Twinkling bright their eyes of jet,

Clapping wings in brotherhood,
Twitter thus the swallows met

When the rust is on the wood.

THEOPHILE GAUTIER.

THE FIRST SWALLOW.

THE gorse is yellow on the heath,

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,
The oaks are budding, and beneath
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,
The silver wreath of May.

The welcome guest of settled spring,
The swallow, too, has come at last;
Just at sunset when thrushes sing
I saw her dash with rapid wing,
And hailed her as she past.

Come, summer visitant, attach

To my reed roof your nest of clay,
And let my ear your music catch,
Low twittering underneath the thatch,

At the gray dawn of day.

C. SMITH.

THE SWALLOW.

THE little comer's coming, the comer o'er the sea,
The comer of the summer, all the sunny days to be,
How pleasant, through the pleasant sleep, thy early
twitter's heard,

O swallow by the lattice! glad days be thy reward.

Thine be sweet morning, with the bee that's out for

honey-dew,

And glowing be the noontide for the grasshopper and

you;

And mellow shine, o'er day's decline, the sun to light thee home,

Who can molest thy airy nest? Sleep till the morrow

come.

The silent Power that brings thee back with leadingstrings of love,

To haunt where first the summer sun fell on thee from

above,

Shall bind thee more to come, aye to the music of our

leaves,

For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves.

1802-1876.

THOMAS AIRD.

THE REDBREAST.

ONE alone,

The redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves.
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit. Half afraid he first

Against the window beats; then brisk alights
On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the smiling family askance,

And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is,
Till, more familiar grown, the table crumbs

Attract his tender feet.

W. COWPER.

REDBREASTS AND GLOWWORM.

THROUGH the whole summer have I been at rest,

Partly from voluntary holiday

And part through outward hindrances. But I heard After the hour of sunset yester-even

Sitting within doors between light and dark

A choir of redbreasts gathered somewhere near My threshold, minstrels from the distant woods Sent in on winter's service, to announce,

With preparations artful and benign,

That the rough lord had left the surly north
On his accustomed journey. The delight
Due to this timely notice, unawares

Smote me, and listening, I in whispers said,
"Ye heartsome choristers, ye and I will be
Associates, and, unscared by blustering winds,
Will chant together." Thereafter, as the shades
Of twilight deepened, going forth I spied
A glowworm underneath a dusky plume,
canopy, of yet unwithered fern,

Or

Clear shining, like a hermit's taper seen

Through a thick forest. Silence touched me here
No less than sound had done before; the child
Of summer, lingering, shining, by herself,
The voiceless worm on the unfrequented hills,
Seemed sent on the same errand with the choir
Of winter that had warbled at my door,
And the whole year breathed tenderness and love.
WORDSWORTH.

GOLD ROBIN.

"THERE's his pretty mate, see, up in the tree, A soberer dress and cap wears she,

They 've been at work here the whole day long, Except when he stopped to sing her a song."

"What a piece of good fortune it is, that they Come faithfully back to us every May;

No matter how far in the winter they roam, They are sure to return to their summer home."

The little ones capered and laughed aloud,
Of such a neighbor who would n't be proud?
See, how like a splendid king he is dressed,
In velvet black with a golden vest!

What money could buy such a suit as this?
What music can match that voice of his ?
And who such a quaint little house could build
To be with a beautiful family filled?

O happy winds that shall rock them soft,
In their swinging cradle hung high aloft!
O happy leaves that the nest shall screen!
And happy sunbeams that steal between!

O happy stars of the summer night,
That watch o'er that delicate home's delight,
And happy and fortunate children we,
Such music to hear and such beauty to see!

CELIA THAXTER.

SAVED BY HIS SONG.

(RED-BIRD.)

It was getting near the gloaming,
As toward the westering sun
In the woodland I went roaming,
With my powder-horn and gun.

Now my gun was double-barrelled,
Loaded with the murd'rous lead
And a red-bird sat and carolled

On a bough above my

head.

There he sat, and sang, and revelled

In the light of heaven so blest;

"No, I'll not attempt thy capture,

Nor destroy thy tuneful breath; Better far thy song of rapture Than the silent hush of death!"

So my weapon downward bringing,
On my homeward road I sped;
And I left the red-bird singing
On the bough above my head.

JOHN FRANKLIN.