[The volume is enriched with four steel-plate engravings, and 154 cuts, of clever execution.]

    [4] Val.  Max. vi. 8.

* * * * *

THE WONDERS OF THE LANE.

  Strong climber of the mountain’s side,
    Though thou the vale disdain,
  Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide
    The wonders of the lane. 
  High o’er the rushy springs of Don
    The stormy gloom is rolled;
  The moorland hath not yet put on
    His purple, green, and gold. 
  But here the titling[5] spreads his wing,
    Where dewy daisies gleam;
  And here the sunflower[6] of the spring
    Burns bright in morning’s beam. 
  To mountain winds the famish’d fox
    Complains that Sol is slow,
  O’er headlong steeps and gushing rocks
    His royal robe to throw. 
  But here the lizard seeks the sun
    Here coils, in light, the snake;
  And here the fire-tuft[7] hath begun
    Its beauteous nest to make. 
  Oh! then, while hums the earliest bee
    Where verdure fires the plain,
  Walk thou with me, and stoop to see
    The glories of the lane! 
  For, oh!  I love these banks of rock,
    This roof of sky and tree,
  These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock,
    And wakes the earliest bee! 
  As spirits from eternal day
    Look down on earth, secure,
  Look here, and wonder, and survey
    A world in miniature: 
  A world not scorned by Him who made
    E’en weakness by his might;
  But solemn in his depth of shade,
    And splendid in his light. 
  Light!—­not alone on clouds afar,
    O’er storm-loved mountains spread,
  Or widely teaching sun and star,
    Thy glorious thoughts are read;
  Oh, no I thou art a wondrous book
    To sky, and sea, and land—­
  A page on which the angels look—­
    Which insects understand! 
  And here, O light! minutely fair,
    Divinely plain and clear,
  Like splinters of a crystal hair,
    Thy bright small hand is here! 
  Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide
    Is Huron, girt with wood;
  This driplet feeds Missouri’s tide—­
    And that Niagara’s flood. 
  What tidings from the Andes brings
    Yon line of liquid light,
  That down from heaven in madness flings
    The blind foam of its might? 
  Do I not hear his thunder roll—­
    The roar that ne’er is still? 
  ’Tis mute as death!—­but in my soul
    It roars, and ever will. 
  What forests tall of tiniest moss
  Clothe every little stone!—­
  What pigmy oaks their foliage toss
    O’er pigmy valleys lone! 
  With shade o’er shade, from ledge to ledge,
    Ambitious of the sky,
  They feather o’er the steepest edge
    Of mountains mushroom-high. 
  Oh, God of marvels! who can tell
    What myriad living things