Part 2 — SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY.

Oh Coot! oh bold, adventurous Coot, I pray thee tell to me, The perils of that stormy time That bore thee to the sea! I saw thee on the river fair, Within thy sedgy screen; Around thee grew the bulrush tall, And reeds so strong and green. The kingfisher came back again To view thy fairy place; The stately swan sailed statelier by, As if thy home to grace. But soon the mountain-flood came down, And bowed the bulrush strong; And far above those tall green reeds, The waters poured along. “And where is she, the Water-Coot,” I cried, “that creature good?” But then I saw thee in thine ark, Regardless of the flood. Amid the foaming waves thou sat’st, And steer’dst thy little boat; Thy nest of rush and water-reed So bravely set afloat. And on it went, and safely on That wild and stormy tide; And there thou sat’st, a mother bird, Thy young ones at thy side. Oh Coot! oh bold, adventurous Coot, I pray thee tell to me, The perils of that stormy voyage That bore thee to the sea! Hadst thou no fear, as night came down Upon thy watery way, Of enemies, and dangers dire That round about thee lay? Didst thou not see the falcon grim Swoop down as thou passed by? And ’mong the waving water flags The lurking otter lie? The eagle’s scream came wildly near, Yet, caused it no alarm? Nor man, who seeing thee, weak thing, Did strive to do thee harm? And down the foaming waterfall, As thou wast borne along, Hadst thou no dread? Oh daring bird, Thou hadst a spirit strong! Yes, thou hadst fear. But He who sees The sparrows when they fall; He saw thee, bird, and gave thee strength To brave thy perils all. He kept thy little ark afloat; He watched o’er thine and thee; And safely through the foaming flood Hath brought thee to the sea.”

No, not in the meadow, and not on the shore; And not on the wide heath with furze covered o’er, Where the cry of the Plover, the hum of the bee, Give a feeling of joyful security: And not in the woods, where the nightingale’s song, From the chesnut and orange pours all the day long; And not where the Martin has built in the eaves, And the Red-breast e’er covered the children with leaves, Shall ye find the proud Eagle! O no, come away; I will show you his dwelling, and point out his prey! Away! let us go where the mountains are high, With tall splintered peak towering into the sky; Where old ruined castles are dreary and lone, And seem as if built for a world that is gone; There, up on the topmost tower, black as the night, Sits the old monarch Eagle in full blaze of light: He is king of these mountains: save him and his mate, No Eagle dwells there; he is lonely and great! Look, look how he sits! with his keen glancing eye, And his proud head thrown back, looking into the sky; And hark to the rush of his out-spreading wings, Like the coming of tempest, as upward he springs, And now how the echoing mountains are stirred, For that was the cry of the Eagle you heard! Now, see how he soars! like a speck in the height Of the blue vaulted sky, and now lost in the light! And now downward he wheels as a shaft from a bow By a strong archer sent, to the valleys below! And that is the bleat of a lamb of the flock;— One moment, and he re-ascends to the rock.— Yes, see how the conqueror is winging his way And his terrible talons are holding their prey! Great bird of the wilderness! lonely and proud, With a spirit unbroken, a neck never bowed, With an eye of defiance, august and severe, Who scorn’st an inferior, and hatest a peer, What is it that giveth thee beauty and worth? Thou wast made for the desolate places of earth; To mate with the tempest; to match with the sea; And God showed his power in the Lion and thee!

I had a Garden when a child; I kept it all in order; ’Twas full of flowers as it could be, And London-pride was its border. And soon as came the pleasant Spring, The singing birds built in it; The Blackbird and the Throstle-cock, The Woodlark and the Linnet. And all within my Garden ran A labyrinth-walk so mazy; In the middle there grew a yellow Rose; At each end a Michaelmas Daisy. I had a tree of Southern Wood, And two of bright Mezereon; A Peony root, a snow-white Phlox, And a bunch of red Valerian; A Lilac tree, and a Guelder-Rose; A Broom, and a Tiger-lily; And I walked a dozen miles to find The true wild Daffodilly. I had Columbines, both pink and blue, And Thalictrum like a feather; And the bright Goat’s-beard, that shuts its leaves Before a change of weather. I had Marigolds, and Gilliflowers, And Pinks all Pinks exceeding; I’d a noble root of Love-in-a-mist, And plenty of Love-lies-bleeding. I’d Jacob’s Ladder, Aaron’s Rod, And the Peacock-Gentianella; I had Asters, more than I can tell, And Lupins blue and yellow. I set a grain of Indian Corn, One day in an idle humour, And the grain sprung up six feet or more, My glory for a summer. I found far off in the pleasant fields, More flowers than I can mention; I found the English Asphodel, And the spring and autumn Gentian. I found the Orchis, fly and bee, And the Cistus of the mountain; And the Money-wort, and the Adder’s tongue Beside an old wood fountain. I found within another wood, The rare Pyrola blowing: For wherever there was a curious flower I was sure to find it growing. I set them in my garden beds, Those beds I loved so dearly, Where I laboured after set of sun, And in summer mornings early. O my pleasant garden-plot!— A shrubbery was beside it, And an old and mossy Apple-tree, With a Woodbine wreathed to hide it. There was a bower in my garden-plot, A Spiræa grew before it; Behind it was a Laburnum tree, And a wild Hop clambered o’er it. Ofttimes I sat within my bower, Like a king in all his glory; Ofttimes I read, and read for hours, Some pleasant, wondrous story. I read of Gardens in old times, Old, stately Gardens, kingly, Where people walked in gorgeous crowds, Or for silent musing, singly. I raised up visions in my brain, The noblest and the fairest; But still I loved my Garden best, And thought it far the rarest. And all among my flowers I walked, Like a miser ’mid his treasure; For that pleasant plot of Garden ground Was a world of endless pleasure.

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly. “Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy; The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, And I’ve many curious things to show when you are there,” “Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.” “I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly. “There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin, And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in!” “Oh, no, no,” said the little Fly, “for I’ve often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!” Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, “Dear friend, what can I do, To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you? I have within my pantry, good store of all that’s nice; I’m sure you’re very welcome—will you please to take a slice?” “Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “kind sir, that cannot be, I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!” “Sweet creature!” said the Spider, “you’re witty and you’re wise, How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I’ve a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf, If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.” “I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now, I’ll call another day.” The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den, For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again: So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly, And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly. Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing, “Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple—there’s a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!” Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by; With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue— Thinking only of her crested head—poor foolish thing! At last, Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, Within his little parlour—but she ne’er came out again! And now, dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly, nattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed; Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye, And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.