I, prisoned here below,
Feel the fresh breezes blow;
And see, thro' flag and rush,
Cool water sliding slow -
Sing on, — sing on, 0 Thrush !
Sing on, what though thou beat
On that dull bar, thy foe!
Somewhere the green boughs meet
Beyond the roofs a-row;
Somewhere the blue skies show;
Somewhere no black walls crush
Poor hearts with helpless woe
Sing on,

sing on, O Thrush !

Bird, though they come, we know,
The empty cage, the hush;
Still, ere the brief day go,
Sing on, — sing on, 0 Thrush!

LADY-BIRD, LADY-BIRD.

CAROLINE B. SOUTHEY.

LADY-BIRD, lady-bird ! fly away home!

The field-mouse has gone to her nest, The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes,

And the bees and the birds are at rest.

Lady-bird, lady-bird ! fly away home!

The glow-worm is lighting her lamp,

The dew's falling fast, and your fine speckled wings

Will flag with the close clinging damp. Lady-bird, lady-bird ! fly away home!

Good luck if you reach it at last ! The owl's come abroad, and the bat's on the roam,

Sharp set from their Ramazan fast. Lady-bird, lady bird ! fly away home!

The fairy bells tinkle afar! Make haste, or they'll catch you, and harness you

fast With a cobweb to Oberon's car. Lady-bird, lady-bird ! fly away home!

To your house in the old willow tree, Where your children so dear have invited the ant

And a few cosey neighbors to tea.
Lady-bird, lady-bird ! fly away home!

And if not gobbled up by the way,
Nor yoked by the fairies to Oberon's car,

You're in luck! — and that's all I've to say !

AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN REDBREAST.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

TREAD lightly here; for here, 'tis said,
When piping winds are hush'd around,
A small note wakes from underground,
Where now his tiny bones are laid.

No more in lone or leafless groves,
With ruffled wing and faded breast,
His friendless, homeless spirit roves ;
Gone to the world where birds are blest !

Where never cat glides o'er the green,
Or school-boy's giant form is seen;
But love, and joy, and smiling Spring
Inspire their little souls to sing !

THE CUCKOO.

OLD ENGLISH

“In April
Come he will,
In flow'ry May
He sings all day,
In leafy June
He changes his tune,
In bright July
He's ready to fly,
In August
Go he must.”

THE LITTLE BIRD.

MARTIN LUTHER.

ONE evening when Luther saw a little bird perched on a tree to roost there for the night, he said : “ This little bird has had its supper and now it is getting ready to go to sleep here, quite secure and content, never troubling itself what its food will be, or where its lodging on the morrow. Like David it abides under the shadow of the Almighty. It sits on its little twig content, and lets God take care !”

THE EAGLE.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

HE clasps the crag with hooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ;
He watches from his mountain walls;
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

THE DOVE.

John Keats.

I HAD a dove, and the sweet dove died ;

And I have thought it died of grieving : 0, what could it grieve for ? Its feet were tied

With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving ; Sweet little red feet! why should you die Why would you leave me, sweet bird ! why? You lived alone in the forest tree,

Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas ;
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees ?

THE SANDPIPER.

CELIA THAXTER.

ACROSS the lonely beach we flit,

One little sandpiper and I,
And fast I gather, bit by bit,

The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit,

One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds

Scud, black and swift, across the sky;
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds

Stand out the white light-houses high.
Almost as far as eye can reach

I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the beach,

One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful song,

Nor flash of fluttering drapery.