THE NIGHTINGALE.

As it fell upon a day

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

Which a grove of myrtles made,
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,
Lean'd her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefullest 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 lapp'd in lead:
All thy fellow-birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee
None alive will pity me.

RICHARD BARNEFIELD.

THE SONGS OF BIRDS.

WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?
Oh 'tis the ravish'd nightingale—
Jug, jug, jug, jug,-teru—she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark! with what a pretty throat
Poor Robin Redbreast tunes his note;
Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo !" to welcome in the spring.

JOHN LYLY.

ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE
NIGHTINGALE.

SWEET poet of the woods-a long adieu!
Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year!

Tints the human countenance With the color of romance; And infusing subtle heats Turns the sod to violets,— Thou in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The silence dost displace green With thy mellow breezy bass.

Hot Midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean
Hath my insect never seen;
But violets, and bilberry bells,
Maple sap, and daffodils,
Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catch-fly, adder's-tongue,
And brier-roses, dwelt among:
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he pass'd.
Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breech'd philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,

Sipping only what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Leave the chaff and take the wheat.
When the fierce north-western blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torţure us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

SONG,

MADE EXTEMPORE BY A GENTLEMAN, OC-
CASIONED BY A FLY DRINKING OUT OF
HIS CUP OF ALE.

BUSY, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Could'st thou sip and sip it up.

SONNET TO THE GLOW-WORM. TASTEFUL illumination of the night, Bright scatter'd, twinkling star of spangled earth!

Hail to the nameless color'd dark and light, The witching nurse of thy illumined birth.

In thy still hour how dearly I delight

To rest my weary bones, from labor free; In lone spots out of hearing, out of sight, To sigh day's smother'd pains; and pause on thee,

Bedecking dangling brier and ivied tree, Or diamonds tipping on the grassy spear; Thy pale-faced glimmering light I love to

see,

Gilding and glistering in the dew-drop

near:

TO A MOUSE,

JOHN CLARE.

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

"Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain :
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,

An' lea'e us naught but grief and pain,
For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear!

An' forward, though I canna see,
I guess an' fear.

THE KITTEN.

ROBERT Burns.

Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces.

Backward coil'd, and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the tempting, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As still beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till, from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong veer'st, with rump in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,

Like madam in her tantrums high,
Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.

Doth power in measured verses dwell,
All thy vagaries wild to tell?
Ah, no! the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap and toss and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset
(Permitted by the modern Muse
Expression technical to use),
These mock the deftest rhymester's skill,
But poor in art, though rich in will.

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains;
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requite him oft with plaudits loud.

But, stopp'd the while thy wanton play,
Applauses, too, thy feats repay;
For then beneath some urchin's hand
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand,
While many a stroke of kindness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly croons thy busy purr,
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,