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,
Anigh this summer isle.

Come, rest thy waving pinions;
Alight thee down by me;
And tell me somewhat of the lore
Thou learnest on the sea!

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
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 wo!

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

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THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN.

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yes, the poor man's garden!

It is great joy to me,

This little, precious piece of ground
Before his door to see!

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,
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.

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 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,
For he bought the seed last year.

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 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.

Around the rich man's trellised bower

Gay, costly creepers run;

The poor man has his scarlet-beans
To screen him from the sun.

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