Take all the rest,-but give me this,
And the bird that nestles in it;
I love it, for it loves the Broom,
The green and yellow linnet.
Well, call the rose | the queen of flowers
And boast of that of Sharon,
Or lilies like to marble cups,
And the golden rod of Aaron :
I care not how these flowers' may
Beloved of man and woman;
The Broom | it is the flower for me,
That groweth on the common.
O the Broom, the yellow Broom,
The ancient poet' sung it,
And dear it is on summer days |
To lie at rest among it!
II. The Spider and the Fly.
"Will you walk into my parlour ?”
Said the Spider to the Fly,
""Tis the prettiest little parlour |
That ever you did spy;
I into my parlour |
Is up a winding stair,
And I've got 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."
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,
Το 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 you eyes!
I have 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 I 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 her 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 flattering 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.
III.-Song of a Captive.
I dream of all things free!
Of a gallant, gallant bark,
That sweeps I through storm and sea,
Like an arrow to its mark!
Of a stag that o'er the hills |
Goes bounding in his glee;
Of a thousand flashing rills
Of all things glad and free.
I dream of some proud bird,
A bright-eyed mountain king
In my visions I have heard |
The rushing of his wing.
I follow some wild river,
On whose breast | no sail may be;
Dark woods around it shiver-
I dream of all things free!
Of a happy forest child,
With the fawns and flowers at play; Of an Indian | 'midst the wild,
With the stars to guide his way;
Of a chief his warriors leading;
Of an archer's greenwood tree :--
My heart in chains is bleeding,
And I dream of all things free!
IV. Lucy Gray.
No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew,
The sweetest thing that ever grew |
Beside a cottage door.
You yet may see | the fawn at play,
The hareupon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray |
Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night,
You to the town must go ;
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
"That, father, will I gladly do,
'Tis scarcely afternoon,
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon."
At this the father raised his hook,
And snapp'd a faggot band;
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
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