And down below all fretted and frore,
Were wrought the coral and madrepore,
And among the sea-weeds green and red,
Like flocks of the valley the Turtles fled;
And the sea-flowers budded and opened wide
In the lustre of waters deepened and dyed;
And the little Nautilus set afloat

On thy bounding tide his pearly boat;

And the Whale sprang forth in his vigorous play;
And shoals of the Flying-fish leaped into day;
And the Pearl-fish under thy world of waves
Laid up his stores in the old sea-caves.
Then man came down, and with silent awe

The majesty of waters saw;

And he felt like an humbled thing of fear,
As he stood in that Presence august, severe,
Till he saw how the innocent creatures played
In the billowy depths and were not afraid;
Till he saw how the Nautilus spread his sail,
And caught as it blew the favouring gale;
And great and small through the watery realm
Were steered as it were by a veering helm;
Then his heart grew bold, and his will grew strong
And he pondered in vigilant thought not long
Ere he fashioned a boat of a hollow tree,
And thus became lord of the mighty Sea.

PREFACE.

PERHAPS some of my young readers may be tempted to turn critical, and say that some of the pieces herein set forth are not strictly entitled to the name of tales; I think it best, therefore, to plead guilty at once, and explain that the title was adopted as the most simple, and, at the same time, sufficiently expressive of the bulk of the contents. The poems in this volume which are not literally stories, will, I hope, find such favour in the eyes of my young - friends, that they shall not deem them unfitting companions to the best tales amongst them.

I can wish no better for my kind young readers, so far as the book is concerned, than that it may become as popular amongst them as the Sketches of Natural History which I wrote for them some time ago. Nottingham, June 10th, 1836.

OLDEN TIMES.

DEDICATED, WITH MUCH RESPECT, TO JUVENILE ANTIQUARIANS.

THE fields with corn are rich and deep,
Which only he who sows can reap;
And in old woodlands' grassy lea
Are cattle grazing peacefully; -
And hamlet-homes in valleys low
Fear neither famine, fire, nor foe.
A thousand busy towns are rife
With prosperous sounds of trade and life,
And bustling crowds are in the streets,
Where man is friend with all he meets.
No need is there of city-wall,
Nor gates to shut at evening-fall;
For, know ye not, the land I praise
Is England in these happy days!
It was not thus in wood and wold,-
It was not thus in times of old;

Where waves the corn, the red fern bowed
On heathy turf that ne'er was ploughed;
And boundless tracts were covered o'er
With mossy bog, and barren moor;
The green hill-slopes, the pastoral lea,
Were shadowed by the forest-tree;
And herds of deer, of nought afraid,
Went bounding through the greenwood shade;
And 'mong the leafy boughs above,
Loud screamed the jay, and cooed the dove;
The squirrel sprung from tree to tree,
The timid badger gamboled free,
And the red fox barked dismally;
And the grim wolf, at close of day,
Made the lone mountain herds his prey.
Then fasts were held, and prayers were said
When knight or yeoman journeyèd,

For peril great was on the road,
Where'er a daring traveller trode;
And ever as they came or went,
Before the way-side cross they bent,
Their beads to tell, their prayers to say,
And crave protection for the way.
Yet, save when quiet woodmen passed
Silently through the forest vast,
Or hermit stole from out his cell,
Down to some holy way-side well,
Or portly monk, in habit grey,
And long black cowl, rode by the way,
Or pilgrim went with staff in hand,
To some famed shrine across the land,
But rarely man had man in view,
For travellers in this land were few.
Yet at times upon the breeze was borne
The gallant sound of hunter's horn;
And barons from their halls came forth,
With leashed hounds, and sounds of mirth
And dames in quaint, embroidered dresses.
And hooded hawks with bells and jesses;
With yeomen bold a thousand strong,
Careered right gallantly along,

And at times, stout men, like Robin Hood,
With outlawed dwellers of the wood,
With their merry men, clad all in green,
A hunting in the woods were seen.
Not then each golden harvest-field
Was reaped for him whose toil had tilled;
Little was recked of cruel wrong-
The weak man laboured for the strong;
And civil war fierce ruin wrought,
And battles, many a one, were fought;
And the old remnants of the slain,
Moulder on hill, and heath, and plain.
Then, learning was of little note,
And, saving monks, none read nor wrote;
And even kings, with nought of shame,
Confessed they could not sign their name!
Then ladies' lives were dull, for they
Wrought tapestry-work from day to day;
And peasant-women, brown with toil,
Tilled with the men the barren soil.
Then towns were few, and small and lone,
Inclosed with massy walls of stone;
And at each street an outer gate,
To shut before the day grew late;
And not a lamp might give its light,
After the curfew rung at night.
And if perchance it happened so
That a traveller came on journey slow,
In scarlet cloak and leathern belt,
And high-crowned hat of sable felt,
And huge jack-boots, and iron-spur,
Riding, the king's grave messenger,
How stared the townsfolk, half aghast,
As solemnly he onward passed
To the low hostel, built of wood!
And how in wandering groups they stood,
With questions poured out amain,
To see him journey forth again!
Another day of blither cheer

Might come, some three times in the year,
When the customed traders came with packs
Of needful things on horses' backs;
With jingling bells to the leader's rein,
Sounding afar on the narrow lane ;-
A long array of near a score,
With armed riders on before;
And the men of trade with visage thin,
In travelling caps of badger skin,

And rough, huge cloaks, and ponderous gear
Of arms and trappings closed the rear.
On went they, guests of special grace,
On to the little market-place ;-
And quickly might be purchased there,
From the Sheffieldman his cutler-ware;
And winter garb, and woollen vest,
From the sturdy weaver of the West;
And scarlet hose, and 'broidered shoon,
And wooden bowl, and horny spoon;
Buckles and belts, and caps of hide,
And a thousand other things beside,
Till the townsfolk had laid in their store,
And the traders could sell nothing more.

Then at dawn of day the sober train
Set out upon their way again;
Travelling on by dale and down,
Warily to some distant town-
Or to some dark, grey castle tall,
Guarded with drawbridge, moat, and wall;
With porter stern, and bloodhounds grim,
With towers of strength, and dungeons dim;
Where minstrels stood with pipes to play,
And a jester jibed the livelong day;-
Or to halt in some green vale before
The monastery's gothic door,
To meekly ask, with speaking eye,
What the lord Abbot chose to buy-
Or ermine soft, or linen fine,
Or precious flasks of foreign wine?

Thus was it in the days of old

Men lived, and thus they bought and sold;
Sordid, and ignorant, and poor,
Was baron bold and churlish boor.
"Tis well for ye your days are cast,
When ignorance, like a cloud, has passed,
And God has showered his blessings down,
On wood and wild, in tower and town,
And all in peace and plenty dwell;
And so thank Heaven,-and fare-ye-well!

MADAM FORTESCUE AND HER CAT.

AN ILLUSTRATION OF THREE PICTURES, DESIGNED AND DRAWN BY ANNA MARY HOWITT, FOR HER BROTHER CLAUDE.

PART I.

Within this picture, you may view
The Cat and Madam Fortescue-
And very soon you will discover,
That Mistress Pussy "lived in clover."

THIS is a nice pleasant parlour, As you may see in a minute; It belongs to Madam Fortescue, And there she sits in it.

That's the dear old lady,

In a green tabby gown, And a great lace cap,

With long lace ruffles hanging down. There she sits

In a cushioned high-backed seat, Covered over with crimsoned damask, With a footstool at her feet.

You see what a handsome room it is,
Full of old carving and gilding;
The house is, one may be sure,
Of the Elizabethan style of building.

It is a pleasant place;

And through the window one sees Into old-fashioned gardens

Full of old yew trees.

And on that table,

that funny table,
With the curious thin legs,-

Stand little tea-cups, a china jar,
And great ostrich eggs.

One can see in a moment,

That she is very rich indeed;
With nothing to do, all day long,
But sit in a chair and read.

And those are very antique chairs,
So heavy and so strong;

The seats are tent-stitch, the lady's work,
All done when she was young.

And that's Mr. Fortescue's portrait,
That hangs there on the wall,
In the thunder-and-lightning coat,
The bag-wig and all.

Very old-fashioned and stately,
With a sword by his side;
But 't is many a long year now,
Since the old gentleman died.

Thus you see the room complete,
With a Turkey carpet on the floor;
And get a peep into other rooms
Through that open door.

But the chiefest thing of all

We have yet passed over,

The tortoise-shell cat, which our motto says "Now lives in clover."

Meaning she has nothing to do,

All the long year through,

But sleep and take her meals
With good Madam Fortescue.

Only look, on that crimson cushion,
How soft and easy she lies,
Just between sleep and wake,
With half buttoned-up eyes!
And good Madam Fortescue,

She lifts her eyes from her book,
To see if she want anything,

And to give her a loving look.

But now turn your eyes

Behind this great Indian screen,—
There sits Madam Fortescue's woman
Very crabbed and very lean.
She makes believe to her lady,
To be very fond of the cat;
But she hates her,

And pinches when she pretends to pat.

But the lady never knows it,

For the cat can but mew;

She can tell no tales, however ill used,
And that Mrs. Crabthorn knew.

So she smiled, and was smooth-spoken,
And the lady said, "Crabthorn,
You are the best waiting woman
That ever was born!

"And when I die, good Crabthorn,
In my will it shall appear,
That my cat I leave to you,
And fifty pounds a year.

"For I certainly think, Crabthorn,
You will love her for my sake!"
"That I shall!" said the waiting woman,
"And all my pleasure will she make!"
Now all this has been said and done
This very day, I am sure -

For there lies the lady's will,
Tied up with red tape secure.

She may well look so forlorn,

Poor creature! that she may;
And only think what kicks she's had,
And nothing to eat all day?
This, then, is the dressing room,
Grand and stately as you can see;

Yet everything in the room
Looks as solemn as can be!

The very peacock's feathers

Over the old glass on the wall,
Look like great mourning plumes
Waving at a funeral.

And that glass in the black frame;
And the footstool on the floor,

And the chair where Madam sate to dress,
But where she 'll sit no more!

Everything looks as if some

Great sorrow would befall! See there's the old tabby gown Hanging on the wall;

And there's the lace cap,

But there's no lace border on it;

And in that half-open box,

Is the dear old lady's bonnet.

And there lie the black silk mits,
And the funny high-heeled shoes;
And there the pomatum-pot,

And the powder-puffs she used to use.

But she will never use them more,

Neither to-day nor to-morrow!
She is dead and gone from this world,
As the cat knows to her sorrow!

But now through that open door,
If you take a peep,

You see the great stately bed,

On which she used to sleep.

And there rests her coffin

There she sits trembling,

And hanging down her head,

As if she knew misfortune was come,
Now Madam Fortescue is dead!

And look, there stands Mrs. Crabthorn,
With a rope in her hand,
Giving to that surly fellow
A very strict command.

For what? to hang the cat!

"For then, Scroggin," says she,

"I shall still have my fifty pounds a-year, And what's the cat to me!

"To be sure I promised Madam
To love the cat like a relation,-—
But now she is dead and gone,
Why that's no signification!

"And cats I never could bear,
And I'll not be plagued with that;
So take this new rope, Scroggin,
And see you hang the cat!
"Be sure to do it safely,-

Hang her with the rope double;

And her skin will make you a cap,
Friend Scroggin, for your trouble!"

Poor thing, she hears their words →

Well may she moan and sob;

He is an ill-looking fellow,
And seems to like the job!

He will take the rope with joy,

He's no pity- not he!

And in less than half an hour, She'll be hanging on a tree!

PART III.

Now in this third part you will see, The end of Crabthorn's treachery; How she had cause to rue the day Whereon the Cat was made away.

See now my dear brother
This is the great dining-hall,
Where the company is assembled
After the funeral.

It is a very noble room;

But now we cannot stay,
We must look at the old wainscot,
And the pictures some other day.

See, here sits the company,

The heir and all the cousins
The nephews and the grand-nephews,
And the nieces by dozens.
And there is the lawyer
Reading the lady's will,
For an hour they 've sat listening,
All of them, stock still.

The lawyer he has just reached
To where the will said,
"Mrs. Crabthorn shall have fifty pounds
A-year, ull the cat be dead.

"That fifty pounds a-year

Shall be left to her to keep

The cat in good condition,

With a cushion whereon to sleep;

"That as long as the cat live

The money shall be her due."

And the old lady prayed her, in her will,

To be a loving guardian and true.

"Goodness me!" screamed Mrs. Crabthorn,

АH! Fisher Boy, I well know thee,
Brother thou art to Marion Lee!
What! didst thou think I knew thee not,
Couldst thou believe I had forgot?
For shame, for shame! what? I forget
The treasures of thy laden net'
And how we went one day together,
One day of showery summer weather,
Up the sea-shore, and for an hour
Stood sheltering from a pelting shower,
With an upturned, ancient boat,
That had not been for years afloat!
No, no, my boy! I liked too well
The old sea-stories thou didst tell;
I liked too well thy roguish eye-
Thy merry speech thy laughter sly;
Thy old sca-jacket, to forget,-
And then the treasures of thy net!
Oh Andrew. thou hast not forgot,
I'm very sure that thou hast not,

All that we talked about that day,
Of famous countries far away!
Of Crusoes in their islands lone,
That never were, nor will be known,
And yet this very moment stand
Upon some point of mountain land,
Looking out o'er the desert sea,

If chance some coming ship there be.

Thou know'st we talked of this-thou know'st
We talked about a ship-boy's ghost -

A wretched little orphan lad
Who served a master stern and bad,
And had no friend to take his part,
And perished of a broken heart;
Or by his master's blows, some said,
For in the boat they found him dead,
And the boat's side was stained and red!

And then we talked of many a heap
Of ancient treasure in the deep,
And the great serpent that some men,
In far-off seas, meet now and then;
Of grand sea-palaces that shine
Through forests of old coralline;
And wondrons creatures that may dwell
In many a crimson Indian shell;
Till I shook hands with thee, to see
Thou wast a poet- Andrew Lee!
Though thou wast guiltless all the time
Of putting any thoughts in rhyme;
Ah, little fisher boy! since then,
Ladies I've seen and learned men,
All clever, and some great and wise,
Who study all things, earth and skies,
Who much have seen, and much have read,

And famous things have writ and said;

But Andrew, never have I heard

One who so much my spirit stirred,

As he who sate with me an hour,
Screened from the pelting thunder-shower-
Now laughing in his merry wit;

Now talking in a serious fit,

In speech that poured like water free;
And that was thou -poor Andrew Lee!

Then shame to think I knew thee not-
Thou hast not, nor have I forgot;

And long 't will be ere I forget
How thou took'st up thy laden net,
And gave me all that it contained,
Because I too thy heart had gained!

THE WANDERER'S RETURN,

THERE was a girl of fair Provence,

Fresh as a flower in May,
Who 'neath a spreading plane-tree sate,
Upon a summer-day.

And thus unto a mourner young,
In a low voice did say.