READING BOOK N° V. THE BROOK. I COME from haunts of coot and hern. By thirty hills I hurry down, Till last by Philip's farm I flow I chatter over stony ways, With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I wind about, and in and out, With many a silvery waterbreak And draw them all along, and flow I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I murmur under moon and stars And out again I curve and flow For men may come and men may go, Tennyson. THE SEA-GULL.* THE white sea-gull, the wild sea-gull, As he lies like a cradled thing at rest In the arms of a sunny sea! * From Sketches of Natural History,' published by A. W. Bennett. The little waves rock to and fro, As the fisher's bark, with breeze and tide, The ship, with her fair sails set, goes by, How the sea-gull sits on the rocking waves, And the sea-gull lies on the deep, deep sea, The white sea-gull, the bold sea-gull, Sitting, like a king, in calm repose, On the breast of the heaving sea! And wheel about, and madly scream To the sea that is roaring loud: And let the sea roar ever so loud, And the wind pipe ever so high, With a wilder joy the bold sea-gull Sends forth a wilder cry. For the sea-gull is a daring bird, And he loves with the storm to sail ; The little boat she is tossed about Like a sea-weed, to and fro; The tall ship reels like a drunken man, But the sea-gull laughs at the pride of man, On the torn-up breast of the night-black sea, The waves may rage, and the winds may roar, For he rides the sea, in its stormy strength, The white sea-gull, the bold sea-gull, He makes on the shore his nest, And away from land, a thousand leagues, And away to the north mid ice-rocks stern, To a sea that is lone and desolate, Nor those desert regions chill; In the midst of the cold, as on calm blue seas, And the dead whale lies on the northern shores, And the death of the great sea-creatures makes The wild sea-gull, the bold sea-gull, As he screams in his wheeling flight, As he sits on the waves in storm or calm, All comes to him aright! All comes to him as he likes it best, Nor any his will gainsay! And he rides on the waves like a bold young king That was crowned but yesterday! Mary Howitt. THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 'Shall I have nought that is fair?' saith he; Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again.' |