Said Wine to Water, So fine I be,
From fountains of marble I bubble with glee
At kaiser's or king's coronation,
To gladden the hearts of the nation.
Then answer'd Water, So fine I be,
From the heart of the rock I bubble up free,
By blossomy meadows I wind me,
And bless the poor travellers who find me.
Then spake Sir Wine, In a garden I stand,
Planted and pruned by delicate hand,
Then stowed in a cellar so shady,
A drink for my Lord and my Lady.
Then spake Dame Water, Tho' proud you be,
All that you have you've stolen from me;
Had I not run over your root, Sir,
Pray what had become of your fruit, Sir?
J. S. Stallybrass. (by per.)
THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER.
AN AMERICAN STORY.
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whip-poor-will,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps where heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
"This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
"The red men say that here she walked A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
"I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well,
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell."
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light:
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.
William Cullen Bryant.
TO A SLEEPING CHILD.
My fair-haired boy! as thus I gaze
Upon thy calm, untroubled sleep,
I feel the hopes of other days,-
The cherished hopes for words too deep,-
Unfold within my heart again,
Like flowers refreshed by summer rain!
The brightness of thy dark blue eye
Still peers its half-closed lids between,
Like glimpses of an April sky
Through clouds of snowy whiteness seen;
And dimpling smiles are lingering now
Round thy sweet mouth and sunny brow!
The spirit of some gentle dream
Hath kindled, sure, thy glowing cheek And left that half-shut eye the beam
Which seems in furtive light to speak
Of tameless glee, of antics wild
Of "nods and becks," my guileless child!
October's winds are chill and drear,
And howl our cottage home around,
Whilst emblems of the waning year
In ceaseless eddies strew the ground
I gaze upon the leafless tree
And deem it but a type of me.
But when I turn from Nature's waste,
From thoughts those saddening sights can bring,
And look on thee, I seem to taste
The freshness of a second spring
And feelings, long repressed, arise,
That whisper hopes of brighter skies.
THE PETTICHAP'S NEST.
Well! in my many walks I've rarely found
A place less likely for a bird to form
Its nest; close by the rut-galled waggon-road,
And on the almost bare foot-trodden ground,
With scarce a clump of grass to keep it warm;
Where not a thistle spreads its spears abroad,
Or prickly bush to shield it from harm's way;
And yet so snugly made, that none may spy
It out, save peradventure. You and I
Had surely passed it in our walk to-day,
Had chance not led us by it! Nay, e'en now,
Had not the old bird heard us trampling by,
And fluttered out, we had not seen it lie
Brown as the road-way side.
Built like an oven; through a little hole,
Scarcely admitting e'en two fingers in,
Hard to discern, the birds snug entrance win.
'Tis lined with feathers, warm as silken stole,
Softer than seats of down for painless ease,
And full of eggs scarce bigger e'en than peas.
Here's one most delicate, with spots as small
As dust, and of a faint and pinky red.
And they are left to many dangerous ways.
A green grasshopper's jump might break the shells;
Yet lowing oxen pass them morn and night,
And restless sheep around them hourly stray.
John Clare.
THE BEGGARMAN.
Around the fire one wintry night
The farmer's rosy children sat;
The faggot lent its blazing light,
And jokes went round, and harmless chat;
When, hark! a gentle hand they hear
Low tapping at the bolted door;
And thus, to gain their willing ear,
A feeble voice was heard t'implore:
"Cold blows the wind across the moor,
The sleet drives hissing in the wind,
Yon toilsome mountain lies before,
A dreary treeless waste behind.
My eyes are weak and dim with age,
No road, no path can I descry;
And these poor rags ill stand the rage
Of such a keen, inclement sky.
So faint I am, these tott'ring feet
No more my palsied frame can bear;
My freezing heart forgets to beat,
And drifting snows my tomb prepare.
Open your hospitable door,
And shield me from the biting blast;
Cold, cold it blows across the moor,
The dreary moor that I have pass'd."
With hasty step the farmer ran—
And close beside the fire they place
The poor half-frozen beggarman,
With shaking limbs and blue pale facc.
The little children flocking came,
And chafed his frozen hands in theirs;
And, busily, the good old dame
A comfortable meal prepares.
Their kindness cheer'd his drooping soul,
And slowly down his wrinkled cheek
The big round tears were seen to roll,
Which told the thanks he could not speak.
The children then began to sigh,
And all their merry chat was o'er;
And yet they felt, they knew not why,
More glad than they had done before.
Now o'er the drowsy earth still night prevails.
Calm sleep the mountain tops and shady vales,
The rugged cliffs and hollow glens;
The wild beasts slumber in their dens;
The cattle on the hill. Deep in the sea
The countless finny race and monster brood
Tranquil repose. Even the busy bee
Forgets her daily toil. The silent wood
No more with noisy hum of insect rings;
And all the feather'd tribes, by gentle sleep subdued,
Roost in the glade and hang their drooping wings.
Colonel Wm. Mure of Caldwell.
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