You are heir To lordships, mansions, forests, parks, and gems. You have three mighty manors in Castile; Two broad estates in Leon; two amidst The mulberry trees of Murcia, and huge chests Crammed full of ingots, dug by naked slaves, Who famished on coarse bread. Besides all these, There bloom plantations in the East, whose fruits Are pearls, and spice, and princely diamonds; And in Brazil, Pactolus floods, ne’er dumb, Whose waves all talk in gold! _Barry Cornwall._ CRANBERRY.... _Cure for the Heartache_. Far away among the hills, Far from tower and town, Where wide moors and heaths lie spread, Desolate and brown. Where the grouse and plover live Far from gun and dog, A delicate and tiny flower Decks swamp and watery bog. The Cranberry blossom dwelleth there Amid the mountains cold, Seeming like a fairy gift Left on the dreary wold. Oh! and ’tis very beautiful, The flowers are pink and white, And the small oval polished leaves Are evergreen and bright. ’Tis such a wee, fair, dainty thing, You’d think a greenhouse warm Would be its proper dwelling-place, Kept close from wind and storm. But on the moors it dwelleth free, Like a fearless mountain child; With a rosy cheek, a lightsome look, And a spirit strong and wild. In autumn, all among the swamps And marshes soft and wet, Come troops of poor hill-children The ripened fruit to get. The bushes all in water grow, In those small pools, that lie In scores among the turfy knolls On mountains broad and high. And there the peasant children come To pull the Cranberries red, Where bold and booted sporting squires Would scarcely dare to tread. _They_ only shoot the poor wild birds, And chase the timid hare, For their diversion; _they_ can live In luxury, without care. But these poor peasant-children’s lot Is full of human wo, And hungry, thinly clad, and cold, They o’er the mountains go; With feet, that shoes have never known, And legs all blue and bare, And yet, so light are they of heart, You’ll hear them laughing there. Such laughter makes my very heart Leap up with joy to hear, It tells that even poverty Is not entirely drear. It telleth--what I ever think, That GOD is good indeed; And that he suiteth, in us all, Our spirit to our need. Think ye--if these poor peasants were All discontent and sour-- If they in frowns and murmurings Spent every wretched hour:-- Like many a cherished, pampered child, Whom wealth and fondness cloy, Till e’en the knowledge of a want Would be a novel joy:--