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The night comes down, - and in they bound,
The ravening wolves from the mountains round.
All day long have they come from far,
Snuffing that bloody field of war;
But the rolling drum, and the trumpet's bray,
And the strife of men through the livelong day,
For d while kept the prowling wolves away;
But now when the roaring tamults cease,
In that dreadful hush, which is not peace,
The wolves rush in to have their will,
And to lap of living blond their fill.
| Stark and stiff the dead men lie,

But the living, --Oh, woe, to hear their cry,
When they feel the teeth of those cruel foes,
And hear them lap up the blood that flows!
Oh, shame, that ever it hath been said,
That bloody war is a glorious trade,
And that soldiers die upon honour's bed!
Let us hence, let us hence, for horrible war
Than the merciless wolf is more merciless far!

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 woodbird'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 of 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 snuffing '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.
The aster and the columbine,

Sweet-pea and virgin-bower,
I love them all — but most I love

The good old passion-flower!
Oh yes, the good old passion-flower!

It bringeth to my mind, The young days of the Christian church,

Dim ages left behind. I see the bloody streets of Rome ;

The throng - the burning pyre, And Christians stand with clasped hands

Amid the raging fire.
I hear the women, angel-toned,

The men with courage high,
Preach their dear Lord amid their pangs, -

Forgive their foes - and die.
I see, far from the world apart,

In desert-places dwell,
The early fathers of the church,

In wood or mountain-cell.
And there the wondering thousands come,

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,
Where lie the wounded with the killed ;
Hundreds of mangled men they lie;
A horrible mass of agony!

The wild flowers of the desert

Grow round him thick as weeds,
And, in their beautiful array,

Of holy things he reads.
The red is the dear blood of Christ,

The white, the pure from sin,
The yellow is the seamless robe

Christ was apparelled in.
All four-leaved flowers bring to his mind

The cross whereon he died ;
And every thorn the cruel spear,

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!
· Behold the hammer and the nails;

The bloody crown of thorn;
And these his precious tears, when left

Of God and man forlorn!
"Up, I will forth into the world,

And take this flower with me,
To preach the death of Christ to all,

As it was preached to me!"
And thus the good old passion-flower

Throughout the world was sent,
To breathe into all Christian hearts

It's holy sentiment.
And in the after-times, when kings

Of Christian fathers came;
And to profess the faith of Christ

No longer purchased shame : When abbeys rose in towered state;

And over wood and dell,
Went sounding, with a royal voice,

The stately minster-bell :
Then was the abbey-garden made

All with the nicest care ;
Its little borders quaintly cut

In fancies rich and rare.
And there they brought all curious plants,

With sainted names, a flower
For every saint's day of the year, -

For every holy hour;
And there was set, in pride of place,

The noble passion-flower.

And there they kept the pious monks,

Within a garden small,
All plants that had a healing power,

All herbs medicinal.
And thither came the sick, the maimed,

The moonstruck and the blind, For holy flower, for wort of power,

For charmed root and rind ! - 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,
And see slow walking up and down,

The abbot dignified.
And the fat monk with sleepy eyes,

Half dozing in his cell;
And him, the poor lay-brother,

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,
And ever may its holy flowers

In pleasant gardens grow!
To garland bower and window pane,

And ever bring to mind,
The young days of the Christian church,

Long ages left behind !
To bring the abbey's garden back,

With its quaint beds and bowers,
And him the good lay-brother
That worked among the flowers.

Coined gold and silver fine,
And the riches of the mine,
These, elsewhere, as wealth are known,
Here, 't is thou art wealth alone!

THE IVY BUSH.

Afar in the woods of Winter-burn,
Beyond the slopes of feathery tern;
Beyond the lake, and beyond the fen,
Down in a wild and sylvan glen,
In the very heart of Winter-burn wood :
Last summer an ivy-bush there stood,
As strong as an oak, as thick as a yew,
This ivy-bush in the forest grew :
Let us go down this day and see
If in Winter-burn still grows this tree.

THE REINDEER.
REINDEER, not in fields like ours
Full of grass and bright with flowers;
Not in pasture-dales where glide
Never-frozen rivers wide;
Not on hills where verdure bright
Clothes them to the topmost height,
Hast thou dwelling ; nor dost thou
Feed beneath the orange-bough;
Nor doth olive, nor doch vine
Bud or bloom in land of thine:
Thou wast made to fend and fare
In a region bleak and bare;
In a dreary land of snow
Where green weeds can scarcely grow!
Where the skies are grey and drear;
Where 't is night for half the year;
Reindeer, where, unless for thee,
Human dweller could not be.

When thou wast at first designed
By the great Creative Mind –
With thy patience and thy speed;
With thy aid for human need;
With thy gentleness; thy might;
With thy simple appetite;
With thy foot so framed to go
Over frozen wastes of snow,
Thou wast made for sterner skies
Than horizoned Paradise.
Thou for frozen lands wast meant,
Ere the winter's frost was sent;
And in love he sped thee forth
To thy home, the frozen north,
Where he bade the rocks produce
Bitter lichens for thy use.

What the camel is, thou art,
Strong of frame, and strong in heart!
Peaceful ; steadfast to fulfil;
Serving man with right good-will;
Serving long, and serving hard;
Asking but a scant reward;
Of the snow a short repast,
Or the mosses cropped in haste;
Then away! with all thy strength,
Speeding him the country's length,
Speeding onward, like the wind,
With the sliding sledge behind.
What the camel is, thou art -
Doing well thy needful part;
Through the burning sand he goes,
Thou upon the upland snows;
Gifted each alike, yet meant
For lands and labours different!

Now we are here :- the words I spoke Were not, ye see, an idle joke! Stem, branch, and root, what think ye 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 asar 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;

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!

THE PHEASANT.

And when they hoot and when they shout,
'Tis woe to the wood-mice all about,
And when the fires of their eyes appear,
The weak little birds they quake for fear,
For they know that the owls, with a fierce delight,
Riot and feast, like lords, at night.

Oh bush, of ivy-trees the prime,
Men find thee out at winter time,
From the distant toun through frost and snow
To the woods of Winter-burn they go;
And if care were killed by an ivy-bough,
What a killer of care, old tree, wert thou!
And high in the hall, with laughter merry,
They bang thy twigs with their powdered berry;
And the red-gemmed holly they mix also,
With the spectral branches of misseltoe.
Rare old tree! and the cottage small
Is decked as well as the baron's hall,
For the children's hands are busy and fain
To dress up the little window-pane,
And set in the chinks of the roof-tree wood
The holly and ivy, green and good.

"Twere well for us, thou rare old tree,
Could we gladden the human heart like thee;
Like thee and the holly, that thus make gay
The lowliest cot for a winter's day!

The stock-dove builds in the old oak wood,
The rook in the elm-tree rears his brood;
The owl in a ruin doth hoot and stare ;
The mavis and merle build everywhere;
But not for these will we go to-day,
"Tis the pheasant that lures us hence away ;
The beautiful pheasant that loves to be
Where the young, green birches are waving free.

Away to the woods with the silvery rind,
And the emerald tresses afloat on the wind !
For 'tis joy to go to those sylvan bowers
When summer is rich with leaves and flowers;
And to see, 'mid the growth of all lovely things,
The joyous pheasant unfold his wings,
And then cower down, as if to screen
His gorgeous purple, gold, and green!

MORNING THOUGHTS.

The streams run on in music low, 'T will be joy by their flowery banks to go; "T will be joy to come to the calamus beds, Where a broken root such odour sheds; And to see how the water-sedge uplifts Its spires and crowns — the summer's gifts ; To see the loosestrife's purple spear, And the wind through the waving reeds to hear. Then on through hazelly lanes away To the light green fields all clear of hay, Where along the thick hedge-side we greet, Tall purple vetch and meadow-sweet; Past old farm-house and water-mill, Where the great colt'e-foot grows wild at will; Where the water-rat swirns calm and cool, And pike bask in the deep mill-pool.

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 veinèd leaves ;
From little birds that madly sing ;
From insects futtering 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.

So on and away to the mossy moor,
Stretching on for many a mile before,
A far-seen wild, where all around
Some rare and beautiful thing is found ;
Green mosses many, and sundew red,
And the cotton-rush with its plumy head;
The spicy sweet-gale loved so well,
And golden wastes of the asphodel !
Yet on and on, o'er the springy mass, –
We have yet the bog-rush bed to cross ;
And then a-nigh, all shimmering green
To the sunny breeze, are the birch-woods seen,
Than the green birch-wood a lovelier spot
In the realms of fairy-land was not !
And the pheasant is there all life, all grace,
The lord of this verdurous dwelling-place.

Oh! beautiful bird, in thy stately pride,
Thou wast made in a waste of flowers to hide,
And to fling to the sun the glorious hues
Of thy rainbow-gold, thy green and blues !
Yes, beautiful pheasant, the birch-wood bowers,
Rich many-formed leaves, bright-tinted flowers,
Broad masses of shade, and the sunshine free,
In thy gorgeous beauty are meet for thee!

HARVEST.FIELD FLOWERS.

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 dews 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.

The sea is fresh, the sea is fair,

And the sky calm overhead,
And the sea-gull lies on the deep, deep sea,

Like a king in his royal bed!
Oh the white sea-gull, the bold sea-gull,

A joyful bird is he,
Sitting, like a king, in calm repose

On the breast of the heaving sea!
The waves leap up, the wild wind blows,

And the gulls together crowd,
And wheel about, and madly scream

To the sea that is roaring loud ;And let the sea roar ever so loud,

And the winds pipe ever so high, With a wilder joy the bold sea-gull,

Sendeth forth a wilder cry, -
For the sea-gull he is a daring bird,

And he loves with the storm to sail;
To ride in the strength of the billowy wea;

And to breast the driving gale!
The little boat she is tossed about,

Like a sea-weed, to and fro;
The tall ship reels like a drunken man,

As the gusty tempests blow,
But the sea-gull laughs at the pride of man,

And sails in a wild delight
On the torn-up breast of the night-black sea,

Like a foam-cloud, calm and white.
The waves may rage and the winds may roar,

But he fears not wreck nor need,
For he rides the sea, in its stormy strength,

As a strong man rides his steed!
Oh the white sea-gull, the bold sea-gull!

He makes on the shore his nest,
And he tries what the inland fields may be ;

But he loveth the sea the best!
And away from land, a thousand leagues

He goes 'mid surging foam ;
What matter to him is land or shore,

For the sea is his truest home!
And away to the north 'mong ice-rocks stem,

And among the frozen snow,
To a sea that is lone and desolate,

Will the wanton sea-gull go.
For he careth not for the winter wild,

Nor those desert-regions chill;
In the midst of the cold, as on calm, blue seas,

The sea-gull hath its will! And the dead whale lies on the northern shores,

And the seal, and the sea-horse grim,
And the death of the great sea-creature makes

A full, merry feast for him!
Oh the wild sea-gull, the bold sea-gull!

As he screams in his wheeling flight:
As he sits on the waves in storm or calm

All cometh to him aright!
All cometh to him as he liketh best;

Nor any his will gainsay;
And he rides on the waves like a bold, young king,

That was crowned but yesterday! The Gull, notwithstanding the gormandizing and rather disgusting character given of it hy Bewick,

THE SEA-GULL.
On the white sea-gull, the wild sea-gull,

A joyful bird is he,
As he lies like a cradled thing at rest,

In the arms of a sunny sea!
The little waves rock to and fro,

And the white gull lies asleep, As the fisher's bark, with breeze and tide,

Goes merrily over the deep. The ship, with her fair sails set, goes by,

And her people stand to note, How the sea-gull sits on the rocking waves

As still as an anchored boat.

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