What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? TO THE SKYLARK. ETHEREAL minstrel pilgrim of the sky! What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye pain? With thy clear, keen joyance Languor cannot be ; Shades of annoyance Never come near thee; Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking, or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still! To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler!— that love-prompted strain, 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond, Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain; Yet mightst thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy spring. Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear, If we were things born Not to shed a tear, A privacy of glorious light is thine, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE THRUSH. SWEET bird! that sing'st away the early hours I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Well pleased with delights which present are, Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers, To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, What soul can be so sick which by thy songs wrongs, And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven! The world should listen then, as I am listening now. Sweet, artless songster! thou my mind dost raise Yet from out the darkness dreary Cometh still that cheerful note; Praiseful aye, and never weary, Is that little warbling throat. Thank him for his lesson's sake, Thank God's gentle minstrel there, Who, when storms make others quake, Sings of days that brighter were. HARRISON WEIR. THE HEATH-COCK. GOOD morrow to thy sable beak That twinkles in the morning air, A maid there is in yonder tower, A fleeting moment of delight JOANNA BAILlie. THE BOBOLINK. BOBOLINK! that in the meadow, If we should compare their worth When the ides of May are past, Filling youths' and maidens' dreams Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure A single note, so sweet and low, Gayest songster of the spring! Bobolink still may thy gladness THOMAS HILL ROBERT OF LINCOLN. MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding coat; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she, One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! Nice good wife, that never goes out, Soon as the little ones chip the shell This new life is likely to be Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Summer wanes; the children are grown; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Above the crowd On upward wings could I but fly, 'T were heaven indeed CHARLES Sprague. THE DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW. Which way sailed it? No mortal saw it go ;· But who doth hear So the freed spirit flies! Like the swallow from the skies. Whither? wherefore doth it go? That a void is left below. WILLIAM HOWITT. DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOWS. THE rain-drops plash, and the dead leaves fall, The swallows gather, and twitter and call, "We must follow the summer, come one, come all, For the winter is now so cold." Just listen awhile to the wordy war, As to whither the way shall tend, Says one, "I know the skies are fair And myriad insects float in air Where the ruins of Athens stand. "And every year when the brown leaves fall, I build my nest on the corniced wall, Says another, "My cosey home I fit Another says, "I prefer the nave Of a temple of Baalbec; There my little ones lie when the palm-trees wave, And, perching near on the architrave, I fill each open beak." "Ah!" says the last, "I build my nest "In his ample neck is a niche so wide, A thousand swallows their nests can hide, |