THE WOOD-MOUSE.

D'YE know the little Wood-Mouse,

That pretty little thing,
That sits among the forest leaves,

Beside the forest spring?

Its fur is red as the red chestnut,
And it is small and slim;
It leads a life most innocent
Within the forest dim.

'Tis a timid, gentle creature,

And seldom comes in sight; It has a long and wiry tail,

And eyes both black and bright.

It makes its nest of soft, dry moss,

In a hole so deep and strong;
And there it sleeps secure and warm,
The dreary winter long.

And though it keeps no calendar,

It knows when flowers are springing;
And waketh to its summer life

When Nightingales are singing.
Upon the boughs the Squirrel sits,
The Wood-Mouse plays below;
And plenty of food it finds itself
Where the Beech and Chestnut grow.

In the Hedge-Sparrow's nest he sits
When its summer brood is fled,
And picks the berries from the bough
Of the Hawthorn over-head.

I saw a little Wood-Mouse once,
Like Oberon in his hall,

With the green, green moss beneath his feet,
Sit under a mushroom tall.

I saw him sit and his dinner eat,
All under the forest tree;

His dinner of Chestnut ripe and red,
And he ate it heartily.

I wish you could have seen him there; It did my spirit good,

To see the small thing God has made
Thus eating in the wood.

I saw that He regardeth them—
Those creatures weak and small;
Their table in the wild is spread,
By Him who cares for all!

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

AN APOLOGUE.

A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY.

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I've many curious things to show when you are

there."

"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, " to ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;

Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.

"There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,

And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!" “Oh, no, no," said the little Fly," for I've often heard

it said,

They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what can I do,

To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you! I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice; I'm sure you 're very welcome-will you please to take a slice?"

"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, " kind sir, that cannot be,

I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you 're witty and you're wise,

How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!

I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf, If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."

"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, “ for what you're pleased to say,

And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,

For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:

So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did
sing,

"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;

Your robes are green and purple — there 's a crest upon your head;

Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flit ting by ;

THE TAILOR BIRD'S NEST AND THE
LONG-TAILED TITMOUSE NEST.

IN books of travels I have heard
Of a wise thing, the Tailor-bird;

A bird of wondrous skill, that sews,
Upon the bough whereon it grows,
A leaf into a nest so fair
That with it nothing can compare;
A light and lovely airy thing,
That vibrates with the breeze's wing.
Ah well! it is with cunning power
That little artist makes her bower;
But come into an English wood,
And I'll show you a work as good,
A work the Tailor-bird's excelling,
A more elaborate, snugger dwelling,
More beautiful, upon my word,
Wrought by a little English bird.

There, where those boughs of black-thorn cross,
Behold that oval ball of moss;

Look all the forest round and round,
No fairer nest can e'er be found;
Observe it near, all knit together,
Moss, willow-down, and many a feather,
And filled within, as you may see,
As full of feathers as can be;
Whence it is called by country folk,
A fitting name, the Feather-poke;
But learned people, I have heard,
Parus caudatus, call the bird,
And others, not the learned clan,
Call it Wood-pot, and Jug, and Can.
Ay, here's a nest! a nest indeed,
That doth all other nests exceed,
Propped with the black-thorn twigs heneath,
And festooned with a woodbine wreath!
Look at it near, all knit together,
Moss, willow-down, and many a feather!
So soft, so light, so wrought with grace,
So suited to this green-wood place,
And spangled o'er, as with the intent
Of giving fitting ornament,
With silvery flakes of lichen bright,
That shine like opals, dazzling white!

It lives among the

sunny flowers,

A creature of delight!

In the radiant islands of the East,
Where fragrant spices grow,
A thousand thousand Humming-birds
Go glancing to and fro.

Like living fires they flit about,
Scarce larger than a bee,
Among the broad Palmetto leaves,

And through the Fan-palm tree.

And in those wild and verdant woods

Where stately Moras tower, Where hangs from branching tree to tree The scarlet Passion-flower;

Where on the mighty river banks,

La Plate or Amazon,

The Cayman like an old tree trunk,

Lies basking in the sun;

There builds her nest, the Humming-bird Within the ancient wood,

Her nest of silky cotton down,

And rears her tiny brood.
She hangs it to a slender twig,
Where waves it light and free,
As the Campanero tolls his song,
And rocks the mighty tree.
All crimson is her shining breast,
Like to the red, red rose;

Her wing is the changeful green and blue
That the neck of the Peacock shows.

Thou happy, happy Humming-bird,

No winter round thee lowers; Thou never saw'st a leafless tree,

Nor land without sweet flowers:

A reign of summer joyfulness

To thee for life is given;
Thy food the honey from the flower,
Thy drink, the dew from heaven!

How glad the heart of Eve would be,
In Eden's glorious bowers,

To see the first, first Humming-bird
Among the first spring-flowers.

Among the rainbow butterflies,
Before the rainbow shone;
One moment glancing in her sight,
Another moment, gone!

Thou little shining creature,

God saved thee from the Flood,
With the Eagle of the mountain land,
And the Tiger of the wood!

Who cared to save the Elephant,
He also cared for thee;

And gave those broad lands for thy home,
Where grows the Cedar-tree!

THE OSTRICH.

NOT in the land of a thousand flowers,
Not in the glorious Spice-wood bowers;
Not in fair islands by bright seas embraced,
Lives the wild Ostrich, the bird of the waste.
Come on to the Desert, his dwelling is there,
Where the breath of the Simoom is hot in the air;
To the Desert, where never a green blade grew,
Where never its shadow a broad tree threw,
Where sands rise up, and in columns are wheeled
By the winds of the Desert, like hosts in the field;
Where the Wild Ass sends forth a lone, dissonant
bray,

Strong bird of the Wild, thou art gone like the wind, And thou leavest the cloud of thy speeding behind; Fare thee well! in thy desolate region, farewell, With the Giraffe and Lion, we leave thee to dwell!

THE DORMOUSE.

THE little Dormouse is tawny red;
He makes against winter a nice snug bed,

He makes his bed in a mossy bank,

Where the plants in the summer grow tall and rank.
Away from the daylight, far under ground,

His sleep through the winter is quiet and sound,
And when all above him it freezes and snows,
What is it to him for he naught of it knows?
And till the cold time of the winter is gone,
The little Dormouse keeps sleeping on.

But at last, in the fresh breezy days of the spring,
When the green leaves bud, and the merry birds

sing,

And the dread of the winter is over and past,
The little Dormouse peeps out at last.
Out of his snug, quiet burrow he wends,

And looks all about for his neighbours and friends;
Then he says, as he sits at the foot of a larch,
""Tis a beautiful day, for the first of March!
The Violet is blowing, the blue sky is clear;
The Lark is upspringing, his carol I hear;
And in the green fields are the Lamb and the Foal;
I am glad I'm not sleeping now down in my hole!"

Then away he runs, in his merry mood,
Over the fields and into the wood,

To find any grain there may chance to be,
Or any small berry that hangs on the tree.
So, from early morning, till late at night,

the day

The creatures unbroken, with manes flying free,
Like the steeds of the whirlwind, if such there may be.
Yes, there in the Desert, like armies for war,
The flocks of the Ostrich are seen from afar,
Speeding on, speeding on o'er the desolate plain,
While the fleet mounted Arab pursueth in vain!
But 'tis joy to the traveller who toils through that
land,

The egg of the Ostrich to find in the sand;

Tis sustenance for him when his store is low, And weary with travel he journeyeth slow To the well of the Desert, and finds it at last Seven days' journey from that he hath passed. Or go to the Caffre-land,-what if you meet A print in the sand, of the strong Lion's feet! He is down in the thicket, asleep in his lair; Come on to the Desert, the Ostrich is thereThere, there! where the Zebras are flying in haste, The herd of the Ostrich comes down o'er the wasteHalf running, half flying-what progress they make! Twang the bow! not the arrow their flight can o'ertake!

Looking down to the earth and up to the sky, Thinking, "what a happy Dormouse am I!"

THE WILD FRITILLARY,

FAMILIARLY CALLED THE WEEPING WIDOW,

OR THE MOURNING BRIDE.
LIKE a drooping thing of sorrow,
Sad to-day, more sad to-morrow;
Like a widow dark weeds wearing,
Anguish in her bosom bearing;
Like a nun in raiment sable,
Sorrow-bowed, inconsolable;
Like a melancholy fairy,
Art thou, Meadow-Fritillary!

Like the head of snake enchanted,
Where whilom the life hath panted,
All its purple checquerings scaly
Growing cold and dim and paly;
Like a dragon's head half moulded,
Scaly jaws together folded,

THE pretty, black Squirrel lives up in a tree,
A little blithe creature as ever can be ;
He dwells in the boughs where the Stockdove broods,
Far in the shades of the green summer woods;
His food is the young juicy cones of the Pine,
And the milky Beach-nut is his bread and his wine.

In the joy of his nature he frisks with a bound
To the topmost twigs, and then down to the ground;
Then up again, like a winged thing,

And from tree to tree with a vaulting spring;
Then he sits up aloft, and looks waggish and queer,
As if he would say, "Ay, follow me here!"
And then he grows pettish, and stamps his foot;
And then independently cracks his nut;
And thus he lives the long summer thorough,
Without a care or a thought of sorrow.

But small as he is, he knows he may want,
In the bleak winter weather, when food is scant,
So he finds a hole in an old tree's core,

And there makes his nest, and lays up his store;
And when cold winter comes, and the trees are bare,
When the white snow is falling, and keen is the air,
He heeds it not, as he sits by himself,

In his warm little nest, with his nuts on his shelf.
O, wise little Squirrel! no wonder that he
In the green summer woods is as blithe as can be!

THE DRAGON-FLY.

WITH Wings like crystal air,
Dyed with the rainbow's dye;

Fluttering here and there,
Pr'ythee tell me, Dragon-fly,
Whence thou comest,
Where thou roamest,
Art thou of the earth or sky?

'Mong plumes of Meadow-sweet
I see thee glance and play,
Or light with airy feet
Upon a nodding spray,
Or sailing slow,

I see thee go

I' th' sunshine far away.

Tell me, pr'ythee, Dragon-fly,

What and whence thou art?
Whether art of earth or sky,
Or of flowers a part?
And who, together

This fine weather
Put thee, glorious as thou art?

He maketh no reply,

But all things answer loud, "Who formed the Dragon-fly,

Formed sun and sea and cloud;
Formed flower and tree;
Formed me and thee,

With nobler gifts endowed!"

Save for the Eternal Thought,
Bright shape thou hadst not been,
He from dull matter wrought
Thy purple and thy green;
And made thee take,
E'en for my sake,
Thy beauty and thy sheen!

THE WILD SPRING-CROCUS.
AH, though it is an English flower,
It only groweth here and there :
Through merry England you might ride;
Through all its length, from side to side;
Through fifty counties, nor have spied
This flower so passing fair.

But in our meadows it is growing,

And now it is the early Spring And see from out the kindly earth How thousand thousands issue forth, As if it gloried to give birth

To such a lovely thing.

Like lilac-flame its colour glows,

Tender, and yet so clearly bright,
That all for miles and miles about,
The splendid meadow shineth out;
And far-off village children shout
To see the welcome sight.

I love the odorous Hawthorn flower,
I love the Wilding's bloom to see ;

I love the light Anemonies,
That tremble to the faintest breeze;
And hyacinth-like Orchises,

Are very dear to me!

The Star-wort is a fairy-flower;

The Violet is a thing to prize;
The Wild-pink on the craggy ledge,
The waving sword-like Water-sedge,
And e'en the Robin-run-i'th'-hedge

Are precious in my eyes.

Yes, yes, I love them all, bright things!
But then, such glorious flowers as these
Are dearer still-I'll tell you why,

There's joy in many a thousand eye
When first goes forth the welcome cry,
Of "lo, the Crocuses!"

Then little, toiling children leave

Their care, and here by thousands throng,
And through the shining meadow run,
And gather them, not one by one,

But by grasped handfuls, where are none
To say that they do wrong.

They run, they leap, they shout for joy;
They bring their infant brethren here;
They fill each little pinafore;
They bear their baskets brimming o'er ;
Within their very hearts they store
This first joy of the year.

Yes, joy in these abundant meadows

Pours out like to the earth's o'erflowing; And, less that they are beautiful, Than that they are so plentiful, So free for every child to pull,

I love to see them growing.

And here, in our own fields they grow-
An English flower, but very rare;
Through all the kingdom you may ride,
O'er marshy flat, on mountain side,
Nor ever see, outstretching wide,
Such flowery meadows fair!

In some cavern's gloomy hollow,

Where the Lion and Serpent met, That thy nest was builded, Swallow? Did the Negro people meet thee With a word

Of welcome, bird,

Kind as that with which we greet thee?
Pr'ythee tell me how and where
Thou wast guided through the air;
Pr'ythee cease thy building-labour,
And tell thy travel-story, neighbour!
Thou hast been among the Caffres;

Seen the Bushman's stealthy arm,
Thou hast heard the lowing heifers

On some good Herrnhuter's farm; Seen the gold-dust-finder, Swallow, Heard the Lion-hunter's holla! Peace and strife,

And much of life

Hast thou witnessed, wandering Swallow.
Tell but this, we'll leave the rest,
Which is wisest, which is best;
Tell, which happiest, if thou can,
Hottentot or Englishman?-
Naught for answer can we get,
Save twitter, twitter, twitter, twet!

THE SWALLOW.

TWITTERING Swallow, fluttering Swallow,
Art come back again?
Come from water-bed or hollow,

Where thou, winter-long, hast lain?
Nay, I'll not believe it, Swallow,
Not in England hast thou tarried;
Many a day

Far away

Has thy wing been wearied,
Over continent and isle,

Many and many and many a mile!
Tell me, pr'ythee bird, the story
Of thy six months migratory!

If thou wert a human traveller,
We a quarto book should see;
Thou wouldst be the sage unraveller

Of some dark old mystery;

Thou wouldst tell the wise men, Swallow, Of the rivers' hidden fountains;

Plain and glen,

And savage men,

And Afghauns of the mountains;
Creatures, plants, and men unknown,
And cities in the Deserts lone :

Thou wouldst be, thou far-land dweller,
Like an Arab story-teller!

Was it in a temple, Swallow;
In some Moorish minaret,

THE SEA.

THE Sea it is deep, the Sea it is wide;
And it girdeth the earth on every side,
On every side it girds it round,
With an undecaying, mighty bound.

When the Spirit of God came down at first,
Ere the day from primal night had burst,
Before the mountains sprung to birth,
The dark, deep waters veiled the earth.

Like a youthful giant roused from sleep,
At Creation's call uprose the Deep,
And his crested waves tossed up their spray,
As the bonds of his ancient rest gave way;
And a voice went up in that stillness vast,
As if life through a mighty heart had passed.
Oh ancient, wide, unfathomed Sea,

Ere the mountains were, God fashioned thee;
And he gave in thine awful depths to dwell
Things like thyself untameable-
The Dragons old, and the Harpy brood,
Were the lords of thine early solitude!

But night came down on that ancient day,
And that mighty race was swept away;

And death thy fathomless depths passed through;
And thy waters meted out anew;

And then on thy calmer breast were seen
The verdant crests of islands green;
And mountains in their strength came forth,
And trees and flowers arrayed the earth;
Then the Dolphin first his gambols played
In his rainbow-tinted scales arrayed;