Part 2 — BIRDS AND FLOWERS AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS.

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 woe 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 woe! 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!

Ah yes, the poor man’s garden! It is great joy to me, This little, precious piece of ground Before his door to see! The rich man has his gardeners,— 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 nought, 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 trellissed bower Gay, costly creepers run; The poor man has his scarlet-beans To screen him from the sun. And there before the little bench, O’ershadowed by the bower, Grow southern-wood and lemon-thyme, Sweet-pea and gilliflower; And pinks and clove-carnations, Rich-scented side by side; And at each end a holly-hock, With an edge of London-pride. And here comes the old grandmother, When her day’s work is done; And here they bring the sickly babe To cheer it in the sun. And here, on Sabbath-mornings, The good man comes to get His Sunday nosegay, moss-rose bud, White pink, and mignonette. And here, on Sabbath-evenings, Until the stars are out, With a little one in either hand, He walketh all about. For though his garden-plot is small, Him doth it satisfy; For there’s no inch of all his ground That does not fill his eye. It is not with the rich man thus; For though his grounds are wide, He looks beyond, and yet beyond, With soul unsatisfied. Yes! in the poor man’s garden grow Far more than herbs and flowers;— Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, And joy for weary hours.

Sing for the Oak-Tree, The monarch of the wood; Sing for the Oak-Tree, That groweth green and good; That groweth broad and branching Within the forest shade; That groweth now, and yet shall grow When we are lowly laid! The Oak-Tree was an acorn once, And fell upon the earth; And sun and showers nourished it, And gave the Oak-Tree birth. The little sprouting Oak-Tree! Two leaves it had at first, Till sun and showers had nourished it, Then out the branches burst. The little sapling Oak-Tree! Its root was like a thread, Till the kindly earth had nourished it, Then out it freely spread: On this side and on that side It grappled with the ground; And in the ancient, rifted rock Its firmest footing found. The winds came, and the rain fell; The gusty tempest blew; All, all were friends to the Oak-Tree, And stronger yet it grew. The boy that saw the acorn fall, He feeble grew and grey; But the Oak was still a thriving tree, And strengthened every day! Four centuries grows the Oak-Tree Nor doth its verdue fail; Its heart is like the iron-wood, Its bark like plated mail. Now, cut us down the Oak-Tree, The monarch of the wood; And of its timbers stout and strong We’ll build a vessel good! The Oak-Tree of the forest Both east and west shall fly; And the blessings of a thousand lands Upon our ship shall lie! For she shall not be a man-of-war, Nor a pirate shall she be:— But a noble, Christian merchant-ship To sail upon the sea. Then sing for the Oak-Tree, The monarch of the wood; Sing for the Oak-Tree, That groweth green and good; That groweth broad and branching Within the forest shade; That groweth now, and yet shall grow, When we are lowly laid!

Poll’s Mistress. I’ve heard of imp, I’ve heard of sprite; Of fays and fairies of the night; Of that renowned fiend Hobgoblin, Running, racing, jumping, hobbling; Of Puck, brimful of fun; also Of roguish Robin Goodfellow. I’ve seen a hearth where, as is told, Came Hobthrush in the days of old, To make the butter, mend the linen, And keep the housewife’s wheel a-spinning. I’ve heard of pigmies, pixies, lares, Shoirim, gemedim, and fairies:— And, Parrot, on my honest word, I hardly think thou art a bird;— Thou art so pixy, quaint and queer; Thou art not canny, Poll, I fear! Look at that impish leer of thine! List to thy scream, thy shout, thy whine, And none will doubt but thou must be A creature of the faery. Or tell me, Poll, art thou not kin To Jack o’ lanthern? Come, begin! Answer me, Poll, was’t ’mong the fairies Thou learnt thy many strange vagaries? Speak, pretty Poll! Poll. Well, I don’t care if I tell you all. You’ve got some company, I see; a short gentleman and a tall; Many ladies, too, altogether two or three dozen, I should not wonder if they are some of you uncles and cousins! Pray am I not a very fine bird, Green, and yellow, and scarlet?— Upon my word! That man has a coat on like our Captain! Captain. Poll, how do you do, my dear? You look well; it’s fine living here! Poll. Ha, Captain, how do you do?—Captain, your health, I say; Captain, I’ll have the pleasure of drinking your health to-day! ha! ha! ha! I’m very glad to see you!—You remember, perhaps, That wood in Carolina, the guns and all the traps;— To be sure you do!—Ladies, I’m a Carolina bird,— Some come from the East Indies, from the Cape too, I have heard; But I’m of Carolina—to the Big-bone lick I’ve been,— Now in that country there is something to be seen! Our Captain knows that! Ay, Captain, I say, Do you remember crossing the Cedar Swamp one particular day, When I got out of your pocket and flew away? Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! How it makes me laugh! You’d a pretty chase after me!—ha! ha! a pretty chase! And I sat in the hickory trees, laughing in your face! Ha! ha! ha! how I did laugh. What cypress-berries, cockel-burs, and beach-nuts grew there! You many look all this country over, and find none anywhere. And what fun it was—me, and a thousand beside, To fly in the merry sunshine through those forests wide, And build our nests—Oh, what nests we had?— Did you ever see one of our nests—Captain? Eh, my lad? Captain. I’ve heard of nests of cinnamon, With the great Phœnix set thereon; And swallows’ nests, so rich and sweet Of which the Chinese people eat; But of your nests I never heard, What kind are they, I pray thee, bird? Parrot. Nests! ha! ha! ha! what sort of nests should they be? You may fancy if you please, but you’ll never know from me! I never blab, not I! What sort of nest is built? Ha! ha! ha! with sheets and blankets and a fine Marseilles quilt! ha! ha! ha! Put it down in your little book,—a four-post bed, I say, With damask moreen hangings, and made every day! ha! ha! ha! Oh, how it makes me laugh! ha! ha! ha! I shall split my sides with laughing some of these days! ha! ha! ha! Captain. Come, now, you silly prate-a-pace Tell us about the Big-bone place, Where our acquaintance first began; And of those swamps, untrode by man, Where you came, impudent and merry, For cockle-burr and hackle-berry, Parrot. Of the Big-bone lick, did you say?—Ay, we used to go there, A Parrot’s very fond of salt! I really declare I’ve seen ten thousand of us there altogether,— A beautiful sight it was, in fine summer weather, Like a grand velvet carpet, of orange, green and yellow, Covering the ground! Ah, Captain! my good fellow, I had reason to rue the day you came there with your gun! I would laugh if I could, but to me it was no fun—heigh-ho! No fun at all, Captain, heigh-ho! Captain. Nay, Poll, cheer up, you’re better here Than at the Big-bone lick, my dear! Parrot. Captain, how you talk! we Parrots love each other— There you shot dozens of us,—my father and my mother,— I shall not forget it in a hurry,—what wailing and crying,— What flying round and round there was! What comforting the dying! You, yourself, laid down your gun,—overcome by the sight, And said you would not shoot again, at least that night! Heigh-ho! I am just ready to cry! And I think I shall cry before I have done! (She cries like a child.) There, now, I am better! but my throat is quite hot; Can’t I have a glass of water?—(She coughs.) Bless me, what a cold I’ve got! Do, shut that window, Jenny, or we shall all die of cold; And mend the fire, can’t you, as you already have been told! And let’s have a cup of tea, for I’m just tired to death. What a shocking cold it is! and I’m so short of breath!—(She coughs again.) (She speaks in another voice.) Tea’s ready, if you please. Ready is it? With the water in the pot? Yes, ma’am: Well, then, I’ll go and have my tea, while the muffin’s hot!

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 veined 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!

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 dew 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.

Come ye into the summer-woods; There entereth no annoy; All greenly wave the chesnut 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 comes 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, “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!

“Pee! pee! pee!” says the merry Pee-Bird; And as soon as the children hear it, “The Cuckoo’s a-coming,” they say, “for I heard, Up in his tree the merry Pee-Bird, And he’ll come in three days, or near it!” The days go on, one, two, three; And the little bird singeth “pee! pee! pee!” Then on the morrow, ’tis very true, They hear the note of the old Cuckoo; Up in the elm-tree, through the day, Just as in gone years, shouting away; “Cuckoo,” the Cuckoo doth cry, And the little boys mock him as they go by. The wood-pecker laughs to hear the strain, And says “the old fellow is come back again; He sitteth again on the very same tree, And he talks of himself again!—he! he! he!” The stock-doves together begin to coo When they hear the voice of the old cuckoo; “Ho! ho!” say they, “he did not find Those far-away countries quite to his mind, So he’s come again to see what he can do With sucking small birds’ eggs, coo-coo!” The black-bird, and throstle, and loud missel-cock, They sing altogether, the Cuckoo to mock; “What want we with him? let him stay over sea!” Sings the bold, piping reed-sparrow, “want him? not we!” “Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still, “I care not for you, let you rave as you will!” “Cuckoo!” the cuckoo doth cry, And the little boys mock him as they go by. “Hark! hark!” sings the chiff-chaff, “hark! hark!” says the lark, And the white-throats and buntings all twitter “hark! hark!” The wren and the hedge-sparrow hear it anon, And “hark! hark!” in a moment shouts every one. “Hark! hark!—that’s the Cuckoo there, shouting amain! Bless our lives! why that egg-sucker’s come back again!” “Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still, “I shall taste of your eggs, let you rave as you will!” “Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo doth cry, And the little boys mock him as they go by. The water-hens hear it, the rail and the smew, And they say,—“Why on land there’s a pretty to-do! Sure the Cuckoo’s come back, what else can be the matter? The pyes and the jays are all making a clatter!” “Hark! hark!” says the woodcock, “I hear him myself, Shouting up in the elm-tree, the comical elf!” “Hark! hark!” cries the widgeon, “and I hear him too, Shouting loudly as ever, that self-same Cuckoo!” “Well, well,” says the wild duck, “what is it to us; I’ve no spite ’gainst the Cuckoo; why make such a fuss? Let him shout as he listeth—he comes over sea— And his French may be French, ’t is no matter to me; I have no spite against him, my soul’s not so narrow, I leave all such whims to the tomtit and sparrow!” “Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still, “You may all hold your peace, I shall do as I will!” “Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo doth cry, And the little boys mock him as they go by.

God might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all. We might have had enough, enough For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine and toil, And yet have had no flowers. The ore within the mountain mine Requireth none to grow; Nor doth it need the lotus-flower To make the river flow. The clouds might give abundant rain; The nightly dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all. Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow-light, All fashioned with supremest grace Upspringing day and night:— Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness Where no man passes by? Our outward life requires them not— Then wherefore had they birth?— To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth; To comfort man—to whisper hope, Whene’er his faith is dim, For who so careth for the flowers Will much more care for him!

I love the sunshine everywhere,— In wood and field and glen; I love it in the busy haunts Of town-imprisoned men. I love it when it streameth in The humble cottage door, And casts the chequered casement shade Upon the red-brick floor. I love it where the children lie Deep in the clovery grass, To watch among the twining roots The gold-green beetles pass. I love it on the breezy sea, To glance on sail and oar, While the great waves, like molten glass, Come leaping to the shore. I love it on the mountain-tops, Where lies the thawless snow, And half a kingdom, bathed in light, Lies stretching out below. And when it shines in forest-glades, Hidden, and green, and cool, Through mossy boughs and veined leaves How is it beautiful! How beautiful on little stream, When sun and shade at play, Make silvery meshes, while the brook Goes singing on its way. How beautiful, where dragon-flies Are wondrous to behold, With rainbow wings of gauzy pearl, And bodies blue and gold! How beautiful, on harvest slopes, To see the sunshine lie; Or on the paler reaped fields, Where yellow shocks stand high! Oh, yes! I love the sunshine! Like kindness or like mirth, Upon a human countenance, Is sunshine on the earth! Upon the earth; upon the sea; And through the crystal air, Or piled-up cloud; the gracious sun Is glorious everywhere!

They may boast of the spring-time when flowers are the fairest, And birds sing by thousands on every green tree; They may call it the loveliest, the greenest, the rarest;— But the summer’s the season that’s dearest to me! For the brightness of sunshine; the depth of the shadows; The crystal of waters; the fulness of green, And the rich flowery growth of the old pasture meadows, In the glory of summer can only be seen. Oh, the joy of the green-wood! I love to be in it, And list to the hum of the never-still bees, And to hear the sweet voice of the old mother linnet, Calling unto her young ’mong the leaves of the trees? To see the red squirrel frisk hither and thither, And the water-rat plunging about in his mirth; And the thousand small lives that the warm summer weather, Calls forth to rejoice on the bountiful earth! Then the mountains, how fair! to the blue vault of heaven Towering up in the sunshine, and drinking the light, While adown their deep chasms, all splintered and riven, Fall the far-gleaming cataracts silvery white! And where are the flowers that in beauty are glowing In the garden and fields of the young, merry spring, Like the mountain-side wilds of the yellow broom blowing, And the old forest pride, the red wastes of the ling? Then the garden, no longer ’tis leafless and chilly, But warm with the sunshine and bright with the sheen Of rich flowers, the moss rose and the bright tiger-lily, Barbaric in pomp as an Ethiop Queen. Oh, the beautiful flowers, all colours combining, The larkspur, the pink, and the sweet mignionette, And the blue fleur-de-lis, in the warm sunlight shining, As if grains of gold in its petals were set! Yes, the summer,—the radiant summer’s the fairest, For green-woods and mountains, for meadows and bowers, For waters, and fruits, and for flowers the rarest, And for bright shining butterflies, lovely as flowers!

Put up thy work, dear mother; Dear mother come with me, For I’ve found within the garden, The beautiful sweet-pea! And rows of stately hollyhocks Down by the garden-wall, All yellow, white, and crimson, So many-hued and tall! And bending on their stalks, mother, Are roses white and red; And pale-stemmed balsams all a-blow, On every garden-bed. Put up thy work, I pray thee, And come out, mother dear! We used to buy these flowers, But they are growing here! Oh, mother! little Amy Would have loved these flowers to see;— Dost remember how we tried to get For her a pink sweet-pea? Dost remember how she loved Those rose-leaves pale and sere? I wish she had but lived to see The lovely roses here! Put up thy work, dear mother, And wipe those tears away! And come into the garden Before ’tis set of day!

Oh, when I was a little child, My life was full of pleasure; I had four-and-twenty living things, And many another treasure. But chiefest was my sister dear, Oh, how I loved my sister! I never played at all with joy, If from my side I missed her. I can remember many a time, Up in the morning early,— Up in the morn by break of day, When summer dews hung pearly; Out in the fields what joy it was, While the cowslip yet was bending, To see the large round moon grow dim, And the early lark ascending! I can remember too, we rose When the winter stars shone brightly; ’Twas an easy thing to shake off sleep, From spirits strong and sprightly. How beautiful were those winter skies, All frosty-bright and unclouded, And the garden-trees, like cypresses, Looked black, in the darkness shrouded! Then the deep, deep snows were beautiful, That fell through the long night stilly, When behold, at morn, like a silent plain, Lay the country wild and hilly! And the fir-trees down by the garden side, In their blackness towered more stately; And the lower trees were feathered with snow, That were bare and brown so lately. And then, when the rare hoar-frost would come, ’Twas all like a dream of wonder, When over us grew the crystal trees, And the crystal plants grew under! The garden all was enchanted land; All silent and without motion, Like a sudden growth of the stalactite, Or the corallines of ocean! ’Twas all like a fairy forest then, Where the diamond trees were growing, And within each branch the emerald green And the ruby red were glowing. I remember many a day we spent In the bright hay-harvest meadow; The glimmering heat of the noonday ground, And the hazy depth of shadow. I can remember, as to-day, The corn-field and the reaping, The rustling of the harvest-sheaves, And the harvest-wain’s upheaping: I can feel this hour as if I lay Adown ’neath the hazel bushes, And as if we wove, for pastime wild, Our grenadier-caps of rushes. And every flower within that field To my memory’s eye comes flitting, The chiccory-flower, like a blue cockade, For a fairy-knight befitting. The willow-herb by the water side, With its fruit-like scent so mellow; The gentian blue on the marly hill, And the snap-dragon white and yellow. I know where the hawthorn groweth red; Where pink grows the way-side yarrow; I remember the wastes of woad and broom, And the shrubs of the red rest-harrow. I know where the blue geranium grows, And the stork’s-bill small and musky; Where the rich osmunda groweth brown, And the wormwood white and dusky. There was a forest a-nigh our home,— A forest so old and hoary, How we loved in its ancient glooms to be, And remember its bygone story! We sate in the shade of its mighty trees, When the summer noon was glowing, And heard in the depths of its undergrowth The pebbly waters flowing. We quenched our thirst at the forest-well; We ate of the forest berry; And the time we spent in the good green-wood, Like the times of song, were merry. We had no crosses then, no cares; We were children like yourselves then; And we danced and sang, and made us mirth, Like the dancing moonlight elves then!

Go, little book, and to the young and kind, Speak thou of pleasant hours and lovely things; Of fields and woods; of sunshine; dew and wind; Of mountains; valleys, and of river-springs; Speak thou of every little bird that sings; Of every bright, sweet-scented flower that blows; But chiefest speak of Him whose mercy flings Beauty and love abroad, and who bestows Light to the sun alike, with odour to the rose. My little book that hast been unto me, Even as a flower reared in a pleasant place, This is the task that I impose on thee;— Go forth; with serious style or playful grace, Winning young, gentle hearts; and bid them trace With thee, the spirit of Love through earth and air; On beast and bird, and on our mortal race, So, do thy gracious work; and onward fare, Leaving, like angel-guest, a blessing everywhere!