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Tue Locust is fierce, and strong, and grim,
And an armed man is afraid of him:
He comes like a winged shape of dread,
With his shielded back and his armed head,
And his double wings for hasty flight,
And a keen, unwearying appetite.
He comes with famine and fear along,
An army a million million strong;
The Goth and the Vandal, and dwarfish Hun,
With their swarming people wild and dun,
Brought not the dread that the Locust brings,
When is heard the rush of their myriad wings.
From the deserts of burning sand they speed,
Where the Lions roam and the Serpents breed,
Far over the sea,

way, away!
And they darken the sun at noon of day.
Like Eden the land before they find,
But they leave it a desolate waste behind.
The peasant grows pale when he sees them come,
And standeth before them weak and dumb;
For they come like a raging fire in power,
And eat up a harvest in half an hour;
And the trees are bare, and the land is brown,
As if trampled and trod by an army down.
There is terror in every monarch's eye,
When he hears that his terrible foe is nigh;
For he knows that the might of an armed host
Cannot drive the spoiler from out his coast,
And that terror and famine his land await;
That from north to south 't will be desolate.
Thus the ravening Locust is strong and grim;
And what were an armed man to him?
Fire turneth him not, nor sea prevents,
He is stronger by far than the elements!
The broad green earth is his prostrate prey,
And he darkens the sun at the noon of day!

And all about my mother's door

Shine out its glittering bushes,
And down the glen, where clear as light

The mountain-water gushes.
Take all the rest,—but give me this,

And the bird that nestles in it;
I love it, for it loves the broom,

The green and yellow linnet. Well, call the rose the queen of flowers,

And boast of that of Sharon, or lilies like to marble cups.

And the golden rod of Aaron.
I care not how these flowers may be

Beloved of man and woman;
The Broom it is the flower for me

That groweth on the common. Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom,

The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days

To lie at rest among it!


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THE BROOM.FLOWER. O THE Broom, the yellow Broom,

The ancient poet sung it,
And dear it is on summer days

To lie at rest among it.
I know the realms where people say

The flowers have not their fellow;
I know where they shine out like suns,

The crimson and the yellow.
I know where ladies live enchained

In luxury's silken fetters,
And flowers as bright as glittering gems

Are used for written letters.
But ne'er was flower so fair as this,

In modern days or olden ;
t groweth on its nodding stem
Like to a garland golden.

No, not in the meadow, and not on the shore;
And not on the wide heath with surze covered o'er,
Where the cry of the Plover, the hum of the bee,
Give a feeling of joyful security:
And not in the woods, where the Nightingale's song,
From the chestnut and orange pours all the day long;
And not where the Martin has built in the eaves,
And the Red-breast e'er covered the children with

Shall ye find the proud Eagle! O no, come away;
I will show you his dwelling, and point out his prey!
Away! let us go where the mountains are high,
With tall splintered peak towering into the sky;
Where old ruined castles are dreary and lone,
And seem as if built for a world that is gone;
There, up on the topmost tower, black as the night,
Sits the old monarch Eagle in full blaze of light:
He is king of these mountains : save him and his

mate, No Eagle dwells here; he is lonely and great! Look, look how he sits! with his keen glancing eye, And his proud head thrown back, looking into the

And hark to the rush of his out-spreading wings,
Like the coming of tempest, as upward he springs,
And now how the echoing mountains are stirred,
For that was the cry of the Eagle you heard!
Now, see how he soars! like a speck in the height
of the blue vaulted sky, and now lost in the light!
And now downward he wheels as a shaft from a

By a strong archer sent, to the valleys below!
And that is the bleat of a lamb of the flock;-
One moment, and he re-ascends to the rock.-
Yes, see how the conqueror is winging his way
And his terrible talons are holding their prey'

Great bird of the wilderness! lonely and proud,
With a spirit unbroken, a neck never bowed,
With an eye of defiance, august and severe,
Who scorn'st an inferior, and hatest a peer,
What is it that giveth thee beauty and worth?
Thon wast made for the desolate places of earth;
To mate with the tempest; to match with the sea ;
And God showed his power in the Lion and thee!

The Neuile looked up, the Nettle looked down, And graciously smiled on the simple clown: “ Thou knowest me well, Sir Clown," said he,

And 'tis meet that thou reverence one like me." Nothing at all the man replied, But he listed a scythe that was at his side, And he cut the Nettle up by the root, And trampled it under his heavy foot; And he saw where the Toad in its shadow lay, But he said not a word, and went his way.



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There was a Nettle both great and strong;
And the threads of his poison-flowers were longi
He rose up in strength and height also,
And he said, “ I'll be king of the plants below!"
It was a wood both drear and dank,
There grew the Nettle so broad and rank;
And an Owl sate up in an old ash tree
That was wasting away so silently ;
And a Raven was perched above his head,
And they both of them heard what the Nettle-king

And there was a toad that sate below,
Chewing his venom sedate and slow,
And he heard the words of the Nettle also.

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O LOVELY Bird of Paradise,

I'll go where thou dost go! Rise higher yet, and higher yet,

For a stormy wind doth blow. Now up above the tempest

We are sailing in the calm, Amid the golden sunshine,

And where the air is balm. See, far below us rolling,

The storm-cloud black and wide ; The fury of its raging

Is as an angry tide!
O gentle Bird of Paradise,

Thy happy lot I'll share;
And go where'er thou goest

On, through the sunny air! Whate'er the food thou eatest,

Bird, I will eat it too, And ere it reach the stormy earth,

Will drink with thee the dew' My father and my mother,

I'll leave them for thy sake; And where thy nest is builded,

My pleasant home will make! Is it woven of the sunshine,

And the fragrance of the spice; And cradled round with happiness?

Sweet Bird of Paradise ! O take me, take me to it,

Wherever it may be, For far into the sunshine

I'll fly away with thee!
Thus sung an Eastern poet,

A many years ago;
Now, of the Bird of Paradise

A truer tale we know.
We know the nest it buildeth

Within the forest green
And many and many a traveller

Its very eggs hath seen.
Yet, lovely Bird of Paradise,

They take no charm from thee; Thou art a creature of the earth,

And not a mystery!

The Nettle he throve, and the Nettle he

grew, And the strength of the earth around him he drew: There was a pale Stellaria meek, But as he grew strong, so she grew weak; There was a Campion, crimson-eyed, But as he grew up, the Campion died ; And the blue Veronica, shut from light, Faded away in a sickly white; For upon his leaves a dew there hung, That fell like a blight from a serpent's tongue, And there was not a flower about the spot, Herb-Robert, Harebell, nor Forget-me-not. Yet up grew the Nettle like water-sedge, Higher and higher above the hedge; The stuff of his leaves was strong and stout, And the points of his stinging-flowers stood out; And the Child that went in the wood to play, From the great King-nettle would shrink away! “ Now," says the King-nettle, “ there's none like me; “I am as great as a plant can be! “I have crushed each weak and tender root, “ With the mighty power of my kingly foot; “I have spread out my arms so strong and wide, “ And opened my way on every side; “ I have drawn from the earth its virtues fine, “To strengthen for me each poison-spine; " Both morn and night my leaves I've spread, “And upon the falling dews have fed, “Till I am as great as a forest-tree; “ The great wide world is the place for me !" Said the Nettle-king in his bravery. Just then up came a Woodman stout,

pick of the wood he was peering about.

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And when cold winter comes, and the water-plants


And his little brooks yield him no longer supply,

Down into his burrow he cozily creeps, Come into the meadows, this bright summer day;

And quietly through the long winter-time sleeps, The people are merrily making the hay:

Thus in summer his table by Nature is spread,
There's a blithe sound of pastoral life everywhere; And old mother Earth makes in winter his bed.
And the gay Lark is carolling up in the air.
And I know in the wood where the Columbine grows,
And the climbing Clematis and Pink Apple-rose;
And I know where the Buglos grow's blue as the sky,
And the deep crimson Vetch like a wild Vine runs

And I'll show you a sight you love better than these, Nay, only look what I have found !
A little field-stream overshadowed with trees,

A Sparrow's nest upon the ground;
Where the water is clear as a free mountain-rill, A Sparrow's nest, as you may see,
And now it runs rippling, and now it is still ;

Blown out of yonder old elm tree.
Where the crowned Butomus is gracefully growing,
Where the long purple spikes of the Loose-strife are

And what a medley thing it is !

I never saw a nest like this, And the rich, plumy crests of the Meadow-sweet seem

So neatly wove with decent care, Like foam which the current has left on the stream;

Of silvery moss and shining hair; There I 'll show you the brown Water-Rat at his

But put together, odds and ends, play

Picked up from enemies and friends : You will see nothing blither this blithe summer day;

See, bits of thread, and bits of rag,
A glad, innocent creature, for whom were ordained

Just like a little rubbish-bag!
The quiet of brooks, and the plants they contained,
But, hush! step as lightly as leaves in their fall, Here is a scrap of red and brown,
Man has wronged him, and he is in fear of us all. Like the old washer-woman's gown;
See! there he is sitting, the tree-roots among,

And here is muslin, pink and green,
And the Reed-sparrow by him is singing his song.

And bits of calico between; See how gravely he sits ; how demure and how still,

O never thinks the lady fair, Like an anchorite old at his mossy door-sill!

As she goes by with mincing air, Ah no, now his mood of sedateness is gone,

How the pert Sparrow over-head,
And his harlequin motions he 'll show us anon.

Has robbed her gown to make its bed!
Look! look now! how quickly the water he cleaves,
And again he is up ʼmong those arrow-head leaves; See, hair of dog and fur of cat,
See his little black head, and his eyes sparkling shine, And rovings of a worsted mat,
He has made up his mind on these dainties to dine, And shreds of silks, and many a feather,
For he has not a want which he cannot supply Compacted cunningly together.
In a water like this, with these water-plants nigh;
And he asketh no bounty from man; he can find

Well, here has hoarding been and hiving,
A plentiful table spread out his mind;

And not a little good contriving, For this little field-stream hath all good that he needs,

Before a home of peace and ease In the budding tree-roots and the clustering reeds,

Was fashioned out of things like these ! And the snowy-flowered arrow-head thick growing

Think, had these odds and ends been brought here:

To some wise man renowned for thought, Ah, pity it is man has taught him to fear!

Some man, of men a very gem,
But look at him now, how he sitteth afloat

Pray what could he have done with them?
On the broad Water-lily leaf, as in a boat.
See the antics he plays! how he dives in the stream, If we had said, “Here, sir, we bring
To and fro-now he chases that dancing sunbeam; You many a worthless little thing,
Now he stands for a moment, as if half-perplexed,

Just bits and scraps, so very small,
In his frolicsome heart, to know what to do next. That they have scarcely size at all,
Ha ! see now, that Dragon-fly sets him astir,

“ And out of these, you must contrive And he launches away like a brave mariner;

A dwelling large enough for five; See there, up the stream how he merrily rows,

Neat, warm, and snug; with comfort stored ; And the tall fragrant Calamus bows as he goes !

Where five small things may lodge and board." And now he is lost at the foot of the tree; "T is his home, and a snug little home it must be ! How would the man of learning vast

Have been astonished and aghast; And 't is thus that the Water-Rat liveth all day, And vowed that such a thing had been In these small pleasures wearing the summer away;

Ne'er heard of, thought of, much less seen. 14


But when the sun rose redly up

To shine for half a year, Round and round through the skies to sail,

Nor once to disappear,

Ah! man of learning, you are wrong;
Instinct is, more than wisdom, strong;
And He who made the Sparrow, taught
This skill beyond your reach of thought.
And here, in this uncostly nest,
These little creatures have been blest;
Nor have kings known in palaces,
Half their contentedness in this
Poor simple dwelling as it is!

Then on I went, with curious eyes

And saw where, like to man, The Beaver built his palaces;

And where the Ermine ran.

And came where sailed the lonely Swans

Wild on their native flood; And the shy Elk grazed up the mossy hills,

And the Wolf was in the wood.


And the frosty plains like diamonds shone,

And the iced rocks also,
Like emeralds and like beryls clear,

Till the soft south wind did blow.

And then upsprang the grass and flowers,

Sudden, and sweet, and bright; And the wild birds filled the solitude

With a fervour of delight.

But nothing was there that pleased me more

Than when, in autumn brown, I came in the depths of the pathless woods,

To the Grey Squirrel's town.

For the handsome Kingfisher, go not to the tree,
No bird of the field or the forest is he ;
In the dry riven rock he did never abide,
And not on the brown heath all barren and wide.
He lives where the fresh, sparkling waters are flow.

ing, Where the tall, heavy Typha and Loosestrife are

growing ; By the bright little streams that all joyfully run A while in the shadow, and then in the sun. He lives in a hole that is quite to his mind, With the green, mossy Hazel roots firinly entwined; Where the dark Alder-bough waves gracefully o'er, And the Sword-flag and Arrow-head grow at his door. There busily, busily, all the day long, He seeks for small fishes the shallows among; For he builds his nest of the pearly fish-bone, Deep, deep in the bank far retired, and alone. Then the brown Water-Rat from his burrow looks

out, To see what his neighbour Kingfisher 's about; And the green Dragon-fly, Nitting slowly away, Just pauses one moment to bid him good-day. O happy Kingfisher! what care should he know, By the clear, pleasant streams, as he skims to and fro, Now lost in the shadow, now bright in the sheen of the hot summer sun, glancing scarlet and green!

There were hundreds that in the hollow boles

Of the old, old trees did dwell,
And laid up their store hard by their door

of the sweet mast as it fell.

But soon the hungry wild Swine came,

And with thievish snout dug up Their buried treasure, and left them not

So much as an acorn-cup!
Then did they chatter in angry mood,

And one and all decree,
Into the forest of rich stone-pine

Over hill and dale to flee.

Over hill and dale, over hill and dale,

For many a league they went; Like a troop of undaunted travellers

Governed by one consent. But the Hawk and Eagle, and peering Owl,

Did dreadfully pursue ; And the farther the Grey Squirrels went,

The more their perils grew. When lo! to cut off their pilgrimage,

A broad stream lay in view.


SQUIRRELS. When in my youth I travelled

Throughout each north countrie,
Many a strange thing did I hear,

And many a strange thing see.
I sate with small men in their huts,

Built of the drifted snow;
No fire had we but the seal-oil lamp,

Nor other light did know.
For far and wide the plains were lost

For months in the winter dark;
And we heard the growl of the hungry Bear,

And the blue Fox's bark.

But then did each wondrous creature show

His cunning and bravery ; With a piece of the Pine-bark in his mouth,

Unto the stream came he,

And boldly his little bark he launched,

Without the least delay;
His bushy tail was his upright sail,
And he merrily steered away.

Never was there a lovelier sight

Than that Grey Squirrels' fleet;
And with anxious eyes I watched to see

What fortune it would meet.
Soon had they reached the rough mid-stream,

And ever and anon,
I grieved to behold some small bark wrecked,

And its little steersman gone.
But the main fleet stoutly held across ;

I saw them leap to shore;
They entered the woods with a cry of joy,
For their perilous march was o'er.

W. H.

Your wondrous works were formed as true;
For the All-Wise instructed you !
But man! how hath he pondered on,
Through the long term of ages gone ;
And many a cunning book hath writ,
Of learning deep, and subtle wit;
Hath compassed sea, hath compassed land,
Hath built up towers and temples grand,
Hath travelled far for hidden lore,
And known what was not known of yore,
Yet after all, though wise he be,
He hath no better skill than ye!



Up in the north if thou sail with me,
A wonderful creature I'll show to thee :
As gentle and mild as a Lamb at play,
Skipping about in the month of May;
Yet wise as any old learned sage
Who sits turning over a musty page!
Come down to this lonely river's bank,
See, stake and riven plank;
"T is a mighty work before thee stands
That would do no shame to human hands.
A well-built dam to stem the tide
of this northern river so strong and wide ;
Look! the woven bough of many a tree,
And a wall of fairest masonry ;
The waters cannot o'erpass this bound,
For a hundred keen eyes watch it round;
And the skill that raised can keep it good
Against the peril of storm and flood.
And yonder, the peaceable creatures dwell
Secure in their watery citadel!
They know no sorrow, have done no sin ;
Happy they live 'mong kith and kin -
As happy as living things can be,
Each in the midst of his family!
Ay, there they live, and the hunter wild
Seeing their social natures mild,
Seeing how they were kind and good,
Hath felt his stubborn soul subdued ;
And the very sight of their young at play
Hath put his hunter's heart away;
And a mood of pity hath o'er him crept,
As he thought of his own dear babes and wept.*
I know ye are but the Beavers small,
Living at peace in your own mud-wall;
I know that ye have no books to teach
The lore that lies within your reach.
But what? Five thousand years ago
Ye knew as much as now ye know;
And on the banks of streams that sprung
Forth when the earth itself was young,

WEB-SPINNER was a miser old,

Who came of low degree ;
His body was large, his legs were thin,

And he kept bad company ;
And his visage had the evil look

of a black felon grim ; To all the country he was known,

But none spoke well of him. His house was seven stories high,

In a corner of the street, And it always had a dirty look,

When other homes were neat; Up in his garret dark he lived,

And from the windows high
Looked out in the dusky evening

Upon the passers by.
Most people thought he lived alone;

Yet many have averred,
That dismal cries from out his house

Were often loudly heard ;
And that none living left his gate,

Although a few went in,
For he seized the very beggar old,

And stripped him to the skin;
And though he prayed for mercy,

Yet mercy ne'er was shown The miser cut his body up,

And picked him bone from bone.
Thus people said, and all believed

The dismal story true ;
As it was told to me, in truth,

I tell it so to you.
There was an ancient widow

One Madgy de la Moth,
A stranger to the man, or she

Had not gone there, in troth ;
But she was poor, and wandered out

At nightfall in the street,
To beg from rich men's tables

Dry scraps of broken meat.
So she knocked at old Web-Spinner's door,

With a modest tap, and low,
And down stairs came he speedily,

Like an arrow from a bow.
« Walk in, walls in, mother!” said he,
And shut the door behind

• A fact.

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