Part 2 — TALES IN VERSE.

Ah! Fisher Boy, I well know thee, Brother thou art to Marion Lee! What! didst thou think I knew thee not, Couldst thou believe I had forgot? For shame, for shame! what? I forget The treasures of thy laden net! And how we went one day together, One day of showery summer weather, Up the sea-shore, and for an hour Stood sheltering from a pelting shower, Within an upturned, ancient boat, That had not been for years afloat! No, no, my boy! I liked too well The old sea-stories thou didst tell; I liked too well thy rougish eye— Thy merry speech—thy laughter sly; Thy old sea-jacket, to forget,— And then the treasures of thy net! Oh, Andrew! thou hast not forgot, I’m very sure that thou hast not, All that we talked about that day, Of famous countries far away! Of Crusoes in their islands lone, That never were, nor will be known, And yet this very moment stand Upon some point of mountain land, Looking out o’er the desert sea, If chance some coming ship there be. Thou know’st we talked of this—thou know’st We talked about a ship-boy’s ghost— A wretched little orphan lad Who served a master stern and bad, And had no friend to take his part, And perished of a broken heart; Or by his master’s blows, some said, For in the boat they found him dead, And the boat’s side was stained and red! And then we talked of many a heap Of ancient treasure in the deep, And the great serpent that some men, In far-off seas, meet now and then; Of grand sea-palaces that shine Through forests of old coralline; And wondrous creatures that may dwell In many a crimson Indian shell; Till I shook hands with thee, to see Thou wast a poet—Andrew Lee! Though thou wast guiltless all the time Of putting any thoughts in rhyme; Ah, little fisher boy! since then, Ladies I’ve seen and learned men, All clever, and some great and wise, Who study all things, earth and skies, Who much have seen, and much have read, And famous things have writ and said; But Andrew, never have I heard One who so much my spirit stirred, As he who sate with me an hour, Screened from the pelting thunder-shower— Now laughing in his merry wit; Now talking in a serious fit, In speech that poured like water free; And that was thou—poor Andrew Lee! Then shame to think I knew thee not— Thou hast not, nor have I forgot; And long ’twill be ere I forget How thou took’st up thy laden net, And gave me all that it contained, Because I too thy heart had gained!

There was a girl of fair Provence, Fresh as a flower in May, Who ’neath a spreading plane-tree sate, Upon a summer-day, And thus unto a mourner young, In a low voice did say. “And said I, I shall dance no more; For though but young in years, I knew what makes men wise and sad,— Affection’s ceaseless fears, And that dull aching of the heart, Which is not eased by tears. “But sorrow will not always last, Heaven keeps our griefs in view; Mine is a simple tale, dear friend, Yet I will tell it you; A simple tale of household grief And household gladness too. “My father in the battle died, And left young children three; My brother Marc, a noble lad, With spirit bold and free, More kind than common brothers are; And Isabel and me. “When Marc was sixteen summers old, A tall youth and a strong, Said he, ‘I am a worthless drone, I do my mother wrong— I’ll hence and win the bread I eat, I’ve burdened you too long!’ “Oh! many tears my mother shed; And earnestly did pray, That he would still abide with us, And be the house’s stay; And be like morning to her eyes, As he had been alway. “But Marc he had a steadfast will, A purpose fixed and good, And calmly still and manfully Her prayers he long withstood; Until at length she gave consent, Less willing than subdued. “Twas on a shining morn in June, He rose up to depart; I dared not to my mother show The sadness of my heart; We said farewell, and yet farewell. As if we could not part. “There seemed a gloom within the house, Although the bright sun shone; There was a want within our hearts— For he, the dearest one, Had said farewell that morn of June, And from our sight was gone. “At length most doleful tidings came, Sad tidings of dismay; The plague was in the distant town, And hundreds died each day; We thought, in truth, poor Marc would die, ’Mid strangers far away. “Weeks passed, and months, and not a word Came from him to dispel The almost certainty of death Which o’er our spirits fell; My mother drooped from fear, which grew Each day more terrible. “At length she said, ‘I’ll see my son In life if yet he be, Or else the turf that covers him!’ When sank she on her knee, And clasped her hands in silent prayer And wept most piteously. “She went into the distant town, Still asking everywhere For tidings of her long lost son:— In vain she made her prayer; All were so full of woe themselves, No pity had they to spare. “To hear her tell that tale would move The sternest heart to bleed; She was a stranger in that place, Yet none of her took heed; And broken-hearted she came back, A bowed and bruised reed. “I marked her cheek yet paler grow, More sunken yet her eye; And to my soul assurance came That she was near to die, And hourly was my earnest prayer Put up for her on high. “Oh, what a woe seemed then to us, The friendless orphan’s fate! I dared not picture to my mind, How drear, how desolate— But, like a frightened thing, my heart Shrunk from a pang so great! “We rarely left my mother’s side, ’Twas joy to touch her hand, And with unwearying, patient love, Beside her couch to stand, To wait on her, and every wish Unspoke to understand. “At length, oh joy beyond all joys! When we believed him dead, One calm and sunny afternoon, As she lay on her bed In quiet sleep, methought below I heard my brother’s tread. “I rose, and on the chamber stair, I met himself—no other— More beautiful than ere before, My tall and manly brother! I should have swooned, but for the thought Of my poor sleeping mother. “I cannot tell you how we met;— I could not speak for weeping; Nor had I words enough for joy,— My heart within seemed leaping, I should have screamed, but for the thought Of her who there lay sleeping! “That Marc returned in joy to us, My mother dreamed e’en then, And that prepared her for the bliss Of meeting him again;— To tell how great that bliss, would need The tongue of wisest men! “His lightest tone, his very step, More power had they to win My drooping mother back to life, Than every medicine; She rose again, like one revived From death where he had been! “The story that my brother told Was long, and full of joy; Scarce to the city had he come, A poor and friendless boy, Than he chanced to meet a merchant good, From whom he asked employ. “The merchant was a childless man; And in my brother’s face, Something he saw that moved his heart To such unusual grace; ‘My son,’ said he, ‘is dead, wilt thou Supply to me his place?’ “Even then, bound to the golden East, His ship before him lay; And this new bond of love was formed There, standing on the quay; My brother went on board with him, And sailed that very day! “The letter that he wrote to us, It never reached our hand; And while we drooped with anxious love, He gained the Indian strand, And saw a thousand wondrous things, In that old, famous land. “And many rich and curious things, Bright bird and pearly shell; He brought as if to realize The tales he had to tell; My mother smiled, and wept, and smiled, And listened, and grew well. “The merchant loved him more and more, And did a father’s part; And blessed my brother for the love That healed his wounded heart; He was a friend that heaven had sent Kind mercy to impart. “So do not droop, my gentle friend, Though grief may burden sore; Look up to God, for he hath love And comfort in great store, And ofttimes moveth human hearts To bless us o’er and o’er.”

Merry it is on a summer’s day, All through the meadows to wend away; To watch the brooks glide fast or slow, And the little fish twinkle down below; To hear the lark in the blue sky sing, Oh, sure enough, ’tis a merry thing—But ’tis merrier far to swing—to swing! Merry it is on a winter’s night, To listen to tales of elf and sprite, Of caves and castles so dim and old,— The dismallest tales that ever were told;— And then to laugh, and then to sing, You may take my word is a merry thing,— But ’tis merrier far to swing—to swing! Down with the hoop upon the green; Down with the ringing tambourine;— Little heed we for this or for that; Off with the bonnet, off with the hat! Away we go like birds on the wing! Higher yet! higher yet! “Now for the King!” This is the way we swing—we swing! Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light, Mount up behind him—there, that is right! Down bends the branch now;—swing him away; Higher yet—higher yet—higher I say! Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us sing “A pear for the Queen—an apple for the King!” And shake the old tree as we swing—we swing!

“Sweet Ellen More,” said I, “come forth Beneath the sunny sky; Why stand you musing all alone, With such an anxious eye? What is it, child, that aileth you?” And thus she made reply: “The fields are green, the skies are bright, The leaves are on the tree, And ’mong the sweet flowers of the thyme Far flies the honey-bee; And the lark hath sung since morning prime, And merrily singeth he. “Yet not for this shall I go forth On the open hills to play, There’s not a bird that singeth now, Would tempt me hence to stray;— I would not leave our cottage door For a thousand flowers to-day!” “And why?” said I, “what is there here Beside your cottage door, To make a merry girl like you Thus idly stand to pore? There is a mystery in this thing,— Now tell me, Ellen More!” The fair girl looked into my face, With her dark and serious eye; Silently awhile she looked, Then heaved a quiet sigh; And, with a half-reluctant will, Again she made reply. “Three years ago, unknown to us, When nuts were on the tree, Even in the pleasant harvest-time, My brother went to sea— Unknown to us, to sea he went, And a woful house were we. “That winter was a weary time, A long, dark time of woe; For we knew not in what ship he sailed And vainly sought to know; And day and night the loud, wild winds Seemed evermore to blow. “My mother lay upon her bed, Her spirit sorely tossed With dismal thoughts of storm and wreck Upon some savage coast, But morn and eve we prayed to Heaven That he might not be lost. “And when the pleasant spring came on, And fields again were green, He sent a letter full of news, Of the wonders he had seen; Praying us to think him dutiful As he afore had been. “The tidings that came next were from A sailor old and gray, Who saw his ship at anchor lie In the harbor at Bombay; But he said my brother pined for home, And wished he were away. “Again he wrote a letter long, Without a word of gloom; And soon, and very soon he said, He should again come home; I watched, as now, beside the door, And yet he did not come. “I watched and watched, but I knew not then It would be all in vain; For very sick he lay the while, In a hospital in Spain.— Ah, me! I fear my brother dear Will ne’er come home again! “And now I watch—for we have heard That he is on his way, And the letter said, in very truth, He would be here to-day. Oh! there’s no bird that singeth now Could tempt me hence away!” —That self-same eve I wandered down Unto the busy strand, Just as a little boat came in With people to the land; And ’mongst them was a sailor-boy Who leaped upon the sand. I knew him by his dark blue eyes, And by his features fair; And as he leaped ashore he sang A simple Scottish air,— “There’s nae place like our ain dear hame To be met wi’ onywhere!”

Peter.—Zedekiah, come here! Zedekiah.—Well now, what’s the matter? Peter.—Look at my hat; the more I set it right, it only gets the flatter. Zedekiah.—Why, Peter, what’s come to your hat? I never saw such a thing. Peter.—I’ve had nothing but ill-luck to-day; I did this with the swing; I’ve been tossed into the apple-tree just as if I was a ball, And though I caught hold of a bough, I’ve had a terrible fall; I’m sure I should have cracked my scull, had it not been for my hat. You may see what a fall it was, for the crown’s quite flat; And it never will take its shape again, do all that ever I may! Zedekiah.—Never mind it, Peter! Put it on your head, and come along, I say! Peter.—Nay, I shall not. I shall sit down under this tree; I’ve had nothing but ill-luck to-day. Come, sit down by me, And I’ll tell you all, Zedekiah, for I feel quite forlorn; Oh dear! oh dear! I’m lamed now!—I’ve sate down upon a thorn! Zedekiah.—Goodness’ sake! Peter be still—what a terrible bellow— One would think you’d sate on a hornet’s nest; sit down, my good fellow. Peter.—I’ll be sure there are no more thorns here, before I set down; Pretty well of one thorn at a time, Master Zedekiah Brown! There, now, I think this seat is safe and easy—so now you must know I was fast asleep at breakfast time; and you’ll always find it so, That if you begin a day ill, it will be ill all the day. Well, when I woke, the breakfast-things were clattering all away: And I know they had eggs and fowl, and all sort of good things; But then none may partake who are in bed when the morning bell rings; So, sadly vexed as I was, I rolled myself round in bed, And, “as breakfast is over, I’ll not hurry myself,” I said, So I just got into a nice little doze, when in came my mother; And “for shame, Peter,” she said, “to be a-bed now! well, you can’t go with your brother!” Then out of the door she went, without another word; And just then a sound of wheels, and of pawing horses’ hoofs I heard; So I jumped up to the window to see what it was, and I declare There was a grand party of fine folks setting off somewhere: There was my brother, mounted on the pony so sleek and brown; And Bell in her white frock, and my mother in her satin gown; And my father in his best, and two gentlemen beside; And I had never heard a word about it, either of drive or ride! I really think it was very queer of them to set off in that way— If I’d only known over-night, I’d have been up by break of day! As you may think, I was sadly vexed, but I did not choose to show it, So I whistled as I came down stairs, that the servants might not know it; Then I went into the yard, and called the dog by his name, For I thought if they were gone, he and I might have a good game; But I called and called, and there was no dog either in this place or th’ other; And Thomas said, “Master Peter, Neptune’s gone with your brother.” Well, as there was no dog, I went to look for the fox, And sure enough the chain was broke, and there was no creature in the box; But where the fellow had gone nobody could say, He had broken loose himself, I suppose, and so had slipped away; I would give anything I have but to find the fox again— And was it not provoking, Zedekiah, to lose him just then? Zedekiah.—Provoking enough! Well, Peter, and what happened next? Peter.—Why, when I think of it now, it makes me quite vexed; I went into the garden, just to look about To see, if the green peas were ready, or the scarlet-lychnis come out; And there, what should I clap my eyes on but the old sow, And seven little pigs, making a pretty row! And of all places in the world, as if for very spite, They had gone into my garden, and spoiled and ruined it quite! The old sow, she had grubbed up my rosemary and old-man by the root, And my phlox and my sunflowers, and my hollyhocks that were as black as soot; And every flower that I set store on was ruined for ever; I never was so mortified in all my life—never! Zedekiah.—You sent them off, I should think, with a famous swither! Peter.—Grunting and tumbling one over the other, I cared not whither. Well, as I was just then standing, grieving over the ruin, I heard Thomas call, “Master Peter, come and see what the rats have been doing— They’ve eaten all the guinea-pigs’ heads off!” Zedekiah.—Oh, Peter, was it true? Peter.—Away I ran, not knowing what in the world to do!— And there—I declare it makes me quite shudder to the bone— Lay all my pretty little guinea-pigs as dead as a stone! “It’s no matter of use,” says Thomas, “setting traps; for you see They no more care for a trap, than I do for a pea; I’ll lay my life on’t, there are twenty rats now down in that hole, And we can no more reach ’em, than an underground mole!” I declare, Zedekiah, I never passed such a day before—not I; It makes me quite low-spirited, till I’m ready to cry. All those pretty guinea-pigs! and I’ve nothing left at all, Only the hawk, and I’ve just set his cage on the wall. Zedekiah.—Hush! hush, now! for Thomas is saying something there, Peter.—What d’ye say, Thomas? Thomas.—The hawk’s soaring in the air! The cage-door was open, and he’s flown clean away! Peter.—There now, Zedekiah, is it not an unfortunate day? I’ve lost all my favourites—I’ve nothing left at all, And my garden is spoiled, and I’ve had such a dreadful fall! I wish I had been up this morning as early as the sun, And then I should have gone to Canonley, nor have had all this mischief done! I’m sure its quite enough to make me cry for a year— Let’s go into the house, Zedekiah; what’s the use of sitting here?

Leaving her sports, in pensive tone, ’Twas thus a fair young mourner said, “How sad we are now we’re alone,— I wish my mother were not dead! “I can remember she was fair; And how she kindly looked and smiled, When she would fondly stroke my hair, And call me her beloved child. “Before my mother went away, You never sighed as now you do; You used to join us at our play, And be our merriest playmate too. “Father, I can remember when I first observed her sunken eye, And her pale, hollow cheek; and then I told my brother she would die! “And the next morn they did not speak, But led us to her silent bed; They bade us kiss her icy cheek, And told us she indeed was dead! “Oh, then I thought how she was kind, My own beloved and gentle mother! And calling all I knew to mind, I thought there ne’er was such another! “Poor little Charles, and I! that day We sate within our silent room; But we could neither read nor play,— The very walls seemed full of gloom. “I wish my mother had not died, We never have been glad since then! They say, and is it true,” she cried, “That she can never come again?” The father checked his tears, and thus He spake, “My child, they do not err, Who say she cannot come to us; But you and I may go to her. “Remember your dear mother still, And the pure precepts she has given; Like her, be humble, free from ill, And you shall see her face in heaven!”

“Heaven bless the boys!” the old man said, “I hear their distant drumming,— Young Arthur Bruce is at their head, And down the street they’re coming. “And a very noble standard too He carries in the van; By the faith of an old soldier, he Is born to make a man!” A glow of pride passed o’er his cheek, A tear came to his eye; “Hurra, hurra! my gallant men!” Cried he, as they came nigh. “It seems to me but yesterday Since I was one like ye, And now my years are seventy-two,— Come here, and talk with me!” They made a halt, those merry boys, Before the aged man; And “tell us now some story wild,” Young Arthur Bruce began; “Of battle and of victory Tell us some stirring thing!” The old man raised his arm aloft, And cried, “God save the King! “A soldier’s is a life of fame, A life that hath its meed— They write his wars in printed books, That every man may read. “And if you’d hear a story wild, Of war and battle done, I am the man to tell such tales, And you shall now have one. “In every quarter of the globe I’ve fought—by sea, by land; And scarce for five and fifty years Was the musket from my hand. “But the bloodiest wars, and fiercest too, That were waged on any shore, Were those in which my strength were spent, In the country of Mysore. “And oh! what a fearful, deadly clime Is that of the Indian land, Where the burning sun shines fiercely down On the hot and fiery sand! “The life of man seems little worth, And his arm hath little power His very soul within him dies, As dies a broken flower. “Yet spite of this, was India made As for a kingly throne; There gold is plentiful as dust, As sand the diamond stone; “And like a temple is each house, Silk-curtained from the sun; And every man has twenty slaves, Who at his bidding run. “He rides on the lordly elephant, In solemn pomp;—and there They hunt the gold-striped tiger, As here they hunt the hare. “Yet it is a dreadful clime! and we Up in the country far Were sent,—we were two thousand men, In a disastrous war. “The soldiers died in the companies As if the plague had been; And soon in every twenty men, The dead were seventeen. “We went to storm a fort of mud— And yet the place was strong— Three thousand men were guarding it, And they had kept it long. “We were in all three hundred souls, Feeble and worn and wan; Like walking spectres of the tomb, Was every living man. “Yet Arthur Bruce, now standing there, With the ensign of his band, Reminds me of a gallant youth, Who fought at my right hand. “Scarce five and twenty years of age, And feeble as the rest, Yet with the bearing of a king, That noble soul expressed. “But a silent grief was in his eye, And oft his noble frame Shook like a quivering aspen leaf, And his colour went and came. “He marched by my side for seven days, Most patient of our band; And night and day he ever kept Our standard in his hand. “They fought with us like tigers, Before that fort of mud; And all around the burning sands Were as a marsh with blood. “We watched that young man,—he to us Was as a kindling hope; We saw him pressing on and on, Bearing the standard up. “At length it for a moment veered— A ball had struck his hand, But he seized the banner with his left, Without a moment’s stand. “He mounted upward to the wall; He waved the standard high,— But then another smote him!— And the captain standing by “Said, ‘Of this gallant youth take care, He hath won for us the day!’ I and my comrades took him up, And bore him thence away. “There was no tree about the place, So ’neath the fortress shade We carried him, and carefully Upon the red sand laid. “I took the feather from my cap, To fan his burning cheek; I gave him water, drop by drop, And prayed that he would speak. “At length he said, ‘mine hour is come! My soldier-name is bright; But a pang there is within my soul, That hath wrung me day and night: “‘I left my mother’s home without Her blessing;—she doth mourn, Doth weep for me with bitter tears,— I never can return! “‘This bowed my eagle-spirit down, This robbed mine eye of rest; I left her widowed and alone:— Oh that I had been blessed!’ “No more he said,—he closed his eyes. And yet he died not then; He lived till the morrow morning came, But he never spoke again.” This tale the veteran soldier told, Upon a summer’s day;— The boys came merrily down the street, But they all went sad away.

I like it not—this noisy street I never liked, nor can I now— I love to feel the pleasant breeze On the free hills, and see the trees, With birds upon the bough! Oh, I remember long ago,— So long ago, ’tis like a dream— My home was on a green-hill side, By flowery meadows, still and wide, ’Mong trees, and by a stream. Three happy brothers I had then, My merry playmates every day— I’ve looked and looked through street and square, But never chanced I, anywhere, To see such boys as they. We all had gardens of our own— Four little gardens in a row,— And there we set our twining peas; And rows of cress; and real trees, And real flowers to grow. My father I remember too, And even now his face can see; And the gray horse he used to ride, And the old dog that at his side Went barking joyfully! He used to fly my brothers’ kites, And build them up a man of snow, And sail their boats, and with them race; And carry me from place to place; Just as I liked to go. I’m sure he was a pleasant man, And people must have loved him well! Oh, I remember that sad day When they bore him in a hearse away, And tolled his funeral bell! Thy mother comes each night to kiss Thee, in thy little quiet bed— So came my mother years ago; And I loved her—oh! I loved her so, ’Twas joy to hear her tread! It must be many, many years Since then, and yet I can recall Her very tone—her look—her dress, Her pleasant smile and gentleness, That had kind words for all. She told us tales, she sang us songs, And in our pastimes took delight, And joined us in our summer glee, And sat with us beneath the tree! Nor wearied of our company, Whole days, from morn till night. Alas! I know that she is dead, And in the cold, cold grave is hid; I saw her in her coffin lie, With the grim mourners standing by; And silent people solemnly Closed down the coffin lid. My brothers were not there—ah me! I know not where they went; some said With a rich man beyond the sea That they were dwelling pleasantly— And some that they were dead. I cannot think that it is so, I never saw them pale and thin, And the last time their voice I heard, Merry were they as a summer-bird, Singing its bowers within. I wish that I could see their faces, Or know at least that they were near; Ah! gladly would I cross the sea, So that with them I might but be, For now my days pass wearily, And all are strangers here.

Kitty.—Well, now you’ve been running about so, pray can’t you sit still? I want to have some talk with you, and I certainly will: I’ve got all this unpicking to do, for while I talk I must work; You boys can run about idling—I sit stitching like a Turk, Come, now tell me, can’t you, something about the farm-yard? How many eggs has the turkey laid—and is that muddy place dry and hard? Come, tell me in a minute, I haven’t patience to wait; And till you begin, sir, there’s a thimble-pie for you on the top of your pate. Harry.—Oh Kitty! you’ve knocked me so, I’ll tell my mother, that I will! If you do so, miss, nobody will like you, so you’d better be still. Kitty.—Well, then, tell me something! why should I be still and nobody talking? Harry.—Oh! I’m tired with this running about, and this riding, and this walking; I wish there was no such thing as running or walking at all; And I wish every horse were in the fields, or else tied up in its stall! What’s your work, Kitty? sitting still in the house at ease; You’ve nothing to do but to sit down, and get up again, just as you please; And yet you talk of your work, as if ’twas the hardest that e’er was done, Why compare it with mine, child, and I’m sure it’s nothing but fun! Kitty.—Child! I’m no more child than you; I’m but younger by a year, I desire you to speak respectfully to me, now, sir,—do you hear? Harry.—Yes, yes, I hear! But I really am so tired, as I was just now saying; I wish you’d get your work done, and let’s begin playing! You can’t believe, I’m sure, all the work I’ve done this day— I’ve weeded two carrot beds, and the onions— and carried all the weeds away; And I’ve been down to Thomas Jackson’s to tell him to get the horse shod; And in coming back there was a great, big, rusty nail, upon which I trod, And it lamed me so, I don’t believe I shall walk for a week, At least as I ought to do, for my ancle has quite a creak! Kitty.—Oh dear, let me look at it! Why, I’m sure it is quite shocking— See, there’s a hole as large as my thimble in the ancle of your stocking! Harry.—Oh no, ’tis the other foot—that I tore with a bramble; And that reminds me, Jack Smith and I had such a terrible scramble! We were catching the pony that I might ride down to the mill, To bid him bring the flour home, for I declare he has it still; And we shan’t have a bit of white bread in the house, nor a pudding, nor a pie, If he don’t bring it home—every one says he’s shamefully idle, and so do I. Well, but I haven’t told you after all, what a deal of work I’ve done; And I’m sure if you knew what weeding was, you would not call it fun; It makes one’s back ache so, stooping to weed all day, I shall be famously glad when it’s done! Kitty.—But are you quite ready for play? I’ve but a little bit to do—I shall have done in half a quarter of an hour; And as you’ve nothing to do, just run and see if that lavender’s in flower— There’s a good Harry, do; I’ll do seven times as much for you; You know I sewed, yesterday, that old clasp in your shoe. Harry.—I’d go, if I thought you’d have done by the time I come back: Kitty.—To be sure I shall!—I wish you would not waste so much time with your clack! Harry.—Well, just let me pull up my shoe, and put by this peacock’s feather, Kitty.—Nay, you may as well stay now; I’ve just done, and we’ll both go together; For I want to show you something like a magpie’s nest up in a tree, Only I don’t think it is a magpie’s nest, and I can’t think what it can be; And it is just by the lavender bush, and ’twill save us going there twice:— There, now I’ve done my work! and I shall be ready in a trice! Harry.—Well, then let us begone; we shall have two whole hours for play; I didn’t think we should have had so much time, and I’ been working all day!

There was a man and his name was Jack, Crabbed and lean, and his looks were black— His temper was sour, his thoughts were bad; His heart was hard when he was a lad. And now he followed a dismal trade, Old horses he bought and killed and flayed, Their flesh he sold for the dogs to eat; You would not have liked this man to meet. He lived in a low mud-house on a moor, Without any garden before the door. There was one little hovel behind, that stood, Where he used to do his work of blood; I never could bear to see the place, It was stained and darkened with many a trace; A trace of what I will not tell— And then there was such an unchristian smell! Now this old man did come and go, Through the wood that grew in the dell below; It was scant a mile from his own door-stone, Darksome and dense, and overgrown; And down in the drearest nook of the wood, A tall and splintered fir-tree stood; Half-way up, where the boughs outspread, A carrion crow his nest had made, Of sticks and reeds in the dark fir-tree, Where lay his mate and his nestlings three; And whenever he saw the man come by, “Dead horse! dead horse!” he was sure to cry, “Croak, croak!” if he went or came, The cry of the crow was just the same, Jack looked up as grim as could be, And says, “what’s my trade to the like of thee!” “Dead horse! dead horse! croak, croak! croak, croak!” As plain as words to his ear it spoke. Old Jack stooped down and picked up a stone, A stout, thick stick, and dry cow’s bone, And one and the other all three did throw, So angry was he, at the carrion crow; But none of the three reached him or his nest, Where his three young crows lay warm at rest; And “Croak, croak! dead horse! croak, croak!” In his solemn way again he spoke; Old Jack was angry as he could be, And says he, “On the morrow, I’ll fell thy tree,— I’ll teach thee, old fellow, to rail at me!” As soon as t’was light, if there you had been, Old Jack at his work you might have seen; I would you’d been there to see old Jack, And to hear the strokes as they came “thwack! thwack!” And then you’d have seen how the croaking bird Flew round as the axe’s stroke he heard, Flew round as he saw the shaking blow, That came to his nest from the root below, One after the other, stroke upon stroke; “Thwack! thwack!” said the axe, said the crow, “Croak! croak!” Old Jack looked up with a leer in his eye, And “I’ll hew it down!” says he, “by and bye! I’ll teach thee to rail, my old fellow, at me!” So he spit on his hands, and says, “have at the tree!” “Thwack!” says the axe, as the bark it clove; “Thwack!” as into the wood it drove; “Croak!” says the crow in a great dismay, “Croak!” as he slowly flew away. Flap, flap went his wings over hedge and ditch, Till he came to a field of burning twitch; The boy with a lighted lantern there, As he stood on the furrow brown and bare, He saw the old crow hop hither and thither, Then fly with a burning sod somewhither. Away flew the crow to the house on the moor, A poor, old horse was tied to the door; The burning sod on the roof he dropped, Then upon the chimney stone he hopped, And down he peeped that he might see, How many there were in family— There was a mother and children three. “Croak! croak!” the old crow did say. As from the roof he flew away, As he flew away to the tree, to watch The burning sod and the dry grey thatch, He stayed not long till he saw it smoke, Then he flapped his wings, and cried, “Croak, croak!” Away to the wood again, flew he, And soon he espied the slanting tree, And Jack, who stood laughing with all his might, His axe in his hand—he laughed for spite; In triumph he laughed, and took up a stone, And hammered his axe-head faster on; “Croak, croak!” came the carrion crow, Flapping his wings with a motion slow; “Thwack, thwack!” the spiteful man, When he heard his cry, with his axe began; “Thwack, thwack!” stroke upon stroke; The crow flew by with a “Croak, croak!” With a “Croak, croak!” again he came, Just as the house burst into flame. With a splitting crash, and a crackling sound, Down came the tree unto the ground; The old’s crow’s nest afar was swung; And the young ones here and there were flung; And just at that moment came up a cry, “Oh Jack, make haste, or else we die; The house is on fire, consuming all, Make haste, make haste, ere the roof tree fall!” The young crows every one were dead; But the old crow croaked above his head; And the mother-crow on Jack she springs, And flaps in his face her great, black wings; And all the while he hears a wail, That turns his cheek from red to pale— ’Twas wife and children standing there Wringing their hands and tearing their hair! “Oh woe, our house is burnt to cinder, Bedding and clothes all turned to tinder; Down to the very hearth-stone clean, Such a dismal ruin ne’er was seen: What shall we do?—where must we go?” “Croak, croak!” says the carrion crow. Now ye who read this story through, Heed well the moral—’tis for you;— Strife brings forth strife; be meek and kind See all things with a loving mind; Nor e’er by passion be misled,— Jack by himself was punished.

Ay, sitting on your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee, How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea! My father was a mariner, and from my earliest years, I can remember, night and day, my mother’s prayers and tears. I can remember how she sighed when blew the stormy gale; And how for days she stood to watch the long-expected sail: Hers was a silent, patient grief; but fears and long delay, And wakeful nights and anxious days were wearing her away. And when the gusty winds were loud, and autumn leaves were red, I watched, with heavy heart, beside my mother’s dying bed; Just when her voice was feeblest, the neighbors came to say, The ship was hailed an hour before, and then was in the bay. Alas! too late the ship returned, too late her life to save; My father closed her dying eyes, and laid her in the grave. He was a man of ardent hopes, who never knew dismay; And, spite of grief, the winter time wore cheerfully away. He had crossed the equinoctial line, full seven times or more, And sailing northward, had been wrecked on icy Labrador: He knew the Spicy-isles, every one, where the clove and nutmeg grow, And the aloe towers a stately tree with clustering bells of snow. He had gone the length of Hindostan, down Ganges’ holy flood; Through Persia, where the peacock broods a wild bird of the wood; And, in the forests of the West, had seen the red-deer chased, And dwelt beneath the piny woods, a hunter of the waste. Oh! pleasant were the tales he told of lands so strange and new; And, in my ignorance I vowed, I’d be a sailor too: My father heard my vow with joy,—so in the early May, We went on board a merchant-man, bound for Honduras’ bay. Right merrily, right merrily, we sailed before the wind, With a briskly heaving sea before, and the landsman’s cheer behind. There was joy for me in every league, delight on every strand, And I sate for days on the high fore-top, on the long look-out for land. There was joy for me in the nightly watch, on the burning Tropic seas, To mark the waves, like living fires, leap up to the freshening breeze. Right merrily, right merrily, our gallant ship went free, Until we neared the rocky shoals within the Western sea. Yet still none thought of danger near, till in the silent night, The helmsman gave the dreadful word of “breakers to the right!” The moment that his voice was heard, was felt the awful shock; The ship sprang forward with a bound, and struck upon a rock. “All hands aloft!” our captain cried;—in terror and dismay They threw the cargo overboard, and cut the masts away; ’Twas all in vain, ’twas all in vain! the sea rushed o’er the deck, And shattered with the beating surf, down went the parting wreck. The moment that the wreck went down, my father seized me fast, And leaping ’mid the thundering waves, seized on the broken mast: I know not how he bore me up, my senses seemed to swim, A shuddering horror chilled my brain, and stiffened every limb. What next I knew, was how at morn, on a bleak barren shore, Out of a hundred mariners, were living only four. I looked around, like one who wakes from dreams of fierce alarm, And round my body still I felt, firm locked, my father’s arm. And with a rigid, dying grasp, he closely held me fast, Even as he held me when he seized, at midnight on the mast. With humbled hearts and streaming eyes, down knelt the little band, Praying Him who had preserved their lives, to lend his guiding hand. And day by day, though burning thirst and pining hunger came, His mercy, through our misery, preserved each drooping frame: And after months of weary woe, sickness, and travel sore, He sent the blessed English ship that took us from that shore. And now, without a home or friend, I wander far and near, And tell my miserable tale to all who lend an ear. Thus sitting by your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee, How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea!