Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him —
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory.

THE

THE SEA-FOWLER

MARY HOWITT

HE baron hath the landward park, the fisher hath the sea;

But the rocky haunts of the sea-fowl belong alone to me.

The baron hunts the running deer, the fisher nets the brine;

But every bird that builds a nest on ocean-cliffs is mine.

Come on then, Jock and Alick, let's to the sea-rocks bold:

I was train'd to take the sea-fowl ere I was five years old.

The wild sea roars, and lashes the granite crags below, And round the misty islets the loud, strong tempests blow.

And let them blow! Roar wind and wave, they shall not me dismay;

I've faced the eagle in her nest and snatch'd her young

away.

The eagle shall not build her nest, proud bird although she be,

Nor yet the strong-wing'd cormorant, without the leave

of me.

The eider-duck has laid her eggs, the tern doth hatch her young,

And the merry gull screams o'er her brood; but all to me belong.

Away then in the daylight, and back again ere eve; The eagle could not rear her young, unless I gave her leave.

The baron hath the landward park, the fisher hath the

sea;

But the rocky haunts of the sea-fowl belong alone to me.

SUMMER WOODS

MARY HOWITT

OME ye into the summer woods;
There entereth no annoy ;
All greenly wave the chestnut leaves,
And the earth is full of joy.

I cannot tell you half the sights
Of beauty you may see,
The bursts of golden sunshine,
And many a shady tree.

There, lightly swung in bowery glades,
The honeysuckles twine;
There blooms the rose-red campion,

And the dark-blue columbine.

There grows the four-leaved plant, "true love,"
In some dusk woodland spot;
There grows the enchanter's night-shade,

And the wood forget-me-not.

And many a merry bird is there,
Unscared by lawless men;

The blue-winged jay, the woodpecker,
And the golden-crested wren.

Come down, and ye shall see them all,
The timid and the bold;

For their sweet life of pleasantness,
It is not to be told.

And far within that summer wood,
Among the leaves so green,
There flows a little gurgling brook,
The brightest e'er was seen.

There come the little gentle birds,
Without a fear of ill,

Down to the murmuring water's edge,
And freely drink their fill!

And dash about and splash about,

The merry little things;

And look askance with bright black eyes, And flirt their dripping wings.

I've seen the freakish squirrels drop

Down from their leafy tree,

The little squirrels with the old;

Great joy it was to me!

And down unto the running brook,

I've seen them nimbly go;

And the bright water seemed to speak

A welcome kind and low.