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Drawn by her sweet lips' perfume,As a bee to golden broom,When the braes are all in bloom,Stole the Prince across the room.Every step he nearer set,Oped the eyes of violet—Oped a little—wider yet!—Till the white lids, quite asunder,Showed the beauties hidden under—Showed the soft eyes, full of wonder,Opening, towards him turned—Till their radiance bent upon himFrom his trance of marvel won him;And his bosom burnedWith the passion to outpourAll his soul her feet before,Careless if she spurned,So that he might only tellThat he loved her—and how well!Now through the palace woke the stir of life;Both fork and knifeWere in the banquet-hall with vigour plied,While far and wideAwoke so great a riot after the quiet,It seemed as if the household was at strife.Girl, woman, boy, and manBustled about and ran—All hurried, not one plodding!Because, you see,Each thought that he or sheHad been the only one that had been nodding,And, fearful of detection,Was bound to strive and look alive,In order to escape correction.Meanwhile the red sun set. And yetThe household did not into order get:All was surprise and wonder,Error and blunder.The fire was out, the cook was in a pet,The feast was cold, the Queen was in a fret;The hunters just returned, they thought, from hunting,Felt it affrontingTheir game should get so very high and mite-y;The housemaid, seeing all the dust and dirt,Felt hurt,It drove her almost crazy—at least flighty.But over all this din and turmoil soonUprose the silver moon,And by its rays shed on the dewy grass,Forth from the palace that young pair did pass,And threaded the deep shadesIn the arcadesOf sombre forests that around them lay.And so they took their wayTo Fairyland, wherein, as legends say,'Mid mirth and merry-making, song and laughter,They married, living happy ever after—And there, I'm told, they 're living to this day!
BY the side of a woodA cottage once stood,Where a little girl dwelt, who wore a red hood.Her father of trees in the forest was cutter,And her mother sold poultry, milk, eggs, cream, and butter.The little red hood,It must be understood,Belonged to a mantle—as pretty and proper a cloakAs e'er you set eyes on:—in short, a red opera cloak.But operas ne'er, that I am aware,Had been heard of by any one dwelling round there;Whereas every dame had a cloak bright as flameThat she wore when out riding (which gave it its name.)For then in those partsThey'd no chaises, spring-carts,Gigs, or waggonettes, such as a farmer now starts;So Hodge, Reuben, or Giles,Went his eight or ten milesBy the road—or the bridle path, dodging the stiles—On his nag, grey or brown, to the next market town.And were you to meet him, I'd bet you a crownYou would certainly find him(If your sight's not, like mine, dim,)A-jogging along with the goodwife behind him,Perched up on the pillion of Dobbin or Dapple,With a cloak like a poppy and cheeks like an apple:—A cloak with a hood, that was really some good,For use, not for ornament—one that you could(That is, if you would)Draw over your face quite closely, in caseThe sun was too warm or the rain fell apace,—A both-ears-protecting, eyes-shading, hair-hiding hood.And that's why they called the child Little Red Riding Hood.By the side of the cot where Red Riding Hood dweltWas a garden, surrounded by trees;The flowers were the sweetest that ever were smelt,And were greatly beloved by the bees,Who led jolly livesIn a couple of hivesWell sheltered from shower and from breeze.Beyond the small garden, whose flowers were so sweetBees wooed them through long summer days,The woodman had cleared a small patch for the wheatThat, as each year came round, he would raise,To grind and to bakeFor bread and for cake——Simple wheat, not that wonder, a maize!Now the sun rises and the world awakes,For morning—like a careless servant—breaks;And from house, hut, and cot,Hind, farmer, or what not,Each villager his way to labour takes.Each stride he makes a thousand dew-drops shakesFrom off the fresh green grass they were besprinkling,And makes them wink,And gleam, and glance, and blink,Until the peasant in great haste you thinkBecause he walks the whole way in a twinkling.Red Riding Hood's father has shouldered his axe,And is off to the woods again.At the thwacks and the cracks as the timber he hacksThe echoing shades complain;But woe to the stem that his steel attacks,For its murmurs are all in vain.Red Riding Hood's mother has risen with day,As soon as the hens were awake,And down to the kitchen has taken her way,From the hearth all the embers to rake,And the butter and flour on the table to lay,For she's bent upon making a cake.But little Red Riding Hood's slumbering yet—She is terribly lazy, I fear;For little folks up in the morning should getAs soon as the light becomes clear,And not sleep awayThe best time of the day,Which is six, or about:—as I hear.When the cake's nice and brownThe young lady comes down,In her little white apron and little blue gown;Has for breakfast a bowl of fresh milk from the cow,And when she has finished, her mother says, "Now,Just slip on your cloak, dear, as quick as you can; IWant you to carry some things to your granny!"Red Riding Hood's drest,And, looking her best,Is only awaiting her mother's behest.On the table is laidThe cake that was madeEre Red Riding Hood opened her eyes, I'm afraid,And beside it a potWhose equal could notAt Fortnum and Mason's be easily got;For, as every one tells me, fine fragrant fresh honeyIs not always obtainable, even for money.There are very few treats in the matter of sweets,Like the honey one fresh from the honeycomb eats.But fond as I am of a little fresh honey,I can't watch the bees in their wanderings sunnyWithout a great risk of a painful disaster,Though I think it would trouble the famous "Beemaster"(As his real name's a secret, we 'll say Dr. Thingamy)To explain to a "fellah,"Qui tam amat viella,How it is that the bees make an object to sting o' me.)"Little Red Riding Hood, child of mine,".Said the mother to her daughter,"Through the forest of beeches, and larches, and pine,And down by the pool of water,And over the fields to your grandmother's cotWith the griddle-cake and the honey-pot,Go, and tell her what you have brought her.But—mind what I say—do not delayTo chatter with folks or pick flowers on the way!"Little Red Riding Hood promised her motherShe'd not stop on the road to do one or the other."Such allurements I old enough now to withstand am,So I 'll carry the honey and cake to my grandam,And then you shall see how quick I can be.Good bye, dearest mother!" And off hurried she.
The fields with buttercups are gold,The hedges white with may;The woodbine's trumpets manifoldAre bright beside the way;The foxglove rears its lofty spireWhere hang the purple bells;In shady quiet nooks retireThe modest pimpernels;The poppy the green corn-fields decks,The meads are bright with cowslips.She loiters on her way, nor recksHow rapidly time now slips.She enters now a glade,Dappled with light and shade,Through which the path is to her grandam's made;And as she strolls along,Singing her careless song,She meets a grim grey wolf. She's not afraid,Because close byShe hears her father plyHis axe, and knows he'd to the rescue flyIf Master Wolf should any treason try.And Master Wolf knows too it would not do,Although it's hard with such a meal in view;And so most laudablyHe makes himself quite pleasant,For the present,Albeit his stomach's crying "cupboard" audibly."What a nice cloak of scarlet!How pretty you are! LetMe carry that cake or that very big jar:—letMe carry it, pray—are you taking it far? LetMe see you safe there!" said the wicked old varlet.Alas! for Little Red Riding Hood,That she should be naughty instead of good;That she should let the old wolf flatter,And allow him to walkBy her side and talk,When her mother so strictly forbade her to chatter.
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"What your name is, my dear," he said, "fain I'd be knowing.""I'm Little Red Riding Hood." "Where are you going?""I am going to my granny's, to carry this jarAnd this cake from my mother." "Indeed! Is it far?""Oh, you go through the wood, and a little beyondYou 'll see a small cottage that stands by a pond.""And your granny lives there?" "Yes; but now she's so oldShe can't get out of bed and she suffers from cold.""Poor dear," said the wolf, with a pitying grin;"But how does she do about letting you in?""When I reach granny's cottage I always take careTo knock at the door till she calls out 'Who's there?']Your grandchild, who brings you a bite and a supFrom her mother,' say I;And she's sure to reply,'If you pull at the bobbin the latch will fly up.'That's how I get in." "Oh!" said wolf, in a hurry,"This lane is my way,So I 'll wish you good day."And he vanished at once in a terrible scurry;Said Red Riding Hood, "Doesn't he seem in a flurry!"Like a shot from a rifle,—or faster a trifle,Away goes the wolf, and, I 'll wager my life, 'llBe up to some mischief or other ere long,For his only delight is in doing what's wrong.Off through the wood—(he's up to no good),Hastening still—(bent upon ill),Round by the pond, to the cottage beyond(He's after some evil I 'll give you my bond),Stealing along—(intending a wrong)Towards the grandam's abode, by the skirts of the road,(By skirts I don't mean either muslin or calico,)He sneaks to what Shakespeare has called "miching mallecho."Rap, tap! at the door.In the midst of a snoreThe old lady woke up with a start, and said, "Lor!Red Riding Hood ne'er knocked so loudly before.Oh, deary me, it cannot be she;I 'll pretend I 'm still sleeping, and then we shall see."Rap, tap! once moreShe heard at the door:The wolf rapped so hard that his knuckles were sore."The old woman sleeps like a top—what a bore!If she doesn't make haste,My time I shall waste—I shall miss that tit-bit who's so much to my taste."Rap, tap! Tap, rap!"She must wake from her nap,Or the child will be hereBefore I can clearHer foolish old grandmother up, every scrap."At last said the grandam,"I rather a hand amAt sleeping, I know,Very soundly, and soPerhaps she has waited and knocked there so longThat, in order to wake me, her tap becomes strong.Who 's there?" then she cried;Said the wolf from outside,Disguising his voice the deception to hide,And whispering low with his mouth to a cranny,"It's no one but Little Red Riding Hood, granny!I've brought you some butter, some eggs, and a cakeThat mother got up in the morning to make,And she sends you besides some nice cream in a cup""If you pull at the bobbin the latch will fly up!"Wolf pulled at the bobbin,And—what a sad job!—inHe went; but no sooner had thrust his grim knob in(But for rhyming, insteadOf "knob" I'd say "head")Than the frightened old lady sat bolt up in bed:But before she had time to exclaim, "Oh my gracious!"She was bolted entire by the monster voracious;Who, though the fierce pangs of his hunger were gratified,Remarked to himself, with a grumble dissatisfied,Tough skinny old folks are not nice things to victual one;However, no matter! Here goes for the little one!"
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Then he turned down the bed-clothes and quickly jumped in,And granny's big nightcap tied under his chin:And he cuddled the clothesClose up to his nose,And was speedily off in a very nice doze;For said he, "For Red Riding Hood if I'd have anyRespectable twist I must first digest granny.For though at one meal I could eat child, pa,andmamma,There's a good deal of picking somehow about grandmamma!"
Little Red Riding Hood loitered along,Stopping to hear while the thrush sang his song,Or to list in the croft to the blackbird's clear whistle,Or to follow the feathery down of the thistle—Or blowing in flocksThe seeds from the "clocks"Of the bright dandelions, or searching the docksFor the burrs, whose chief trickIs to catch and to stickTo one's garments, no matter if thin ones or thick:(Though it matters toyou,Because they come through—Supposing your clothes are the former—and prick.Why, foolish butterfly,Will you skip, flutter, flyClose by the child? You 're an idiot utter, fly!She puts down the honey and cake in a trice,And the latter's immediately stolen by the mice.But what does the latter at all to her matter:She's after that butterfly, mad as a hatter.[It's not clear to meWhy a hatter should beProverbially called a fit subject forDeLuncitico—so runs the writ—inquirendo;But I fancy the hatter this harsh innuendoMust, in the first place, to a humorous friend owe,Who fain in the sneer would his gratitude smotherFor a man who's invariablyfeltfor another.]Through pastures and meads as the butterfly leads,Red Riding Hood follows, and little she heedsThe orders and warning her mother that morningHad given her, or even her grandmother's needs.But when she comes back once again to the track,And finds the cake gone, she grows frightened. "Alack!"She cries, "what a loss!Won't granny be cross,To breakfast off nothing—with honey for sauce?"Just then a glittering dragon-flyOn gauzy pinion darted by.Oh, he was clad in burnished mail,His wing a fairy galley's sail,And he was twice as big, I ween,As the biggest butterfly she had seen.Soon forgotten the honey's;She off with a run isWhere the dragon-fly glancing so bright in the sun is.By ditches and hedges, by rushes and sedges,By ponds full of reeds and all sorts of weeds,By pools that are stagnant, and brooks full of waterbreaks,She chasesLibellulaEagerly. [Well, you'll a-Llow there must someAwful punishment comeWhen her mother's commands in this manner a daughter,But conceive her concernWhen, on her return,She finds that an empty jar's all she can earn.For the ants had discovered it placed in a sunny spot,And cleared all the honey, and left but the honey's pot.Said she, "Lack-a-day!What will grandmother say?And shan't I get scolded for stopping to play!I'd better get on without further delay!"Resolution how vain! Again and againShe loiters in meadow, wood, highway, and lane—Strays into the coppiceTo pick the bright poppies,Or climbs up the hedge for the nest that a-top is;Or else she emergesWhere widely divergesThe forest's long avenues—leafy green archesOf beeches, of ashes, of elms and of larches,Which she lingers beneathTo pick for a wreathA bright trail of ivy, that some lofty stem on is,Or with bluebells her apron to fill—or anemones;Or to watch the quaint habitsAnd ways of the rabbits,And the plans of the crows,Who, as every one knows,Establish their scoutsAt certain look-outs,To warn them of danger whenever they 've doubts.[As touching these rooks,Natural History booksDeclare that the thing to their greatestéclat'sThe fact—which should win them the warmest applause—That nothing they do is e'er done without caws.]But now she has passedThrough the forest, and fastIs approaching her grandmother's cottage at last.What excuse can she makeFor the honey and cake?At the thought of that scrape she's beginning to quake.She creeps through the garden,Attempting to hardenHer heart, and declare she "Don't care a brass farden."But, in spite of her trying,She's very near crying,And asking her granny to grant her a pardon.The knock is so faint, that the wolf's scarce awareThat there's any one knocking, but cries out, "Who's there"Red Riding Hood"—here on her speech broke a sob in—"Come to see you." Said wolf, "If you pull at the bobbin,The latch will fly up!" So she opened the door,And tottered with terrified feet o'er the floor.Said wolf, "Where's the cakeMother promised to make?""Please, granny, to-day she's not able to bake,For love or for money.""Then where is my honey?""What makes you expect any, granny? How funny!"Said Little Red Riding Hood, trying to smile,Although in a terrible fright all the while."To send me no breakfast," said wolf, "she was silly;I 'm feeling so hungry and faint, I'm quite chilly.As you 've brought me no food, you must warm me instead;I 'll take you in place of my breakfast in bed.So take off your things, and, some help to your gran to be,Jump into bed, just for once warming-pan to be."She takes off her clothes,And into bed goes.Old wolf keeps the counterpane up to his nose,But the child sees with fearThat, now she's so near,Her grandmother's looking remarkably queer.She trembles with fright, and in sad perturbation,Commences the following brief conversation:
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"Oh, granny, I view your long ears with surprise!""They 're to hear all you say to the letter.""Oh, granny, how fiery and big are your eyes!""They 're to see you all the better.""Oh, granny, your teeth are tremendous in size!""They 're to eat you!"—AND HE ATE HER.
'THERE once was a miller, who lived till he died—It's been done by a good many people beside;But this miller, you see,In particular—he,On the brink of the grave—"on the banks of thedee,"As a Scotchman would say (videsong "Annie Laurie;"It North-country short isForarticula mortis)—Made a will, whence arises the whole of my story.Three sons had this miller,To whom all his "siller," *Stock, business, premises, goodwill, and "wilier"—A tenure, in short, not to spin out my verse, on allThings he died "seised" of, both real and personal,(Exclusive, of course, of the very bad coughWith which he was seized—and which carried him off)He had to devise—And, as you would surmise,Would divide in accordance with ages and size.But no!—not a bit!He hadn't the witFor such a division—or didn't see fit;* Though with terms Caledonian this story is filled,You 'll find it, I hope, only scotched, and not killed.But made a partitionSo strange in conditionThat to one 't was a blow—for the others a hit.It is half after one,The funeral 's done,The reading should now of the will be begun.The youngest is crying,The others are tryingTo think who's most colour for praising the dying;Their loss doesn't grieve,Since it does not bereaveThem of all that their father was able to leave.(Though "where there s a will," says the proverb, you know,There's always a Way"—there's not always a Woe.)When the will is recitedThey both are delighted,For it proves their young brother is cruelly slighted.For joy they with decency scarce can bemean themWhen they find that their dadEvery thing that he hadHas left them, the eldest, to own all between them,Save one thing—and thatIs only the cat,Which he leaves to the youngest, described as "that brat."The youngest, poor lad! didn't care what he had,By the loss of a father, not fortune, made sad.But as silent he sat, nursing his cat,And quite at a loss what he next should be at,Each brother, addressing him sternly as Nemesis,(Who, the Greeks say, less just and more cruel than Themis is,)Said, "Now then, young Lazybones! Clear off the premises!''He asked for some bread and some straw for a bed,And he'd work like a slave for his brothers, he said.But they both answered, "No! you'd much better go:We shall have to assist you along if you're slow!"So, half broken-hearted, the poor lad departed,And thus in the world for himself he was started.'T was a poorish look out,Of that there's no doubt;He'd not an idea what he'd best set about.So, much to be pitied,The old mill he quitted.The door gave a slam—Notonepang was spared for him—He sat by the dam,And that nobody cared for himHe could not help feeling—and what was prepared for him!Thus he sat, while big tear-drops his eyes were suffusing,Nor speaking a word,Till he suddenly heard,As he was a-musing, his cat, too, a mew sing."Ah, Puss," he said, "youAre unfortunate too;I'm inclined to think yours the more serious disasterIn having a penniless wretch for a master."Puss, thus addressed, his master caressed,And then in plain language his feelings expressed."Dear master," said he, "just leave it to me;You shall see, then, I promise, what then you shall see.I 'll at once undertakeYour fortune to make,And assist you to wreak your revenge on those brutes;And all that I want is a new pair of boots!"The notion was funny:He hadn't much money,But as nothing more hopeful appeared to be done, heWent off to a cobbler, who lived in a stall,And ordered the boots to be made—rather small.New boots, too! Not shabby, old, worn-out, and holey 'uns,But a spick-and-span pair of resplendent Napoleons.The boots arrived, the bill was paid,And Pussy an excursion made.Some snares he prepares,To take dozens of hares,And a wire that will grab itsQuantum of rabbits;Without burning cartridges,Catches some partridgesAnd several pheasants;And bears them as presentsTo the court of the King—I can't tell you his name,But history reports he was partial to game.Day after day the cat brought his preyIn numbers sufficient to load a big dray,Or the cart which they call in the Crimea an arabah;And each single thingHe brought to the King"With the loyal respects of the Marquis of Carabas."Said the monarch one day, "Come, tell me, I pray,Whereabouts is the Marquis's property, eh?The cat, as requested, the quarter suggestedWhere the lands lay whose fee in the Marquis was vested.Said the monarch, "Hooray!I'll drive over that way:Tell the Master of Horse just to bring round the chay."In a moment at that off went the catAt what modern slang styles "a terrible bat,"Faster and faster, till, reaching his master,He cried, "Of your clothes be at once off a caster,And jump in the river that runs by the path!""In the river—" "Don't talk, sir, but pray go to bath!"On the bank Pussy stayed, while his master obeyed;But the Royal procession so long was delayedThat he felt very cold in the stream, I'm afraid.At last, "Here they come!" cried Pussy: "now, mumIs the word!" Said his master, "With cold I am numb,But, while my teeth chatter so, cannot be dumb."Said the cat, "My young friend, to this warning attend;If you do, it will all turn out well in the end.You've good fortune at hand, and the path's very quick to it,So keep a look-out,Mind what you 're about,And whatever I say, say you likewise—and stick to it!"
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Then crafty Puss goesAnd hides all the clothesWith grass and dead leaves; and when he perceivesThe royal coach nearing him, loudly calls "Thieves!"His cries the whole neighbourhood round might awaken—"The Marquis of Carabas' clothes have been taken!"Said the King, "Deary me!What is it I see?My good friend the cat up a tropical tree?"Ah," said Puss, "my dear master has had a disaster,For some one has cut—" "Cut! Oh, here's some court plaster.""No, sire," said the cat,"He doesn't want that.He needs no court plaster, but needs a court suit;For while he was bathing some mannerless brute,Who had chosen the reeds and the rushes to lurk in,Cut away with his hosen, knee-breeches, and jerkin.""Is that all?" said the King;"My servants shall bringWhatever is needful—cloak, stockings, cap, sword, robe,Gloves, collar, and doublet—in short, a whole wardrobe,Each thing that he wants,From castor to pants."[Of course, you 're aware when a king takes the airHe's provided with changes of clothing to spare—At least, so this legend would seem to declare.]The servants produce for the Marquis's useA rich velvet suit with gold trimmings profuse,A rich velvet mantle with a lining of satin,A diamond brooch stuck a point-lace cravat in,While another the ostrich plume fastened the hat in.These elegant clothesWerecouleur de rose,With trimmings of green and with apple-green hose,Withnoeuds of ruban, to encase his stoutmollets(For further particulars, please seeLe Follet).Our hero, attired in the garb thus acquired,By the King's lovely daughter was greatly admired,Who sat (as before I intended to state) onThe right of her pa in the royal "phe-ayton."But I'm bound to confessOur hero no lessWas charmed by her grace and her beauty in turn—For if she likedhislooks, he was ravished with "hernSaid the King, "My dear Marquis, it's really a treatThus to fall in with one I 've been dying to meet.Pray take a seat,And let me repeatHow much I'm obliged for your numerous presentsOf partridges, rabbits, grouse, woodcocks, and pheasants.We 're going for a drive—pray enter the carriage.Here's my daughter—she's yours, if you wish it, in marriage.Any news? None, I fear:Bread's still getting dear,But the weather is fine for the time of the year.I suppose we are passing here through your estate?"So the King rattled on,But the old miller's son,Unable to answer, sat scratching his pate,But Pussy cut in with, "Yes! though he's in doubt of it;And for why? Dash my wig!Because it's so bigHe never can tell if he's in it or out of it.But your Majesty, p'rhaps,Will order your chapsTo drive to the castle, which certainly capsAny castles you'll meet in a long summer day;And, if you 'll allow me, I'll show them the way."To Pussy's request the King promptly accedes,Bids his coachman to follow wherever he leads,And away the cat spedA long way aheadOn a road that was bordered by corn-land and meads.Pussy well knewThat the land they passed throughBelonged to a wizard—a mighty one, too——Who, besides with the Evil One being "colloguer,"(Don't think I, in quoting from "Arrah na Pogue," err:It's what Shaun the Post says to Feeney,—the rogue—urgh!) *Was that Middle Aged cannibal known as an ogre.But where'er in the fields, as on they kept going,They came upon labourers reaping or mowing,Or ploughing or harrowing, weeding or sowing—The cat ran before,And cried out, "Give o'er!Your master commands!" and the workmen forebore.Said Puss, "He 'll approachIn a splendid state-coach,And has sent me before him these tidings to broach,And to bid you, unless you wish demons to tease you,If the King, his companion, inquires who employs you,With one voice in a moment, men, women, and boys, youMust haste to declare,With a satisfied air,'The Marquis of Carabas, sire, an it please you!'See! The carriage draws near!Come, haste! Do you hear?Quit all occupations,And haste to your stations,And give him the lowest of low salutations!"
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The poor people, afraid,His orders obeyed.—The Marquis himself became rather dismayed,* This expletive, used to express utter loathing,I scarcely can spell—One really can't tellHow to put sounds in etymological clothing.Thinking what was to end all these funny proceedingsInto which he was following Pussy's queer leadings;But he felt he was sinned against rather than sinningFor Pussy strange funWith the clothes had begun,But what would the close be of such a beginning?Still on Pussy speedsBy pastures and meads,And the coachman still follows wherever he leads."Your estates are enormous—Pray, Marquis, inform us,If I may inquire,Did they come from your sire?He must really have been a most terrible lord,Acquiring so much by the right of the sword.I'm pleased to perceive,With such riches to leave,He'd a son of such meritThe wealth to inheritOf so mighty a conqueror and enemy-killer.""Yes," said the youth,"To tell you the truth,My late father had quite a renown as a miller."The Princess smiled sweetly,As if to hint neatly,'Though she counted the fatherA conqueror rather,She fancied the sonHad a victory won—In fact, she was sure—as the smile would infer—About one of his conquests, and that was of her!For she felt he was lord of her bosom completely.And now the fields and meads they leave;To right and left huge mountains rise,And seem—so much their heights deceive—With lofty crests to touch the skies.Pine forests clothe their sombre sides,Where dark ravines and gorges frown,And many a mountain torrent glides,Or bounds from ledge to ledge adown.Their mighty wings the eagles flapHigh up among the summits lone,Whose peaks the snows eternal cap,Or where the glacier billows groan.But in the plain about the baseOf this portentous mountain chain,The signs of human toil they trace,And find men labouring again.Here, turned by some wild torrent's force,Huge wheels revolve with busy hum;There some vast chasm stops their course,Whose depths the eye would vainly plumb;Or, laden deep on shrieking wheels,Toil waggons up the steep inclines:Their load the mystery reveals,—This region is a place of mines!As soon as Puss got to this desolate spot,Addressing the miners, he kept up the plot."See your master approachIn the King's grand state-coach;He has sent me before him, his orders to broach.