'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean, In the far isles of the main; Blessings on them! they in me With their wishes, hopes, and fears; Little children, not alone On the wide earth are ye known, Birds and Flowers, and other Country Things. ΤΟ JOHN HENRY AND WILLIAM GODFREY HOWITT, THESE POEMS, SOME OF WHICH THEY WERE THE FIRST TO READ AND APPROVE, ARE INSCRIBED, BY THEIR AFFECTIONATE AUNT PREFACE. THIS volume has been written literally among Birds and Flowers; and has been my pleasant occupation through the last summer months; and now it is completed, my earnest wish is, that it may convey to many a young heart a relish for the enjoyment of quiet, country pleasures; a love for every living creature, and that strong sympathy which must grow in every pure heart for the great human family. WEST-END COTTAGE, ESHER, September 28th, 1837. THE STORMY PETEREL. O STORMY, stormy, Peterel, Come rest thee, bird, awhile; There is no storm, believe me, Anigh this summer isle. Come, rest thy waving pinions; Alight thee down by me; And tell me somewhat of the lore Thou learnest on the sea! Dost hear beneath the ocean The gathering tempest form? See'st thou afar the little cloud That grows into the storm? How is it in the billowy depths Doth sea-weed heave and swell? And is a sound of coming woe Rung from each caverned shell? Dost watch the stormy sunset In tempests of the west; And see the old moon riding slow With the new moon on her breast? Dost mark the billows heaving Before the coming gale; And scream for joy of every sound Lov'st thou the lightning's flash; The booming of the mountain wavesThe thunder's deafening crash? O stormy, stormy Peterel, Thou art a bird of woe! Yet would I thou could'st tell me half There was a ship went down last night,- A costly freight within her lay, And many a soul was there! The night-black storm was over her, The cry of her great agony Went upward to the sky; She perished in her strength and pride, Nor human aid was nigh. But thou, O stormy Peterel, Went'st screaming o'er the foam;— Are there no tidings from that ship Which thou canst carry home? Yes! He who raised the tempest up, Sustained each drooping one; And God was present in the storm, Though human aid was none! THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN. АH yes, the poor man's garden! It is great joy to me, The rich man has his gardeners,— It is not with the poor man so, Wealth, servants, he has none; And all the work that's done for him Must by himself be done. All day upon some weary task He toileth with good will; And back he comes, at set of sun, The rich man in his garden walks, One moment he beholds his flowers, The next they are forgot: He eateth of his rarest fruits As though he ate them not. It is not with the poor man so;- He knows where grow his wall-flowers, His moss-rose, and convolvulus That twines his pales about. He knows his red sweet-williams; And the stocks that cost him dear,That well-set row of crimson stocks, For he bought the seed last year. And though unto the rich man The cost of flowers is nought, A sixpence to a poor man Is toil, and care, and thought. And here is his potatoe-bed, All well-grown, strong, and green; How could a rich man's heart leap up At anything so mean! But he, the poor man, sees his crop, Beside the fire will stand, In a round and rosy hand. His melons and his pines. A happy man he thinks himself, A man that's passing well,- And pinks and clove-carnations, And here comes the old grandmother, The good man comes to get He walketh all about. For though his garden-plot is small, Him doth it satisfy; For there's no inch of all his ground That does not fill his eye. It is not with the rich man thus ; For though his grounds are wide, He looks beyond, and yet beyond, With soul unsatisfied. Yes! in the poor man's garden grow LET them sing of bright red gold; Let them sing of silver fair; All that's in the sea; Of the apple-tree! The ripe, rosy apple-tree! Which they ponder day and night; Easier leaves than theirs I read, Blossoms pink and white; I could tell him; less or more The old, mossy apple-tree; Bringing dark days, frost, and rime; But the apple is in vogue At the Christmas-time; Then you the roast-apple see THE HERON. Lo! there the hermit of the waste, Stands by the river's brim! Thus didst thou love to dream. In deserts scorched and lone. And out came trooping courtly dames, On steeds caparisoned in gold, With bridles ringing free. Came king and queen; came warrior stout; Came lord and lady fair, All gallant, beautiful, and bold, Into the autumn air. The keepers with their dogs in leash; The falconers before, Who proudly on their sturdy wrists And in thy solitary haunts By stream or sedgy mere, The laugh, the shout, the cries of dogs And men, came to thine ear. And starting from thy reverie, And springing from the bent, Into the air, from joyous hearts, Another shout was sent. Up, up, into the azure skies On circling pinions strong, Fair eyes pursued thy mounting course Up, up, into the azure skies Thy strenuous pinions go, While shouts and cries, and wondering eyes, Thy cruel foe, still seeking With one down-plunging aim, To strike thy precious life For ever from thy frame! But doomed perhaps, as down he darts Old Heron, all those times are past, Those jocund troops are fled; The king, the queen, the keepers green, The dogs, the hawks are dead! In many a minster's solemn gloom, Lie all thy crowned enemies, In midnight vaults of stone! The towers are torn, the gates outworn, Are vanished all, or faintly mark O'er all those abbeys, convents, all Those chantries and crosses, Where thou didst glide past in thy pride, Grow tawny ferns and mosses. Where banners waved, the ivy grows;Baronial times are o'er! The forests now are cornfields green, Green is the lakelet's shore. Where grew the furze, now runs the fence; And whistled moorland-grasses sere, The bow is gone, the hawk is thrown For ever from the hand; And now we live a bookish race, All in a cultured land. Yet here and there some remnant And there, beside the waters, I find thee watching still, When summer is in prime! In the heath that blooms so fair, From the moorland and the air. The curlew and the plover, The gor-cock on the brae, The coot and moor-hen from the reeds, With pinions rustling loud; That clamours, and that lives, In all the winged creatures, Where nature still survives; In her regions wild and free; Whene'er I meet thee, Heron, By tarns upon the naked hills; Whene'er I see thee, Heron, Thy cheer is silent still; Solemnly watching by the wave, Or o'er the dusky hill, Waving thy shadowy wings In motion grave and slow, Like a spirit of the solemn past That museth on its woe! Like one that in all present joy Finds no congenial tone, Then hail to thee, old Heron, Flit on from dream to dream; Be yet the watcher on the shore, The spirit of the stream; For still at sight of thee come back The storied times of old; Still wandering over cultured fields, The harper and his song. And it is pleasant thus to dream In this kingdom of the free, Now laws are strong and roads are good, And the bloody strife of crowns! Then hail to thee, old Heron! Flit on to lakes and streams; And by their waters dreaming, Still prompt these pleasant dreams! THE ROSE OF MAY. AH there's the lily, marble pale, The rose of May its pride display'd Long have been dead those ladies gay But, lithe and tall, the rose of May The memory of an ancient race! What exact species of rose this is I do not know; it appears not to be approved of in modern gardens, -at least if it be, it is so much altered by cultivation as to have lost much of its primitive character. I saw it in three different situations in Nottinghamshire. In the small remains of gardens and old labyrinthine shrubbery at Awthorpe Hall,-which, when we were there, had just been taken down, the residence of the good Colonel John Hutchinson and his sweet wife Lucy-in the very gardens which, as she relates in his life, he laid out and took so much pleasure in. It was growing also, with tall shoots and abundance of flowers, in the most forlorn of gardens at an old place called Burton Grange, a house so desolate and deserted as to have gained from a poetical friend of ours the appropriate name of The Dead House. It was a dreary and most lonesome place; the very bricks of which it was built were bleached by long exposure to wind and weather; there seemed no life within or about it. Every trace of furniture and wainscot was gone from its interior, and its principal rooms were the depositories of old ploughs and disused ladders; yet still its roof, floors, and windows were in decent repair. It had once upon a time been a well-conditioned house; had been moated, and its garden-wall had been terminated by stately stone pillars surmounted by well-cut urns, one of which, at the time we were there, lay overgrown with grass in the ground beneath; the other, after a similar fall, had been replaced, but with the wrong end uppermost. To add still more to its lonesomeness, thick, wild woods encompassed it on three sides, whence of an evening, and often too in the course of the day, came the voices of owls and other gloomy wood-creatures. "There's not a flower in the garden," said a woman who, with her husband and child, we found, to our astonishment, inhabiting what had once been th scullery," not a flower but fever-few and the ros. of May, and you'll not think it worth getting." She was mistaken; I was delighted to find this sweet and favourite rose in so ruinous a situation. Again, we found it in the gardens of Annesley Hall, |