BIRDS AND FLOWERS AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. THE STORMY PETEREL. O STORMY, Stormy Peterel, Come rest thee, bird, awhile; There is no storm, believe me, Come, rest thy waving pinions; Dost hear beneath the ocean The gathering tempest form? See'st thou afar the little cloud That grows into the storm? How is it in the billowy depths Doth sea-weed heave and swell? And is a sound of coming wo 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 And scream for joy of every sound 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 wo! Yet would I thou could'st tell me half There was a ship went down last night, - The night-black storm was over her, In all her strength she perished, 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 1 THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN. Ан yes, the poor man's garden! It is great joy to me, This little, precious piece of ground His gardeners young and old; He never takes a spade in hand, Nor worketh in the mould. It is not with the poor man so, 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, The rich man in his garden walks, One moment he beholds his flowers, He eateth of his rarest fruits 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 convolulus 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, And though unto the rich man The cost of flowers is naught, 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 how his merry little ones 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 apple and his damson tree, A happy man he thinks himself, To have some fruit for the children, Around the rich man's trellised bower Gay, costly creepers run; The poor man has his scarlet-beans 8 |