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And whilst in knowledge I rejoice,
Which heavenly truth displays,
Oh! let me still employ my voice

In my Redeemer's praise.

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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 NIGHTINGALE.

S it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,

The Robin.

Beasts did leap and birds did sing,

Trees did grow and plants did spring,
Everything did banish moan,
Save the Nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefulest ditty
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
Tereu, Tereu, by and by:
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.

-Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;

King Pandion, he is dead,

All thy friends are lapped in lead.

All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing.
Even so, poor bird, like thee

None alive will pity me.

243

R. BARNEFIELD.

THE ROBIN.

EE, mamma, what a sweet little prize I have found!

A robin that lay half benumbed on the ground. I caught him, and fed him, and warmed in my breast, And now he's as nimble and blithe as the best.

Look, look, how he flutters!-He'll slip from my hold:
Ah, rogue! you've forgotten both hunger and cold!
But indeed 'tis in vain, for I shan't set you free,
For all your whole life you're a prisoner with me.
Well housed and well fed, in your cage you will sing,
And make our dull winter as gay as the spring.

But stay,-sure 'tis cruel, with wings made to soar,
To be shut up in prison, and never fly more!
And I, who so often have longed for a flight,
Shall I keep you prisoner ?-Mamma, is it right?
No, come, pretty robin, I must set you free—
For your whistle, though sweet, would sound sadly to me.
LUCY AIKEN.

THE ROBIN'S PETITION.

SUPPLIANT to your window comes,

Who trusts your faith and fears no guile,

He claims admittance for your crumbs,

And reads his passport in your smile.

For cold and cheerless is the day,

And he has sought the hedges round;

No berry hangs upon the spray,

Nor worm or ant-egg can be found.

Secure his suit will be preferred,

No fears his slender feet deter,

For sacred is the household bird,

That wears the scarlet stomacher."

245

The Robin's Petition.

Lucy the prayer assenting heard,

The feathered suppliant flew to her, And fondly cherished was the bird,

That wears the scarlet stomacher.

Emboldened then, he'd fearless perch
Her netting or her work among!
For crumbs among her drawings search,
And add his music to her song;

And warbling on her snowy arm,
Or half entangled in her hair,
Seemed conscious of the double charm
Of freedom and protection there.

A graver moralist, who used

From all some lesson to infer, Thus said, as on the bird she mused, Pluming his scarlet stomacher.

Where are his gay companions now,
Who sung so merrily in spring?
Some shivering on the leafless bough,
With ruffled plume, and drooping wing.

The migrant tribes are fled away

To skies where insect myriads swarm, They vanish with the summer day,

Nor bide the bitter northern storm.

But still is this sweet ministrel heard,

While lowers December dark and drear.

The social, cheerful, household bird,

That wears the scarlet stomacher.

And thus in life's propitious hour,
Approving flatterers round us sport,
But if the faithless prospect lower,

They the more happy fly to court.

Then let us to the selfish herd

Of fortune's parasites prefer,

The friend like this our winter bird,
That wears the scarlet stomacher."

CHARLOTTE SMITH.

THE OWL.

N the hollow tree, in the grey old tower,

The spectral owl doth dwell;

Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour,

But at dusk, he's abroad and well :

Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him ;
All mock him outright by day;

But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away;

Oh, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,
Then, then is the reign of the horned owl!

And the owl hath a bride who is fond and bold,
And loveth the wood's deep gloom;

And with eyes like the shine of the moonshine cold
She awaiteth her ghastly groom!

Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,

As she waits in her tree so still;

But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,

She hoots out her welcome shrill!

Oh, when the moon shines, and the dogs do howl,
Then, then is the cry of the horned owl!

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