Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature,
One of God's simple children that yet know not
The universal Parent, how he sings

As if he wished the firmament of heaven
Should listen, and give back to him the voice
Of his triumphant constancy and love;
The proclamation that he makes, how far
His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!

WORDSWORTH.

THE AZIOLA.

"Do you not hear the Aziola cry? Methinks she must be nigh,".

Said Mary, as we sate

In dusk, ere stars were lit or candles brought,
And I, who thought,

This Aziola was some tedious woman,

Asked, "Who is Aziola?" How elate I felt to know that it was nothing human, No mockery of myself to fear or hate; And Mary saw my soul,

And laughed and said, "Disquiet yourself not, "T is nothing but a little downy owl."

Sad Aziola! many an eventide

Thy music I had heard

By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side,

And fields and marshes wide,

Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird,
The soul ever stirred;

Unlike and far sweeter than them all.

Sad Aziola! from that moment I Loved thee and thy sad cry.

SHELLEY.

THE MARTEN.

This guest of summer,

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath
Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze,

Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird
Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle.
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed
The air is delicate.

Macbeth, Act 1, Sc. 6.

JUDGE YOU AS YOU ARE?

How would you be

If He which is the top of Judgment should
But judge you as you are? Oh, think on that,
And Mercy then will breathe within your lips
Like man new made.

Measure for Measure, Act 2, Sc. 2.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

Merrily singing on briar and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,

Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.

Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe in that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers;
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,

Wearing a bright-black wedding coat;

White are his shoulders, and white his crest,
Hear him call his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Look what a nice new coat is mine,

Sure there was never a bird so fine;
Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Freckled with purple, a pretty sight!
There as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might.
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.

Summer wanes,
Fun and frolic no more he knows,
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone :
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes,
"When you can pipe in that merry
Robert of Lincoln come back again."

the children are grown;

old strain,

W. C. BRYANT.

MY DOVES.

My little doves have left a nest

Upon an Indian tree,

Whose leaves fantastic take their rest

Or motion from the sea;

For, ever there, the sea-winds go

With sunlit paces to and fro.

The tropic flowers looked up to it,

The tropic stars looked down,

And there my little doves did sit,
With feathers softly brown,

And glittering eyes that showed their right
To general Nature's deep delight.

My little doves were ta'en away
From that glad nest of theirs,
Across an ocean rolling gray,
And tempest clouded airs.

My little doves, who lately knew

The sky and wave by warmth and blue!

And now, within the city prison,
In mist and chillness pent,

With sudden upward look they listen
For sounds of past content-

For lapse of water, swell of breeze,
Or nut-fruit falling from the trees.

Soft falls their chant as on the nest
Beneath the sunny zone;

For love that stirred it in their breast

Has not aweary grown,

And 'neath the city's shade can keep
The well of music clear and deep.

So teach ye me the wisest part,
My little doves! to move
Along the city-ways with heart
Assured by holy love,

And vocal with such songs as own
A fountain to the world unknown.

MRS. BROWNING.

THE DOVES OF VENICE.

I stood in the quiet piazza,

Where come rude noises never;

But the feet of children, the wings of doves, Are sounding on forever.

And the cooing of their soft voices,
And the touch of the rippling sea,

And the ringing clock of the armèd knight,
Came through the noon to me.

While their necks with rainbow gleaming,
'Neath the dark old arches shone,
And the campanile's shadow long,
Moved o'er the pavement stone.

And from every "coigne of vantage,"
Where lay some hidden nest,

They fluttered, peeped, and glistened forth,
Sacred, serene, at rest.

I thought of thy saint, O Venice!
Who said in his tenderness,

"I love thy birds, my Father dear,
Our lives they cheer and bless!