What was it, then? some mystic turn of thought,
Caught under German eaves, and hither brought,
Marring thine eye

For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown
A sober thing that dost but mope and moan,
Not knowing why?

Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask,
Since here I see thee working at thy task
With wing and beak.

A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain,
At which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main,
Nor more need'st seek.

In truth, I rather take it thou hast got
By instinct wise much sense about thy lot,
And hast small care

Whether an Eden or a desert be

Thy home, so thou remain'st alive, and free
To skim the air.

God speed thee, pretty bird; may thy small nest
With little ones all in good time be blest.
I love thee much;

For well thou managest that life of thine,
While I! oh, ask not what I do with mine!
Would I were such !

MRS. THOMAS CARLYLE.

THE SWALLOW, THE OWL, AND THE COCK'S SHRILL CLARION IN THE "ELEGY."

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
GRAY.

THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR.

Forms of saints and kings are standing

The cathedral door above;

Yet I saw but one among them

Who hath soothed my soul with love.

In his mantle, - wound about him,

As their robes the sowers wind,

Bore he swallows and their fledglings,
Flowers and weeds of every kind.

And so stands he calm and child-like,
High in wind and tempest wild;
Oh, were I like him exalted,

I would be like him, a child!

And my songs,

green leaves and blossoms,

To the doors of heaven would bear, Calling, even in storm and tempest,

Round me still these birds of air.

H. W. LONG fellow.

THE BIRD LET LOOSE.

The bird let loose in eastern skies,
When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam;

But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God, from every care
And stain of passion free,

Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,
To hold my course to thee!

No sin to cloud, no lure to stay

My soul, as home she springs; —

Thy sunshine on her joyful way,

Thy freedom in her wings!

T. MOORE.

THE BROWN THRUSH.

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree.

"He's singing to me! He's singing to me!" And what does he say, little girl, little boy?

"Oh, the world 's running over with joy!

Hush! Look! In my tree

I'm as happy as happy can be! "

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see,
And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree?
Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!

Now I'm glad! now I'm free!

And always shall be,

If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me;

And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,

"Oh, the world 's running over with joy!

Unless we are as good as can be?"

LUCY LARCOM.

THE GOLDEN-CROWNED THRUSH.

In the hot midsummer noontide,

When all other birds are sleeping,

Still one in the silent forest,
Like a sentry, watch in keeping,
Singing in the pine-tops spicy :
"I see, I see, I SEE, I SEE."

No one ever sees you, atom!
You are hidden too securely.
I have sought for hours to find you.
It is but to tease us, surely,

That you sing in- pine-tops spicy :
66 I see, I see, I SEE, I SEE.”

HARRIET E. PAINE: Bird Songs of New England.

THE THRUSH.

Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt
Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig
A thrush resorts, and annually chants,

At morn and evening from that naked perch,
While all the undergrove is thick with leaves,
A time-beguiling ditty, for delight

Of his fond partner, silent in the nest.

66

"Ah why," said Ellen, sighing to herself,

Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge, And nature that is kind in woman's breast,

And reason that in man is wise and good,
And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge,

Why do not these prevail for human life,
To keep two hearts together, that began
Their spring-time with one love, and that have need
Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet

To grant, or be received; while that poor bird,
Oh come and hear him! Thou who hast to me