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'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean,
Little children may be seen,
Like the flowers that spring up fair,
Bright and countless, everywhere!

And horneward went rejoicing

Upon that Christmas morn, Declaring unto every one,

That Jesus Christ was born. That he was born, — the Saviour,

The promised one of old; That they had seen the son of God

To every one they told. And, like unto the shepherds,

We wander far and near, And bid ye wake, good Christians,

The joyful news to hear. Awake, arise, good Christians,

Let nothing you dismay, Remember Christ the Saviour

Was born upon this day!

In the far isles of the main;
In the desert's lone domain;
In the savage mountain-glen,
'Mong the tribes of swarthy men;
Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone:
Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone
On a league of peopled ground,
Little children may be found!

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LITTLE CHILDREN. Sporting through the forest wide; Playing by the water-side ; Wandering o'er the heathy fells; Down within the woodland dells; All among the mountain wild, Dwelleth many a little child! In the baron's hall of pride; By the poor man's dull fireside :

Blessings on them! they in me
Move a kindly sympathy,
With their wishes, hopes, and fears;
With their laughter and their tears;
With their wonder so intense,
And their small experience!
Little children, not alone
On the wide earth are ye known,
'Mid its labours and its cares,
'Mid its sufferings and its snares.
Free from sorrow, free from strife,
In the world of love and life,
Where no sinful thing hath trod;
In the presence of your God.
Spotless, blameless, glorified,
Lire children, ye abide!

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Tuis 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 10 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.

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

That turns the seaman pale?
Are gusty tempests mirth to thee?

Lov'st thou the lightning's flash; The booming of the mountain waves

The thunder's deafening crash ?
O stormy, stormy Peterel,

Thou art a bird of woe!
Yet would I thou could'st tell me half

Of the misery thou dost know! There was a ship went down last night,

A good ship and a fair;
A costly freight within her lay,

And many a soul was there!
The night-black storm was over her,

And 'neath the caverned wave: In all her strength she perished,

Nor skill of man could save. 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!

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 each inch of ground, And every single plant and flower

That grows within its bound. He knows where grow his wall-flowers,

And when they will be out; 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,

And a thankful man is he,
For he thinks all through the winter

How rich his board will be


And how his merry little ones

Beside the fire will stand, Each with a large potatoe

In a round and rosy hand. The rich man has his wall-fruits,

And his delicious vines; His fruit for every season ;

His melons and his pines. The poor man has his gooseberries ;

His currants white and red; His apple and his damson tree,

And a little strawberry-bed. A happy man he thinks himself,

A man that 's passing well,+ To have some fruit for the children,

And some besides to sell.

Ah yes, the poor man's garden!

It is great joy to me,
This little, precious piece of ground

Before his door to see!
The rich man has his gardeners,-

His gardeners young and old;
He never takes a spade in hand,

Nor worketh in the mould. It is not with the poor man 80,

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,

His garden-plot to till. The rich man in his garden walks,

And 'neath his garden trees; Wrapped in a dream of other things,

He seems to take his ease.

Around the rich man's trellissed bower

Gay, costly creepers run; The poor man has his scarlet-beans

To screen him from the sun.

And there before the little bench,

O'ershadowed by the bower, Grow southern-wood and lemon-thyme,

Sweet-pea and gilliflower;
And pinks and clove-carnations,

Rich-scented side by side ;
And at each end a holly-hock,
With an edge of London-pride.


And here comes the old grandmother,

When her day's work is done ;
And here they bring the sickly babe

To cheer it in the sun.
And here, on Sabbath-mornings,

The good man comes to get
His Sunday nosegay, moss-rose bud,

White pink, and mignonette. And here, on Sabbath-evenings,

Until the stars are out,
With a little one in either hand,

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

Far more than herbs and flowers;
Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind,

And joy for weary hours.

The old, mossy apple-tree ;
The young, glossy apple-tree;
Scathed or sound, the country round,

I know every apple-tree !
Winter comes, as winter will,

Bringing dark days, frost, and rime; But the apple is in vogue

At the Christmas-time;
At the merry Christmas-time

Folks are full of glee;
Then they bring out apples prime,

Of the primest tree;
Then you the roast-apple see
While they toast the apple-tree,
Singing, with a jolly chime,

Of the brave old apple-tree!


Lo! there the hermit of the waste,

The ghost of ages dim, The fisher of the solitudes,

Stands by the river's brim!

Old Heron, in the feudal times,

Beside the forest stream, And by the moorland waters,

Thus didst thou love to dream.


LET them sing of bright red gold;

Let them sing of silver fair ; Sing of all that's on the earth,

All that's in the air; All that's in the sunny air,

All that's in the sea;
And I'll sing a song as rare

Of the apple-tree!
The red-bloomed apple-tree;
The red-cheeked apple-tree;
That's the tree for you and me,

The ripe, rosy apple-tree !
Learned men have learned books,

Which they ponder day and night; Easier leaves than theirs I read,

Blossoms pink and white; Blossom-leaves all pink and white,

Wherein I can see
Charactered, as clear as light,

The old apple-tree;
The gold-cheeked apple-tree;
The red-streaked apple-tree;
All the fruit that groweth on

The ripe, rosy apple-iree!
Autumn comes, and our good-man

Soon as harvest-toil is o'er,
Speculates on apple-crops —

Be they less or more;
I could tell him; less or more

Is well-known to me ;
I have eyes that see the core

Of the apple-tree;

And over towers and castles high,

And o'er the armed men, Skirmishing on the border-lands,

Or crouching in the glen; Thy heavy wings were seen to flit,

Thy azure shape was known To pilgrim and to anchorite,

In deserts scorched and lone. Old Heron, in those feudal times

Thou wast in dangerous grace,
Secured by mandates and by laws

All for the royal chase.
No meaner head might plot thy death

Than one which wore a crown;
No meaner hand might loose the shaft,

From the skies to strike thee down. And out came trooping courtly dames,

And men of high degree, On steeds ca parisoned 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 abbot and the bishop grave,

The monk with crown new-shorn,
Who sore did rue their ravaged stew *

In the last Lent forlorn.

* Fish-pond.

The keepers with their dogs in leash;

The falconers before, Who proudly on their sturdy wrists

The hooded tercel bore.

And in thy solitary haunts

By stream or sedgy mere, The laugh, the shout, the cries of dogs

And men, came to thine ear.

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

Of those old woodland times ;
Some waste lies brown; some forest spreads;

Some rocky streamlet chimes. And there, beside the waters,

On moorland and on wold, I find thee watching still,

Thou fisherman of old.

And starting from thy reverie,

And springing from the bent, Into the air, from joyous hearts,

Another shout was sent.

Oh fair, fair is the forest,

When summer is in prime! And I love to lie by mountain lake,

On its slopes of heath and thyme! In the thyme so richly fragrant,

In the heath that blooms so fair, And list the quaint bird-voices

From the moorland and the air.

Up, up, into the azure skies

On circling pinions strong,
Fair eyes pursued thy mounting course

While the falcon sped along.
Up, up, into the azure skies

Thy strenuous pinions go, While shouts and cries, and wondering eyes,

Still reach thee from below; But higher, and higher, like a spirit of fire,

Sull o'er thee hangs thy foe; 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

Swift as the rushing wind,
Impaled upon thy up-turned beak,

To leave his own behind.

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,

In shattered abbeys lone, Lie all thy crowned enemies,

In midnight vaults of stone! The towers are torn, the gates outworn,

Portcullis, moat, and mound Are vanished all, or faintly mark

Some rarely-trodden ground.

All those that lead their sweetest lives

Far from the haunt of men, Are sending forth their gladness

In many a wild cry then. The curlew and the plover,

The gor-cock on the brae, Send, with the singing of the lark,

Their voices far away! The coot and moor-hen from the reeds,

Or where the waters run Crystal and warm and glittering,

O'er the pebbles in the sun. And from the air, in circling flight,

Comes suddenly the crowd Of all the wild-duck army,

With pinions rustling loud; And, dashing down into the lake,

The splashing waters bound In drops and showers of silver,

And in snow-flakes all around. Such is the joy that wakens,

That clamours, and that lives, In all the winged creatures,

Where nature still survives; Where nature still survives

In her regions wild and free; So lives in all her creatures,

Old fisherman, but thee! Whene'er I meet thee, Heron,

By river broad and deep, Where mountain-torrents run and moan

Or ponded waters sleep;
By tarns upon the naked hills;

In stony regions grey,
Or wading in the sounding sea
Amid the hissing spray:

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;

Where waved the wild-rush free, And whistled moorland-grasses sere,

Fat cattle roam the lea.

The rose of May its pride display'd
Along the old stone balustrade;
And ancient ladies, quaintly dight,
In its pink blossoms took delight,
And on the steps would make a stand,
To scent its sweetness, fan in hand.

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, For his heart is in the perished past,

And seeketh that alone!

Long have been dead those ladies gay,
Their very heirs have passed away;
And their old portraits, prim and tall,
Are mouldering in the mouldering hall;
The terrace and the balustrade
Lie broken, weedy, and decayed.
But, lithe and tall, the rose of May
Shoots upward through the ruin grey,
With scented flower, and leaf pale-green,
Such rose as it hath ever been ;
Left, like a noble deed, to grace
The memory of an ancient race !

Then hail to thee, old Ileron,

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 ;
The jovial hawking-train, the chase,

The sturdy bowmen bold.
Suill wandering over cultured fields,

Or 'mid the human throng,
Come back the feudal castle,

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,

Of outlaw 'neath his tree.

Now knowledge falls like sunshine,

And peace walks in our towns Oh pleasant are the feudal days

And the bloody strise of crowns ! Then hail to thee, old Heron!

Flit on to lakes and streams ; And by their waters dreaming,

Still prompt these pleasant dreams!

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 laby. rinthine shrubbery at Awthorpe Hall,- which, when we were there, had just been taken down,—the resi. dence 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,—“pot a flower but fever-few and the rosu 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,

THE ROSE OF MAY. An there's the lily, marble pale, The bonny broom, the cistus frail, The rich sweet-pea, the iris blue, The larkspur with its peacock hue ;Each one is fair, yet hold I will That the rose of May is fairer still. "Tis grand 'neath palace-walls to grow; To blaze where lords and ladies go; To hang o'er marble founts, and shine In modern gardens trim and fine; But the rose of May is only seen Where the great of other days have been. The house is mouldering stone by stone ; The garden-walks are overgrown; The flowers are low, the weeds are high; The fountain-stream is choked and dry; The dial-stone with moss is green, Where'er the rose of May is seen.

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