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peared restless and inconsolable for several days. On reaching New Orleans, I placed a looking-glass inside the place where she usually sat, and the instant she perceived her image, all her former fondness seemed to return, so that she could scarcely absent herself from it for a moment. It was evident that she was completely deceived. Always when evening drew on, and often during the day, she laid her head close to that of the image in the glass, and began to doze with great composure and satisfaction. In a short time she had learned to know her name; to answer and come when called on ; to climb up my clothes, sit on my shoulder, and eat from my mouth. I took her with me to sea, determined to persevere in her education.” And, to give an end. ing rather different to Mr. Wilson's, here we have presented her to our readers in the possession of an English lady, and with her education, for a Parrot, very complete.
To the exiled prophet good
POET. Wondrous miracle of love!
RAVEN on the blasted tree,
RAVEN. Doth it thus thy spirit move? Deeper truth than this shall reach thee, Christ he bade the raven teach thee: They plough not, said he, nor reap, Nor have costly hoards to keep; Storehouse none, nor barn have they, Yet God feeds them every day! Fret not then your souls with care What to eat, or what to wear, He who hears the ravens' cry Looketh with a pitying eye On his human family.
POET. Raven, thou art spirit-cheering; What thou say'st is worth the hearing: Never more be it averred That thou art a doleful bird !
RAVEN. I was there.
POET. I know it, bird. And when rain no more was heard Plashing down in torrents wild; When the face of heaven grew mild, And from mountain-summits brown The subsiding floods went down, And the prisoned creatures fain Scented the young earth again; Wherefore when the patriarch forth Sent thee to look round the earth And bring tidings to his door, Cam'st thou to the ark no more?
FLOWER COMPARISONS. Au cousin Blanche, let's see What's the flower resembling thee! With those dove-like eyes of thine, And thy fair hair’s silken twine; With thy low, broad forehead, white As marble, and as purely bright; With thy mouth so calm and sweet, And thy dainty hands and feet ; What's the flower most like to thee ? Blossom of the orange-tree! Where may the bright flower be met That can match with Margaret, Margaret stately, staid, and good, Growing up to womanhood;
Loving, thoughtful, wise, and kind,
Fair white lilies, having birth
Now for madcap Isabel -
LITTLE streams, in light and shadow
Last for Jeanie, grave and mild —
THE WOLF. THINK of the lamb in the fields of May Cropping the dewy flowers for play ; Think of the sunshine, warm and clear; of the bending corn in golden ear;
Soon poor Jeanie's flower is met,The meek, precious violet!
The night comes down, — and in they bound,
Of little children singing low Through flowery meadows as they go; Of cooing doves, and the hum of bees 'Mong the lime-trees' yellow racimes; Of the pebbly waters gliding by, of the wood bird's peaceful sylvan cry. Then turn thy thought to a land of snow Where the cutting icy wind doth blow – A dreary land of mountains cold, With ice-crags splintered hoar and old, Jagged with woods of storm-beat pines, Where a cold moon gleams, a cold sun shines, And all through this distant land we'll go In a dog-drawn sledge o'er the frozen snow, On either hand the ice-rocks frore, And a waste of trackless snow before! Where are the men to guide us on? Men! in these deserts there are none. Men come not here, unless to track The ermine white or marten black. Here we must speed alone. — But hark ! What sound was that? The wild wolf's bark ! The terrible wolf!- Is he anigh, With his gaunt, lean frame and his blood-shot eye? Yes! -- across the snow I saw the track Where they have sped on, a hungry pack; And see how the eager dogs rush on, For they scent the track where the wolf has gone. And beast and man are alike afraid or that cruelest creature that e'er was made! Oh, the horrible wolves ! methinks I hear The sound of their barking drawing near; Down from their dismal caves they drive, And leave behind them nought alive; Down from their caves they come by day, Savage as mad-dogs for their prey ; Down on the tracks where the hunters roam, Down to the peasant's hut they come. The peasant is waked from his pine-branch bed By the direst, fiercest sound of dread; A snuffing scent, a scratching sound, Like a dog that rendeth up the ground; Up from his bed he springs in fear, For he knows that the cruel wolf is near. A moment's pause - a moment more And he hears them snufling 'neath his door. Beneath his door he sees them mining, Snuffing, snarling, scratching, whining. Horrible sight! no more he sees, With terror his very senses freeze;Horrible sounds! he hears no more, The wild wolves bound across his floor, And the next moment lap his gore; And ere the day come o'er the hill, The wolves are gone, the place is still, And to none that dreadful death is known, Save to some ermine hunter lone, Who in that death foresees his own!
THE PASSION.FLOWER. I LOVE sweet flowers of every sort,
High-spired or trailing low; I love the musky roses red,
The lilies white as snow.
Sweet-pea and virgin-bower,
The good old passion-flower !
It bringeth to my mind,
Dim ages left behind.
The throng - the burning pyre, And Christians stand with clasped hands
Amid the raging fire.
The men with courage high,
Forgive their foes - and die.
In desert-places dwell,
In wood or mountain-cell.
By love and pity brought, To hear them tell of Jesus Christ,
And the new truths he taught. I see the fearless fathers stand,
Amid the eager throng, Preaching like Paul at Ephesus,
In burning words and strong. - Again I see a lonely man,
or spirit sad and mild, Who hath his little dwelling-place Amid a region wild.
Or think thee now of a battle field,
And there they kept the pious monks,
Within a garden small,
All herbs medicinal.
The moonstruck and the blind, For holy power, for wort of power,
For charmed root and rind !
The wild flowers of the desert
Grow round him thick as weeds,
Of holy things he reads.
The white, the pure from sin,
Christ was apparelled in.
The cross whereon he died ;
That pierced his blessed side. I see him as he mused one day
Beneath a forest-bower, With clasped hands stand, and upturned eyes,
Before an open flower; Exclaiming with a fervent joy,
“I have found the Passion-flower! “The Passion of our blessed Lord,
With all his pangs and pain, Set forth within a little flower,
In shape and colour plain! “ Behold the ladder, and the cord
With which his limbs were lied ; Behold his five deep, cruel wounds
In hands, and feet, and side!
The bloody crown of thorn;
Of God and man forlorn!
And take this flower with me,
As it was preached to me!"
Throughout the world was sent,
It's holy sentiment
of Christian fathers came ; And to profess the faith of Christ
No longer purchased shame :
And over wood and dell,
The stately minster-bell :
All with the nicest care ;
In fancies rich and rare.
With sainted names, a flower
For every holy hour;
The noble passion-flower.
-Oh, those old abbey-gardens
With their devices rich, Their fountains, and green, solemn walks,
And saint in many a niche! I would I could call back again
Those gardens in their pride,
The abbot dignified.
Half dozing in his cell;
That loved the flowers so well; That laid the abbey-gardens out,
With all their fancies quaint, And loved a little flower as much
As his own patron saint! That gardened late and early,
And twined into a bower, Wherein he set the crucifix
The good old passion-flower! Oh, would I could bring back again,
Those abbey-gardens old, And see the poor lay-brother
So busy in the mould; Tying up his flowers and thinking
The while, with streaming eyes Of Jesus in the garden;
Of Eve in Paradise ! - Alas, the abbey lieth low;
The Abbot's tomb is bare ; And he, the abbey-gardener,
Is all forgotten there ; His garden is a pasture field
Wherein the flocks repose ; And where his choicest flowers were set
The common clover grows! But still we have the passion-flower,
Although he lieth low,
In pleasant gardens grow!
And ever bring to mind,
Long ages left behind !
With its quaint beds and bowers,
Coined gold and silver fine,
THE IVY BUSH.
When thou wast at first designed
What the camel is, thou art,
Afar in the woods of Winter-burn,
Now we are here :- the words I spoke
all 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!"
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;