.

We'll wander on through wood and field,

We'll sit beneath the Vine;
We'll drink the limpid Cocoa milk,
And pluck the native Pine.
The Bread-fruit and Cassada-root,
And many a glowing berry,
Shall be our feast, for here at least,
Why should we not be merry?
For 'tis a Southern Paradise,

All gladsome,-plain, and shore,-
A land so far, that here we are,
But shall be here no more.

We've seen the splendid Southern clime,
Its seas, and isles, and men,
So now!-back to a dearer land-
To England back again!

THE GARDEN.

I HAD a Garden when a child;
I kept it all in order;

"T was full of flowers as it could be,
And London-pride was its border.
And soon as came the pleasant Spring,
The singing birds built in it;
The Blackbird and the Throstle-cock,
The Woodlark and the Linnet.

And all within my Garden ran

A labyrinth-walk so mazy;
In the middle there grew a yellow Rose;
At each end a Michaelmas Daisy.

I had a tree of Southern Wood,
And two of bright Mezereon ;
A Peony root, a snow-white Phlox,
And a bunch of red Valerian;

A Lilac tree, and a Guelder-Rose;
A Broom, and a Tiger-lily;
And I walked a dozen miles to find
The true wild Daffodilly.

I had Columbines, both pink and blue,
And Thalictrum like a feather;
And the bright Goat's-beard, that shuts its leaves
Before a change of weather.

I had Marigolds, and Gilliflowers,

And Pinks all Pinks exceeding; I'd a noble root of Love-in-a-mist,

And plenty of Love-lies-bleeding.
I'd Jacob's Ladder, Aaron's Rod,
And the Peacock-Gentianella;

I had Asters, more than I can tell,
And Lupins blue and yellow.

I set a grain of Indian Corn,

One day in an idle humour,
And the grain sprung up six feet or more,
My glory for a summer.

I found far off in the pleasant fields,
More flowers than I can mention;

I found the English Asphodel,

And the spring and autumn Gentian.

I found the Orchis, fly and bee,

And the Cistus of the mountain;

And the Money-wort, and the Adder's-tongue, Beside an old wood fountain.

I found within another wood,

The rare Pyrola blowing:

For wherever there was a curious flower

I was sure to find it growing.

I set them in my garden beds,
Those beds I loved so dearly,
Where I laboured after set of sun,
And in summer mornings early.

O my pleasant garden-plot!-
A shrubbery was beside it,
And an old and mossy Apple-tree,

With a Woodbine wreathed to hide it.

There was a bower in my garden-plot,
A Spirea grew before it;
Behind it was a Laburnum tree,

And a wild Hop clambered o'er it.

Ofttimes I sat within my bower,

Like a king in all his glory; Ofttimes I read, and read for hours, Some pleasant, wondrous story.

I read of Gardens in old times,

Old, stately Gardens, kingly, Where people walked in gorgeous crowds, Or for silent musing, singly.

I raised up visions in my brain,

The noblest and the fairest;
But still I loved my Garden best,
And thought it far the rarest.
And all among my flowers I walked,
Like a miser 'mid his treasure;

For that pleasant plot of Garden ground
Was a world of endless pleasure.

THE LION.

LION, thou art girt with might!
King by uncontested right;
Strength, and majesty, and pride
Are in thee personified!
Slavish doubt or timid fear
Never came thy spirit near;

What it is to fly, or bow

To a mightier than thou,
Never has been known to thee,
Creature terrible and free!

Power the Mightiest, gave the Lion
Sinews like to brands of iron;
Gave him force which never failed;
Gave a heart that never quailed.
Triple-mailed coat of steel,

Plates of brass from head to heel,
Less defensive were in wearing
Than the Lion's heart of daring;
Nor could towers of strength impart,
Trust like that which keeps his heart.
What are things to match with him?
Serpents old, and strong and grim,
Scas upon a desert-shore,
Mountain-wildernesses hoar,
Night and storm, and earthquakes dire,
Thawless frost and raging fire-
All that's strong, and stern and dark,
All that doth not miss its mark,
All that makes man's nature tremble,
Doth the Desert-king resemble!

When he sends his roaring forth,
Silence falls upon the earth;
For the creatures great and small,
Know his terror-breathing call,
And as if by death pursued,
Leave to him a solitude.

Lion, thou art made to dwell
In hot lands intractable,
And thyself, the sun, the sand,
Are a tyrannous triple band;
Lion-king and desert throne,
All the region is thy own!

THE FOX.

IN the rugged copse, in the ferny brake,
The cunning red Fox his den doth make;
In the ancient turf of the baron's land,
Where the gnarled oaks of the forest stand;
In the widow's garden lone and bare;

On the hills which the poor man tills with care:
There ages ago he made his den,

And there he abideth in spite of men.

'Tis a dismal place, for all the floor
With the bones of his prey is covered o'er;
"T is darksome and lone, you can hardly trace
The furthest nook of the dreary place;
And there he skulks, like a creature of ill,
And comes out when midnight is dark and still;
When the dismal Owl, with his staring eye,
Sends forth from the ruin his screeching cry,
And the Bat on his black leathern wings goes by;
Then out comes the Fox with his thievish mind,
Looking this way and that way, before and behind;
Then running along, thinking but of the theft
Of the one little Hen the poor Widow has left;
And he boldly and carelessly passes her shed,
For he knows very well she is sleeping in bed,
And that she has no Dog to give notice of foes,
So he seizes his prey and home leisurely goes.
And at times he steals down to the depth of the wood
And seizes the Partridge in midst of her brood;
And the little grey Rabbit, and young timid Hare;
And the tall, stately Pheasant, so gentle and fair;
And he buries them deep in some secret spot,
Where he knows man or hound can discover them not.
But vengeance comes down on the thief at length,
For they hunt him out of his place of strength,
And man and the Fox are at desperate strife,
And the creature runs, and runs for his life:
And following close is the snuffing hound,
And hills and hollows they compass round,
Till at length he is seized, a caitiff stout,
And the wild dogs bark, and the hunters shout,
And they cut off his tail and wave it on high,
Saying, "Here fell the Fox so thievish and sly!"
Thus may all oppressors of poor men die!
Then again mounts each hunter, and all ride away,
And have a good dinner to end the day;
And they drink the red wine, and merrily sing,
"Death to the Fox, and long life to the King!"