And by its slimy berries white, "A bird all green ran up a tree, A woodpecker we call, Who with his strong bill wounds the bark, To feed on insects small. "And many lapwings cried peewit, And one among the rest Pretended lameness, to decoy Us from her lonely nest. "Young starlings, martins, swallows, all "This bird we found, a kingfisher, Though dead, his plumes how bright! Do have him stuff'd, my dear papa, 'Twill be a charming sight. "When reach'd the heath, how wide the space, The air how fresh and sweet; We pluck'd these flow'rs and diff'rent heaths, The fairest we could meet. "The distant prospect we admired, "The mountains far and blue; A mansion here, a cottage there : See, here's the sketch we drew. "A splendid sight we next beheld, In clouds of crimson, purple, gold, True taste with knowledge," said papa, "By observation's gain'd; You've both us'd well the gift of sight, And thus reward obtain'd. "My Samuel in this desk will find "And pretty toys and pretty gifts A. T. FIRE. WHAT is it that shoots from the mountains so high, In many a beautiful spire? What is it that blazes and curls to the sky? This beautiful something is fire. Loud noises are heard in the caverns to groan, Huge stones to a wonderful distance are thrown, When winter blows bleak, and loud bellows the storm, Then bright burns the fire in the chimney so warm, Then call the poor trav'ller in, cover'd with snow, Fire is not so warm as the feelings that glow By fire rugged metals are fitted for use, Iron, copper, gold, silver, and tin; Without its assistance we could not produce So much as a minikin pin. Fire rages with fury wherever it comes; If only one spark should be dropp'd, And when the great morning of judgment shall rise,' How wide will its blazes be curl'd! With heat, fervent heat, it shall melt down the skies, And burn up this beautiful world. A. T. AIR. WHAT is it that winds about over the world, Into each little corner and crevice 'tis curl'd: In summer's still evening, how peaceful it floats, And no sound is heard but the nightingale's notes, The village-bells glide on its bosom serene, The shepherd's soft pipe warbles over the green, But oft in the winter it bellows aloud, With fury drives onward the snowy blue cloud, The sea rages wildly, and mounts to the skies, And the sailor in vain turns his pitiful eyes When fire lies and smothers, or gnaws through the beam, And engines in vain in cold torrents may stream, In the forest it tears up the sturdy old oak, The tall mountain pine into splinters is broke, And yet, though it rages with fury so wild, Without its assistance, the tenderest child Pure air pressing into the curious clay, Gave life to these bodies at first; |