O, silent Mere! about whose marges spring
Thick bulrushes, to hide the reed-bird's nest;
Where the shy ousel dips her glossy wing,
And, balanc'd in the water, takes her rest:
While, under bending leaves, all gem-array'd,
Bright dragon-flies lie panting in the shade.
Warm, stilly place, the sun-dew loves thee well,
And the green sward comes creeping to thy brink;
And poor-man's-weather-glass, and pimpernel,
Lean down to thee their perfum'd heads to drink;
And heavy with the weight of bees doth bend
White clover, and beneath thy wave descend.
Where does the scent of bean-fields float so wide,
At intervals returning on the air,
As over mead and fen to thy lone side,
To lose itself among thy zephyrs rare,
With scents from hawthorn copse, and new-cut hay,
And blooming orchards lying far away?
Thou hast thy sabbaths, when a deeper calm
Descends upon thee, quiet Mere! and then
The sound of ringing bells, thy peace to charm,
From grey church towers comes far across the fen:
And the light sigh, where grass and waters meet,
Seems thy meek welcome to their visits sweet.
THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM.
A Nightingale, that all day long,
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark.
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
Mere, a pool or small lake.
"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
"As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same Power divine,
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night."
The songster heard this short oration.
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
THE JACKDAW.
There is a bird, who by his coat,
And by the hoarseness of his note,
Might be supposed a crow;
A great frequenter of the church
Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch
And dormitory too.
Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns, and turns, to indicate
From what point blows the weather,
Look up your brains begin to swim,
"Tis in the clouds-that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,
And thence securely sees
The bustle and the raree-show,
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.
You think, no doubt, he sits and muscs
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all
He sees that this great roundabout,
The world with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs and its businesses,
Is no concern at all of his,
And says-what says he?-Caw.
Oh, ye spring-flowers! oh, ye early friends!
Where are ye, one and all?
The sun still shines, and summer rain descends,
They call forth flowers, but 'tis not ye they call.
On the mountains,
By the fountains,
In the woodlands dim and grey,
Flowers are springing, ever springing,
But the spring-flowers, where are they?
Then, oh, ye spring-flowers! oh, ye early friends!
Where are ye, I would know?
When the sun shines, when summer rain descends,
Why still blow flowers, but 'tis not ye that blow!
On the mountains,
In the woodlands, dim and grey,
Flowers are springing, ever springing,
But the spring-flowers, where are they?
Hotter and hotter glows the summer sun
But you it cannot wake,
Myriads of flowers like armies marching on,
Blaze on the hills, and glitter in the brake.
On the mountains,
Round the fountains,
In the woodlands, dim and grey,
Flowers are springing, ever springing,
But the spring-flowers, where are they?
THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.
Now ponder well, you parents dear,
These words which I shall write;
A doleful story you shall hear,
In time brought forth to light:
A gentleman of good account
In Norfolk dwelt of late,
Who did in honour far surmount
Most men of his estate.
Sore sick he was, and like to die,
No help his life could save;
His wife by him as sick did lie,
And both possess'd one grave.
No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kind;
In love they lived, in love they died,
And left two babes behind:-
The one a fine and pretty boy,
Not passing three years old;
The other a girl, more young than he,
And framed in beauty's mould.
The father left his little son,
As plainly doth appear,
When he to perfect age should come,
Three hundred pounds a year.
And to his little daughter Jane
Five hundred pounds in gold,
To be paid down on marriage day,
Which might not be controlled;
But if the children chance to die,
Ere they to age should come,
Their uncle should possess their wealth-
For so the will did run.
"Now, brother," said the dying man,
"Look to my children dear:
Be good unto my boy and girl,
No friends else have they here;
"And if you keep them carefully,
Then God will you reward;
But if you otherwise should deal,
God will your deeds regard."
"God never prosper me nor mine,
Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children dear,
When you are in the grave."
The parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes,
And brings them straight unto his house,
Where much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes
A twelvemonth and a day,
When, for their wealth he did devise
To make them both away.
He bargained with two ruffians strong,
Which were of furious mood,
That they should take these children young,
And slay them in a wood.
Away then went these pretty babes,
Rejoicing at that tide,
Rejoicing with a merry mind,
They should on cock-horse ride.
They prate and prattle pleasantly,
As they rode on their way,
To those that should their murderers bc,
And work their lives' decay;
So that the pretty speech they had
Made murder's heart relent,
And they that undertook the deed
Full sore did now repent.
Yet one of them, more hard of heart,
Did vow to do his charge,
Because the wretch that hired him
Had paid him very large.
He took the children by the hand,
Tears standing in their eye,
And bade them straightway follow him,
And look they did not cry.
And two long miles he led them on,
While they for bread complain;
"Stay here," quoth he, "I'll bring you some, When I come back again."
These pretty babes, with hand in hand,
Went wandering up and down,
But never more could see the man
Approaching from the town.
Their pretty lips with blackberries
Were all besmeared and dyed,
And when they saw the darksome night,
They sat them down and cried.
Thus wandered these poor innocents,
Till death did end their grief;
In one another's arms they died,
For want of due relief.
No burial this pretty pair
Of any man receives,
Till Robin Redbreast carefully
Did cover them with leaves.
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