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THE REINDEER.

REINDEER, not in fields like ours
Full of grass and bright with flowers;
Not in pasture-dales where glide
Never-frozen rivers wide;

Not on hills where verdure bright
Clothes them to the topmost height,
Hast thou dwelling; nor dost thou
Feed beneath the orange-bough;
'Nor doth olive, nor doth vine

Bud or bloom in land of thine:
Thou wast made to fend and fare
In a region bleak and bare;
In a dreary land of snow

Where green weeds can scarcely grow!
Where the skies are grey and drear;
Where 't is night for half the year;
Reindeer, where, unless for thee,
Human dweller could not be.

When thou wast at first designed

By the great Creative Mind-
With thy patience and thy speed;
With thy aid for human need;
With thy gentleness; thy might;
With thy simple appetite;
With thy foot so framed to go
Over frozen wastes of snow,
Thou wast made for sterner skies
Than horizoned Paradise.

Thou for frozen lands wast meant,
Ere the winter's frost was sent;
And in love he sped thee forth
To thy home, the frozen north,
Where he bade the rocks produce
Bitter lichens for thy use.

What the camel is, thou art,
Strong of frame, and strong in heart!
Peaceful; steadfast to fulfil;
Serving man with right good-will;
Serving long, and serving hard;
Asking but a scant reward;
Of the snow a short repast,
Or the mosses cropped in haste;
Then away! with all thy strength,
Speeding him the country's length,
Speeding onward, like the wind,
With the sliding sledge behind.
What the camel is, thou art-
Doing well thy needful part;
Through the burning sand he
Thou upon the upland snows;
Gifted each alike, yet meant
For lands and labours different!

goes,

Meek Reindeer, of wondrous worth; Treasure of the desert north, Which of thy good aid bereft, Ten times desert must be left! Flocks and herds in other lands, And the labour of men's hands;

Coined gold and silver fine,
And the riches of the mine,
These, elsewhere, as wealth are known,
Here, 't is thou art wealth alone!

THE IVY-BUSH.

AFAR in the woods of Winter-burn,
Beyond the slopes of feathery fern;
Beyond the lake, and beyond the fen,
Down in a wild and sylvan glen,
In the very heart of Winter-burn wood:
Last summer an ivy-bush there stood,
As strong as an oak, as thick as a yew,
This ivy-bush in the forest grew:
Let us go down this day and see
If in Winter-burn still grows this tree.

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Now we are here:- the words I spoke
Were not, ye see, an idle joke!
Stem, branch, and root, what think
Of this ivy-bush, so broad and tall?
Many and many a year I wis,
The tree has throve ere it grew to this'
Many a year has tried its speed,
Since this old bush was an ivy-seed;

And the woodman's children that were then,
Long years ago were ancient men,
And now no more on earth are seen;
But the ivy-bush is hale and green,
And ere it sinks in slow decay,

Many years to come will have passed away.

All round about 'mong its twisting boughs
There's many an owl doth snugly house,
Warm feathered o'er, yet none can see
How they winking sit in the ivy-tree,
For the leaves are thick as they can be.
But at fall of night, when the stars come out,
The old owls begin to move about;
And the ivy-bush, like a busy hive,
Within its leaves is all alive;

And were you here you would declare,
That the very bush began to stare,
For in the dusk of leaves dark-green,
The owl-eyes look out fixed and keen;
North and south, and round about,
East and west the eyes look out.

And anon is heard afar and nigh

How the ivy-bush sends forth a cry,

A cry so long, a cry so wild,

That it wakes, almost, the cradled child;

And the coach that comes with its peopled load,

Man, woman and babe, up the hilly road,

They hear in amaze the sudden hoot
That shakes the old bush, branch and root,
And the caped-up coachman, then says he,
"In Winter-burn there grows a tree,
And in this tree more owls abide
Than in all Winter-burn beside;
And every night as we climb this brow,
The owls hoot out as they're hooting now!"

And when they hoot and when they shout,

'Tis woe to the wood-mice all about,
And when the fires of their eyes appear,
The weak little birds they quake for fear,
For they know that the owls, with a fierce delight,
Riot and feast, like lords, at night.

Oh bush, of ivy-trees the prime,
Men find thee out at winter time,

From the distant town through frost and snow
To the woods of Winter-burn they go;
And if care were killed by an ivy-bough,
What a killer of care, old tree, wert thou!
And high in the hall, with laughter merry,
They hang thy twigs with their powdered berry;
And the red-gemmed holly they mix also,
With the spectral branches of misseltoe.
Rare old tree! and the cottage small
Is decked as well as the baron's hall,
For the children's hands are busy and fain
To dress up the little window-pane,
And set in the chinks of the roof-tree wood
The holly and ivy, green and good.

"Twere well for us, thou rare old tree,
Could we gladden the human heart like thee;
Like thee and the holly, that thus make gay
The lowliest cot for a winter's day!

MORNING THOUGHTS.

THE summer sun is shining
Upon a world so bright!

The dew upon each grassy blade;
The golden light, the depth of shade,
All seem as they were only made
To minister delight.

From giant trees, strong branched,
And all their veinèd leaves;
From little birds that madly sing;
From insects fluttering on the wing;
Ay, from the very meanest thing
My spirit joy receives.

I think of angel voices

When the birds' songs I hear;
Of that celestial city, bright
With jacinth, gold, and chrysolite,
When, with its blazing pomp of light,
The morning doth appear!

I think of that great River

That from the Throne flows free; Of weary pilgrims on its brink, Who, thirsting, have come down to drink; Of that unfailing Stream I think, When earthly streams I see!

I think of pain and dying,

As that which is but nought,

When glorious morning, warm and bright,
With all its voices of delight,
From the chill darkness of the night,
Like a new life, is brought.

I think of human sorrow

But as of clouds that brood Upon the bosom of the day, And the next moment pass away; And with a trusting heart I say Thank God, all things are good!

THE PHEASANT.

THE stock-dove builds in the old oak wood,
The rook in the elm-tree rears his brood;
The owl in a ruin doth hoot and stare;
The mavis and merle build everywhere;
But not for these will we go to-day,
"Tis the pheasant that lures us hence away;
The beautiful pheasant that loves to be
Where the young, green birches are waving free.

Away to the woods with the silvery rind,
And the emerald tresses afloat on the wind!
For 'tis joy to go to those sylvan bowers
When summer is rich with leaves and flowers;
And to see, 'mid the growth of all lovely things,
The joyous pheasant unfold his wings,
And then cower down, as if to screen
His gorgeous purple, gold, and green!

The streams run on in music low,
"T will be joy by their flowery banks to go;
"T will be joy to come to the calamus beds,
Where a broken root such odour sheds;
And to see how the water-sedge uplifts
Its spires and crowns the summer's gifts;
To see the loosestrife's purple spear,

And the wind through the waving reeds to hear.

Then on through hazelly lanes away

To the light green fields all clear of hay,
Where along the thick hedge-side we greet,
Tall purple vetch and meadow-sweet;
Past old farm-house and water-mill,

Where the great colt's-foot grows wild at will;
Where the water-rat swins calm and cool,

And pike bask in the deep mill-pool.

So on and away to the mossy moor,
Stretching on for many a mile before,
A far-seen wild, where all around
Some rare and beautiful thing is found;
Green mosses many, and sundew red,
And the cotton-rush with its plumy head;
The spicy sweet-gale loved so well,
And golden wastes of the asphodel!

Yet on and on, o'er the springy moss, -
We have yet the bog-rush bed to cross;
And then a-nigh, all shimmering green
To the sunny breeze, are the birch-woods seen —
Than the green birch-wood a lovelier spot
In the realms of fairy-land was not!
And the pheasant is there all life, all grace.
The lord of this verdurous dwelling-place.

Oh! beautiful bird, in thy stately pride,
Thou wast made in a waste of flowers to hide,
And to fling to the sun the glorious hues
Of thy rainbow-gold, thy green and blues!
Yes, beautiful pheasant, the birch-wood bowers,
Rich many-formed leaves, bright-tinted flowers,
Broad masses of shade, and the sunshine free,
In thy gorgeous beauty are meet for thee!

HARVEST-FIELD FLOWERS. COME down into the harvest-fields

This autumn morn with me; For in the pleasant autumn-fields

There's much to hear and see; On yellow slopes of waving corn

The autumn sun shines clearly; And 't is joy to walk, on days like this, Among the bearded barley.

Within the sunny harvest-fields

We'll gather flowers enow; The poppy red, the marigold,

The bugles brightly blue; We'll gather the white convolvulus

That opes in the morning early; With a cluster of nuts, an ear of wheat, And an ear of the bearded barley. Bright over the golden fields of corn

Doth shine the autumn sky; So let's be merry while we may,

For time goes hurrying by. They took down the sickle from the wall

When morning dews shone pearly; And the mower whets the ringing scythe To cut the bearded barley.

Come then into the harvest-fields;
The robin sings his song;
The corn stands yellow on the hills,

And autumn stays not long.

They'll carry the sheaves of corn away;
They carried to-day so early,
Along the lanes, with a rustling sound,
Their loads of the bearded barley."

THE SEA-GULL.

OH the white sea-gull, the wild sea-gull,
A joyful bird is he,

As he lies like a cradled thing at rest,
In the arms of a sunny sea!
The little waves rock to and fro,

And the white gull lies asleep,

As the fisher's bark, with breeze and tide,
Goes merrily over the deep.
The ship, with her fair sails set, goes by,
And her people stand to note,
How the sea-gull sits on the rocking waves
As still as an anchored boat.

The sea is fresh, the sea is fair,

And the sky calm overhead, And the sea-gull lies on the deep, deep sea, Like a king in his royal bed! Oh the white sea-gull, the bold sea-gull A joyful bird is he,

Sitting, like a king, in calm repose

On the breast of the heaving sea!
The waves leap up, the wild wind blows,
And the gulls together crowd,
And wheel about, and madly scream

To the sea that is roaring loud ;-
And let the sea roar ever so loud,
And the winds pipe ever so high,
With a wilder joy the bold sea-gull,
Sendeth forth a wilder cry,-
For the sea-gull he is a daring bird,

-

And he loves with the storm to sail;
To ride in the strength of the billowy sea;
And to breast the driving gale!
The little boat she is tossed about,

Like a sea-weed, to and fro;

The tall ship reels like a drunken man,

As the gusty tempests blow.

But the sea-gull laughs at the pride of man,
And sails in a wild delight

On the torn-up breast of the night-black sea,
Like a foam-cloud, calm and white.
The waves may rage and the winds may roar,
But he fears not wreck nor need,

For he rides the sea, in its stormy strength,
As a strong man rides his steed!

Oh the white sea-gull, the bold sea-gull!
He makes on the shore his nest,
And he tries what the inland fields may be,
But he loveth the sea the best!
And away from land, a thousand leagues
He goes 'mid surging foam;

What matter to him is land or shore,

For the sea is his truest home!

And away to the north 'mong ice-rocks stern,
And among the frozen snow,

To a sea that is lone and desolate,

Will the wanton sea-gull go.

For he careth not for the winter wild,

Nor those desert-regions chill;

In the midst of the cold, as on calm, blue seas,

The sea-gull hath its will!

And the dead whale lies on the northern shores,
And the seal, and the sea-horse grim,
And the death of the great sea-creature makes
A full, merry feast for him!
Oh the wild sea-gull, the bold sea-gull!

As he screams in his wheeling flight:
As he sits on the waves in storm or calm
All cometh to him aright!

All cometh to him as he liketh best;
Nor any his will gainsay;

And he rides on the waves like a bold, young king,
That was crowned but yesterday!

The Gull, notwithstanding the gormandizing and rather disgusting character given of it by Bewick,

figures beautifully in his inimitable wood-cuts; giving the very spirit of wildness and freshness to his seaside sketches.

The Gull may occasionally be found far inland, domesticated in old-fashioned gardens, where it is an indulged and amusing habitant, feeding on slugs and worms and becoming thus a useful assistant to the gardener. In this state it seems entirely to throw off its wild native character, and assumes a sort of mockheroic style, which is often quite ludicrous. We have seen one strutting about the straight alleys of such a garden, with the most formal, yet conscious air imaginable, glancing first to one side, then to the other, evidently aware of your notice, yet pretending to be busied about his own concerns. It was impossible to conceive that this bird, walking "in his dignified way," upon his two stiff little legs, and so full of self-importance, had ever been a free, wild, winged creature, wheeling about and screaming in the storm, or riding gracefully upon the sunshiny waters. His nature had undergone a land-change; he was transformed into the patron of poodles, and the conde scending companion of an old black cat. With these creatures, belonging to the same place, he was on very friendly terms, maintaining, nevertheless, an air of superiority over them, which they permitted, either out of pure good-nature, or because their simplicity was imposed upon. They were all frequently fed from the same plate, but the quadrupeds never presumed to put in their noses till the Gull was satisfied, and to his credit it may be told, that he was not insatiable, although a reasonably voracious bird on ordinary occasions.

We saw last summer, also, a Gull well known to northern tourists, which for twenty years has inhabited one of the inner green-courts at Alnwick Castle, and has outlived two or three companions. It is an interesting bird, of a venerable appearance; but, as it has been described in books, more need not be said of it.

In one of the towers of this same Castle, also, we were shown a pair of perfect bird-skeletons, under a glass shade, the history of which is mysterious. They are the skeletons of a pair of jackdaws, which had built in one of the upper towers of the Castle, and had been found in their present state, apparently nestled together. From the account given us by the porter, an intelligent old man, they appeared not to have been discovered in any confined place, where they might have died from starvation, but by their own tower, on the open roof, as if they had been death-stricken side by side.

SUMMER WOODS.

COME ye into the summer-woods;

There entereth no annoy;

All greenly wave the chestnut leaves, And the earth is full of joy.

I cannot tell you half the sights
Of beauty you may see,
The bursts of golden sunshine,

And many a shady tree.
There, lightly swung, in bowery glades,
The honey-suckles twine;
There blooms the rose-red campion,

And the dark-blue columbine.

There grows the four-leaved plant "true love,"
In some dusk woodland spot;

There grows the enchanter's night-shade,
And the wood forget-me-not.

And many a merry bird is there,

Unscared by lawless men;
The blue-winged jay, the wood-pecker,
And the golden-crested wren.

Come down and ye shall see them all,
The timid and the bold;

For their sweet life of pleasantness,
It is not to be told.
And far within that summer-wood,

Among the leaves so green,
There flows a little gurgling brook,
The brightest e'er was seen.
There come the little gentle birds,

Without a fear of ill;
Down to the murmuring water's edge,
And freely drink their fill!
And dash about and splash about,

The merry little things;
And look askance with bright black eyes,
And flirt their dripping wings.
I've seen the freakish squirrel drop

Down from their leafy tree,
The little squirrels with the old,—
Great joy it was to me!
And down unto the running brook,
I've seen them nimbly go;
And the bright water seemed to speak
A welcome kind and low.
The nodding plants they bowed their heads,
As if, in heartsome cheer,
They spake unto those little things,

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'Tis merry living here!"

Oh, how my heart ran o'er with joy!
I saw that all was good,
And how we might glean up delight
All round us, if we would!

And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there,
Beneath the old wood-shade,

And all day long has work to do,

Nor is, of aught, afraid.

The green shoots grow above their heads And roots so fresh and fine,

Beneath their feet, nor is there strife

'Mong them for mine and thine

There is enough for every one,

And they lovingly agree; We might learn a lesson, all of us, Beneath the green-wood tree!

THE MANDRAKE.

THERE once was a garden grand and old,
Its stately walks were trodden by few;
And there, in its driest and deepest mould,
The dark-green, poisonous mandrake grew.
That garden's lord was a learned man, —

It is of an ancient time we tell,—
He was grim and stern, with a visage wan,
And had books which only he could spell.
He had been a monk in his younger days,
They said, and travelled by land and sea,
And now, in his old, ancestral place,

He was come to study in privacy.
A garden it was both large and lone,
And in it was temple, cave and mound;
The trees were with ivy overgrown,

And the depth of its lake no line had found.

Some said that the springs of the lake lay deep Under the fierce volcano's root;

For the water would oft-times curl and leap, When the summer air was calm and mute.

And all along o'er its margin dank

Hung massy branches of evergreen; And among the pebbles upon the bank The playful water-snakes were seen. And yew-trees old, in the alleys dim,

Were cut into dragon-shapes of dread; And in midst of shadow, grotesque and grim, Stood goat-limbed statues of sullen lead. The garden-beds they were long, and all

With a tangle of flowers were overgrown; And each was screened with an ancient wall, Or parapet low of mossy stone. And from every crevice and broken ledge The harebell blue and the wall-flower sprung; And from the wall, to the water's edge,

Wild masses of tendrilled creepers hung; For there was a moat outside where slept Deep waters with slimy moss grown o'er, And a wall and a tower securely kept

By a ban-dog fierce at a grated door.

This garden's lord was a scholar wise,

A scholar wise, with a learned look; He studied by night the starry skies,

And all day long some ancient book. There were lords hard by who lived by spoil, But he did the men of war eschew; There were lowly serfs who tilled the soil, But with toiling serfs he had nought to do.

But now and then might with him be seen,
Two other old men with look profound,
Who peered 'mong the leaves of the mandrake green
And lightened with care the soil around.

For the king was sick and of help had need;
Or he had a foe whom art must quell,
So he sent to the learned man with speed
To gather for him a mandrake-spell.

And at night when the moon was at the full,
When the air was still and the stars were out,
Came the three the mandrake root to pull,
With the help of the ban-dog fierce and stout.

Oh, the mandrake-root! and they listened all three,
For awful sounds, and they spoke no word,
And when the owl screeched from the hollow tree,
They said 'twas the mandrake's groan they heard
And words they muttered, but what none knew,
With motion slow of hand and foot;
Then into the cave the three withdrew,

And carried with them the mandrake root.

They all were scholars of high degree,

So they took the root of the mandrake fell, And cut it and carved it hideously,

And muttered it into a charmed spell.

Then who had been there, by dawn of day,

Might have seen the two from the grated door Speed forth; and as sure as they went away, The charmed mandrake root they bore.

And the old lord up in his chamber sat,

Blessing himself, sedate and mute, That he thus could gift the wise and great With more than gold - the mandrake root.

The reverence attached to the mandrake may be classed among the very oldest of superstitions, for the Hebrews of the patriarchial ages regarded it as a plant of potent influence. The Greeks, who held it in the same estimation, called it after Circe, their cel ebrated witch, and also after Atropos, the eldest of the three Fates. The Romans adopted the same opinions respecting it, and Pliny relates the ceremonies which were used in obtaining the root.

In the middle ages, when the traditional superstitions of the ancients were grafted upon the popular ignorance, the mandrake was a powerful engine in the hands of the crafty.

It was believed that when the mandrake was taken from the earth, it uttered a dreadful shriek; and that any human being who was presumptuous enough to remove it, was suddenly struck dead. Dogs, therefore, were used for this purpose. The earth was carefully lightened, and the plant fastened to the animal's tail; he was then made to draw it forth, and pay whatever penalty the demon of the plant thought || fit to impose upon the disturber of his rest. The pretenders to medical skill in those days made great profit by the little hideous images which they fashioned out of the mandrake root, and sold as charms egasi

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