Away, away, at length she crept,
So pleased, she knew not how she trode, Yet light on tottering tip-toe stepp'd,
As though birds' eggs strew'd all the road; Close cradling in her heart's recess The secret of her happiness.
Morn, noon, and eve, from day to day,
By stealth she visited that spot;
Alike her lessons and her play
Were slightly conn'd, or all forgot;
And when the callow young were hatch'd,
Lucy with infant fondness watch'd—
Watch'd the kind parents dealing food
To clamorous suppliants all agape;
Watch'd the small, naked, unform'd brood,
Improve in size, and plume, and shape,
Till feathers clothed the fluttering things,
And the whole group seem'd bills and wings.
Unconsciously within her breast,
Where many a brooding fancy lay,
She plann'd to bear the tiny nest,
And chirping choristers away,
In stately cage to tune their throats,
And learn untaught their mother-notes.
One morn, when fairly fledged for flight,
Blithe Lucy, at her visit, found
What seem'd a necklace, glittering, bright,
Twined round the nest-twined round and round, With emeralds, pearls, and sapphires set,
Rich as my lady's coronet.
She stretch'd her hand to seize the prize,
When up a serpent popp'd its head,
But glid like moonshine from her eyes,
Hissing and rustling as it fled.
She uttered one short shrilling scream,
Then stood as wilder'd in a dream.
Her elder brother long had known
That something drew her steps that way:
Curious to catch her there alone,
He followed her that fine May-day.
The sudden sight of his first glance
Startled poor Lucy from her trance.
Then in her eyes sprang welcome tears,
Which fell as showers in April fall:
He kiss'd her, coax'd her, sooth'd her fears,
Till she in frankness told him all.
Tom was a bold, adventurous boy,
And heard the dreadful tale with joy ;
For he had learnt, in some far land,
How children catch the sleeping snake:
Eager himself to try his hand,
He cut a hazel from the brake,
And, like a hero, set to work
To make a lithe long-handled fork.
Brother and sister then withdrew,
Leaving the nestlings snugly there;
Close by their heads the mother flew,
To reassume her nursery care :
But Tom, whose breast for glory burn'd,
In less than half an hour return'd.
With him came Ned, as cool and sly
As Tom was resolute and stout:
So, fair and softly, they drew nigh,
Cowering, and keeping sharp look-out,
As they approach'd the copse, to see,
But not alarm, the enemy.
Guess with what rapture they descried,
How, as before, the serpent lay
Coil'd round the nest, in slumbering pride:
The urchins chuckled o'er their prey;
And Tom's right arm was lifted soon,
Like Greenland whaler's with harpoon.
Across its neck the fork he brought,
And pinn'd it fast upon the ground. The reptile woke, and, quick as thought, Curl'd round the stick-curl'd round and round, While Ned's most apt and nimble hands Tied head and tail with packthread bands.
The prisoner scarcely was secured,
When Lucy timidly drew near,
And, by their shouting well assured,
Eyed the green monster without fear.
The lads, stark wild with victory, flung
Their caps aloft, and danced and sung.
But Lucy, with an anxious look,
Turn'd to her own dear nest-when lo! To legs and wings the young ones took, Hopping and tumbling to and fro;
The parents chattering from above,
With all the earnestness of love.
Alighting now among their train,
They peck'd them on new feats to try; But many a lesson seem'd in vain,
Before the giddy things could fly: Lucy both laugh'd and cried, to see How ill they play'd at liberty.
I need not tell the snake's sad doom;
You may be sure he lived not long :
Cork'd in a bottle for a tomb,
Preserved in spirits and in song,
His skin in Tom's museum shines;
You read his story in my lines.
COME sit by the fire, for the evening is cold,
And they tell us at Christmas old tales should be told;
And
you love such old stories and legends to hear;
So attend to the tale of the Boy and the Deer!
And still in your memory its moral hold fast,—
It is perseverance will conquer at last!
Through Wensley's wild romantic dale,
Than the young hero of my tale
None better lov'd, at early morn,
To catch the echo of the horn,
As floating wide with mellow swell
It rung down Cover's sylvan dell.
None better lov'd through wood to force,
Lured by the pheasant's whirling course,
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