Beautiful birds! we've encircled thy names With the fairest of fruits and the fiercest of flames;

We paint war with his eagle, and peace with her dove,

With the red bolt of death and the olive of love :

The fountain of friendship is never complete Till ye coo o'er its waters so sparkling and sweet;

And where is the hand that would dare to divide

Ev'n Wisdom's grave self from the owl at her side?

Beautiful creatures of freedom and light,

Oh! where is the eye that groweth not bright As it watches you trimming your soft glossy coats,

Swelling your bosoms and ruffling your throats? Oh, I would not ask, as the old ditties sing, To be happy as sand-boy' or 'happy as king':

For the joy is more blissful that bids me declare

'I'm as happy as all the wild birds in the air.' I will tell them to find me a grave when I die, Where no marble will shut out the glorious sky;

Let them give me a tomb where the daisy will bloom,

Where the moon will shine down, and the leveret pass by ;

But be sure there's a tree stretching out high and wide,

Where the linnet, the thrush, and the woodlark may hide;

For the truest and purest of requiems heard, Is the eloquent hymn of the beautiful bird.

OCEAN.

Byron.

THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture in the lonely shore-
There is society where none intrudes
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all
conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain : Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore:-upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain

A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffined, and
unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths-thy fields
Are not a spoil for him-thou dost arise
And shake him from thee: the vile strength
he wields

For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him shivering in thy playful spray,
And howling to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth :-there let
him lay.

The armaments which thunder-strike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals;
The oak leviathans whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of Lord of thee, and arbiter of war-
These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage-what are they?

Thy waters washed them power while they were free,

And many a tyrant since: their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage: their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: -not so thou; Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' playTime writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow, Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time

Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime

Dark heaving:-boundless, endless, and sub

lime

The image of Eternity-the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime,
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee: thou go'st forth, dread, fathomless,
alone.

And I have loved thee, ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne like thy bubbles on ward: from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers-they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear;
For I was, as it were, a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do
here.

My task is done-my song hath ceased-my theme

Has died into an echo; it is fit

The spell should break of this protracted dream,
The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit
My midnight lamp-and what is writ is writ.
Would it were worthier! but I am not now
That which I have been, and my visions flit
Less palpably before me, and the glow
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint
and low.

EXTRACT.
Bowring.

YES! nature is a splendid show,
Where an attentive mind may hear
Music in all the winds that blow-
And see a silent worshipper
In every flower, on every tree,
In every vale, on every hill-
Perceive a choir of melody

In waving grass, or whispering rill;
And catch a soft but solemn sound
Of worship from the smallest fly,
The cricket chirping on the ground,
The trembling leaf that hangs on high.
Proud, scornful man! thy soaring wing
Would hurry towards infinity;