The green and spangled dell, For thee diffuses its sweet scent and hue: I love, sweet bird! to see In the thin atmosphere. How thou art full of life How art thou joyous through thy transient hour Go forth, on thy glad way! The Eagle of a hundred years, is not SHE was, indeed, a pretty little creature, The wolf, indeed! You've left the nursery to but little purpose, -Was 't not a wolf, then? I have read the story A hundred times; and heard it told: nay, told it Myself, to my younger sisters, when we've shrank LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. Together in the sheets, from very terror, And, with protecting arms, each round the other, Last winter in the city, I and my school-mates, That met poor little Riding Hood i' the wood? Hidden: nay, I'm not so young, but I can spell it out, -Thus then, dear my daughter: You see the peril that attends the maiden Who in her walk through life, yields to temptation, And quits the onward path to stray aside, Allured by gaudy weeds. Nay, none but children Could gather butter-cups, and May-weed, mother. But violets, dear violets-methinks I could live ever on a bank of violets, Or die most happy there. You die, indeed, 127 128 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. At your years die! Then sleep, ma'am, if you please, As you did yesterday in that sweet spot Down by the fountain; where you seated you To read the last new novel-what d'ye call 't— It was, my love, And there, as I remember, your kind arm To your young limbs and spirit. No, believe me, To keep the insects from disturbing you Was sweet employment, or to fan your cheek You're a dear child! And then, To gaze on such a scene! the grassy bank, So gently sloping to the rivulet, All purple with my own dear violet, And sprinkled o'er with spring flowers of each tint. There was that pale and humble little blossom, Looking so like its namesake Innocence; The fairy-formed, flesh-hued anemone, With its fair sisters, called by country people Fair maids o' the spring. The lowly cinquefoil, too, And statelier marigold. The violet sorrel, Blushing so rosy red in bashfulness, And her companion of the season, dressed LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. In varied pink. The partridge evergreen, 129 Hanging its fragrant wax-work on each stem, From flower to flower, and the bright honey-bee- I dreamed not of these sights or sounds. Beyond the brook there lay a narrow strip, Like a rich riband, of enamelled meadow, Girt by a pretty precipice, whose top Was crowned with rose-bay. Half-way down there stood Sylphlike, the light fantastic columbine, As ready to leap down unto her lover Harlequin Bartsia, in his painted vest Tut! enough, enough, |