And with up-turned trunk didst browse, On the reed-palm's lowest boughs; Tell me, creature, in what place, Like a whirlwind passing by,- Elephant, so old and vast, Thou art solemn, wise and good; THE WILD SWAN. FAIR flows the river, Smoothly gliding on; Green grow the bulrushes Around the stately swan. What an isle of beauty The noble bird hath formed, The greenest trees and stateliest Grow all the isle around. Low bend the branches In the water bright, Now he lies at rest, Strong, and glad, and free! How pleasant it must be! Like a gleam of sunshine In shadow passing on,— Like a wreath of snow, thou art, Wild and graceful swan! Thick grow the flowers 'Neath the chestnut shade; Green grow the bulrushes Where thy nest is made: Lovely ye, and loving, too, The mother bird and thee, Watching o'er your cygnet brood, Beneath the river tree. Kings made laws a-many, Laws both stern and strong, In the days of olden time, You to keep from wrong; And o'er their palace-waters Ye went, a gallant show, Tell me, Swan, I pray thee, Or a sylvan creature From some far, lone place? Saw ye in woody Athelney, True Alfred's care and pain, Or, riding out among his men, Good King Canute the Dane? No, from 'mid the icebergs, Through long ages piled, By the winter wild; On their far journeys go; Wild, and lone, and drear, Ice-lakes, cold and gleaming, Ye have hastened here. The pleasant streams of England Your homeward flight have stayed, And here among the bulrushes Your English nest is made. THE MILL STREAM. LONG trails of cistus-flowers Creep on the rocky hill; And beds of strong spear-mint Grow round about the mill; And from a mountain tarn above, As peaceful as a dream, Like to child unruly, Though schooled and counselled truly, Foams down the wild mill-stream! The wild mill-stream it dasheth, In merriment away, And keeps the miller and his son Into the mad mill-stream The mountain-roses fall; And fern and adder's tongue Grow on the old mill-wall. The tarn is on the upland moor, Where not a leaf doth grow; And through the mountain-gashes, The merry mill-stream dashes Down to the sea below: But, in the quiet hollows, The red trout groweth prime, For the miller and the miller's son Then fair befall the stream That turns the mountain-mill; That windeth up the hill! And to the miller's son; And ever may the mill-wheel turn SUMMMER. 1 may boast of the spring-time when flowers are the fairest, And birds sing by thousands on every green tree; They may call it the loveliest, the greenest, the rarest ; But the summer's the season that's dearest to me! For the brightness of sunshine; the depth of the shadows; The crystal of waters; the fulness of green, And the rich flowery growth of the old pasture meadows, In the glory of summer can only be seen. Oh, the joy of the green-wood! I love to be in it, And list to the hum of the never-still bees, And to hear the sweet voice of the old mother linnet, Calling unto her young 'mong the leaves of the trees! While adown their deep chasms, all splintered and riven, Fall the far-gleaming cataracts silvery white! And where are the flowers that in beauty are glowing In the garden and fields of the young, merry spring, Like the mountain-side wilds of the yellow broom blowing, And the old forest pride, the red wastes of the ling? Then the garden, no longer 'tis leafless and chilly, But warm with the sunshine and bright with the sheen Of rich flowers, the moss rose and the bright tiger-lily, Barbaric in pomp as an Ethiop Queen. Oh, the beautiful flowers, all colours combining, The larkspur, the pink, and the sweet mignionette, And the blue fleur-de-lis, in the warm sunlight shining, As if grains of gold in its petals were set! Yes, the summer,-the radiant summer's the fairest, For green-woods and mountains, for meadows and bowers, For waters, and fruits, and for flowers the rarest, THE FALCON. HARK! hark! the merry warden's horn The bolts are drawn; the bridge is o'er For 'tis a merry day! With braided hair, of gold or jet, With waiting-woman by; And presently they are arrayed, That showered down like rain, And down the stately stairs they go, And then into the castle-hall, For they will hawk to-day. And then outbreaks a general din In such a bright array! The kennelled hounds' long bark is heard; But soon the bustle is dismissed; - A hooded hawk, that's stroked and kissed And sitting in their saddles free, Each with a bird on hand; Fall in and join the band. And merrily thus in shine and shade, To moorlands wild and grey; A moment and the quarry's ta'en; Oh gay goshawk and tercel bold, And kings were your compeers! Oh gay goshawk, your days were when Lying in London Tower; Yours were the days of civil feud; Of Woodstock's bloody bower! Oh, gay goshawk, you but belong Times are not now as they were then ; No more, as then, the ladies bright Like learned clerks of old! Oh, Falcon proud, and goshawk gay, The craggy rock your castle-tower; Yet, noble bird, old fame is thine; Of high and pure degree; THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS PUT up thy work, dear mother; And bending on their stalks, mother. And come out, mother dear! Oh, mother! little Amy Would have loved these flowers to see;Dost remember how we tried to get For her a pink sweet-pea? Dost remember how she loved Those rose-leaves pale and sere? I wish she had but lived to see Put up thy work, dear mother, And come into the garden Before 'tis set of day! THE FLAX.FLOWER. O the little flax-flower, It groweth on the hill, And, be the breeze awake or sleep, It groweth, and it groweth fast; Scarce better than a weed. Ah, 'tis a goodly little thing, It groweth for the poor, And many a peasant blesseth it, He thinketh how those slender stems He thinketh how those tender flowers, Oh, the little flax-flower! The mother, then says she, "Go pull the thyme, the heath, the fern But let the flax-flower be! It groweth for the children's sake, There are flowers enough upon the hill, That we have tilled with care. "Our squire he hath the holt and hill, Great halls and noble rent; We only have the flax-field, Yet therewith are content. We watch it morn, we watch it night, The good man and the little ones, They pace it round about; For it we wish the sun to shine, For it the rain to fall; Good lack! for who is poor doth make Great count of what is small!" Oh, the goodly flax-flower! It groweth on the hill, As if it loved to thrive; And may the kindly showers, Give strength unto its shining stem, Give seed unto its flowers! It is so rare a thing now-a-days to see flax grown in any quantity, that my English readers will not feel the full force of the above little poem. The English cottager has not often ground which he can use for this purpose; and, besides, he can purchase calico for the wear of his family at a much cheaper cost than he could grow flax. Nor is the English woman "handy" at such matters. She would think it a great hardship to till, perhaps, the very ground upon which it was grown; to pull it with the help of her children only, and, to her other household cares and occupations, to add those of preparing, spinning, and it might be, to help even to weave it into good homespun cloth. Seventy or eighty years ago, however, this was not uncommon in England; and it is still common, and in some districts even general in Scotland. Burns alludes to the growth of flax in many of his poems; and in the “ Cottar's Saturday Night," the mother reckons the age of the cheese from the time of the flax flowering. The household interest which is taken in the flaxfield presented itself strongly to us in many a wild glen, and in many a desolate mountain-side in the Highlands of Scotland, in the summer of 1836. You came, in the midst of those stony and heathy wildernesses, upon a few turf-erections, without windows and without chimneys; the wild grasses of the moor and the heath itself grew often upon the roof, for all had originally been cut from the mountain-side; and, but for the smoke which issued from the door, or the children that played about it, you might have doubted of its being a human dwelling. Miserable, however, as such homes may appear at first sight, they are, as it were, the natural growth of the mountain-moorland, and the eye soon finds in them much that is picturesque and characteristic. About such places as these are frequently, too, patches of cultivated ground; the one of potatoes, and perhaps oats or barley, the other of flax. Thus grow, at the very door of this humble human tenement, the food and clothing of the family. How essential this growth is to them, may be seen from the nature of the ground. It is frequently the most diffi. cult that can be conceived to bring into cultivation one mass, as it seems, of stones, with the scantiest The owl in hollow oak, the man in den, intermixture of soil. These stones, many of which Chamber, or office, dusky and obscure, are of immense size, are with infinite toil and pa- Are creatures very heavy and demure; tience gathered from the earth, and piled into walls But soon their turn comes round, and then, round the little fields, otherwise the mountain sheep, Oh, what sharp claws and pitiless beak have they and perhaps the wild roes, would soon lay the whole To feather, fleece, and worry up their prey! waste. Here the mother, as well as the father, la bours, and indeed the flax seems especially to belong to her, for she must spin it before she can convert it into family use. In the same way is the household provided with woollen garments; they are all home-spun and homemade, even to many a goodly tartan. The "tarry woo" of Scotland, like the "lint flower," is a national thing; the affections, as well as the fire-side interests of that country are connected with them. THE HOUSE-SPARROW. IN birds, as men, there is a strange variety, So sang the noble bard, who, like the swallow, "A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind," follow. "T is true; and therefore still we find That pert, conceited good-for-nothing Sparrow, Night or day Will be away, Though hooted, shot at, nor once coaxed or beckoned? Of monstrous London - in the loneliest valley — On church or chapel-farm or shop, The Sparrow's still "the bird on the house-top." But everywhere the sharp-clawed and the bigger-I think 'twas Solomon who said so, Falcons that shoot, and men that pull the trigger - And in the Bible having read so, While other birds have sung in woods or cages, The conquerors fierce; those thievish chaps, the Though neither noble, rich, nor clad in scarlet, lawyers, That chirp and gabble, wheedle and bamboozle ; Who filch your fruit, and pocket up your guineas; Would have the highest place without the asking Have turned their children, and they never know it! Up in the leaden gutter burning hot, gun, Every low scape-grace of the Sparrow-clan, |