Flocks on the mountains, And birds upon their spray, Tree, turf, and fountains, All hold holiday; And love, the life of living things, Love waves his torch, love claps his wings, ΤΟ WHEN I was sick, how patiently thou sat'st beside my bed; When I was faint, how lovingly thine arm upheld my head; When I was wearied out with pain, perverse in misery, How ready was thy watchful aid my wishes to supply! And thou art sick, and thou art weak, and thou art rack'd with pain, But cheerful still, untamed of ill, does yet thy heart remain: And have I nursed and tended thee since first thy griefs began? Forgive, forgive, my — the selfishness of man! PARODY OF LISTON'S "BEAUTIFUL MAID." My fishmonger told me that soles were most dear: For salmon and shrimps 'twas the wrong time of year, I brought home my beautiful maid, 66 Here, cook, dress this beautiful maid! Come boil it, don't spoil it, but see it well done, But an ugly black cat-I speak it with grief, My delicate tit-bit waylaid, The cook turn'd her back, and the long-whisker'd thief Ran away with my beautiful maid! She claw'd up my beautiful maid! She eloped with my beautiful maid! Oh pussy-you hussy, oh what have you done, You've eat up my beautiful maid! BOW-MEETING SONG. MERRY archers, come with me! To our tent beside the holly! Earth is green and Heaven is gay, Wherefore should we not be jolly! Here is friendship, mirth is here, And, with hope and blended fear, Our life, alas! is fraught with care, Merry archers, come with me! BOW-MEETING SONG. YE spirits of our Fathers, The hardy, bold, and free, Who chased o'er Cressy's gory field A fourfold enemy! From us who love your sylvan game, To you the song shall flow, To the fame of your name Who so bravely bent the bow. 'Twas merry then in England, With Robin Hood and Little John Whose cheer was the deer, And his only friend the bow! 'Twas merry then in England And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth In garb of green did go The shade to invade With the arrow and the bow. Ye spirits of our Fathers! Extend to us your care, 'Twas merry yet in Old England, Full well her archers know; And shame on their name Who despise the British bow! BOW-MEETING SONG. [Mr. Reginald Heber sometimes promoted by his pen the harmless merriment of the bow meetings, which he mentions in a letter as the chief glory of the neighbourhood. From the songs which he wrote for this purpose, the following is selected for its imagery and historical allusions. It was sung at Harwarden Castle in Flintshire, the seat of Sir Stephen Glynne, Bart.] By yon castle wall, 'mid the breezes of morning, The genius of Cambria stray'd pensive and slow; The oak-wreath was wither'd her tresses adorning, And the wind through its leaves sigh'd its murmur of woe. She gazed on her mountains with filial devotion, She gazed on her Dee as he roll'd to the ocean, And Cambria! poor Cambria!" she cried with emotion, "Thou yet hast thy country, thy harp, and thy bow! "Sweep on, thou proud stream, with thy billows all hoary; As proudly my warriors have rush'd on the foe: But feeble and faint is the sound of their glory, For time, like thy tide, has its ebb and its flow. Ev'n now, while I watch thee, thy beauties are fading; The sands and the shallows thy course are invading; Where the sail swept the surges the sea-bird is wading; And thus hath it fared with the land of the bow! "Smile, smile, ye dear hills, 'mid your woods and your flowers, Whose heather lies dark in the moon's dewy glow! A time must await you of tempest and showers, For me, though the whirlwind has shiver'd and cleft me, |