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When the sexton cheerly rings for noon,
When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
When the child is waked with "nine at night,"
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirred,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast,
Then drops again, with filmél eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee !
With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ;
And daily, with unwilling feet,
I tread, like thee, the crowded street,
Bit, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,

And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

I would that in such wings of gold

I could my weary heart upfold;

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I would I could look down unmoved (Unloving as I am unloved),

And while the world throngs on beneath,
Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe;
And never sad with others' sadness,
And never glad with others' gladness,
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,

And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.

NATHANIEL PARKer Willis.

TO THE CUCKOO.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear.
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year!

Delightful visitant with thee

I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers.

The school boy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, thy most curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

TO THE CUCKOO.

O BLITHE new-comer I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.

O cucko)! shall I call thee biri,
Or but a wandering vole 1

While I am lying on the grass

Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near.

Thongh babbling only to the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thon bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring'
Even yet thon art to me
No bird, but an inviable thing,

A voice, a mystery ;

The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that cry

Which made me look a thousand ways In bush and tree and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love ; Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed bird the earth we pace
Again a pears to be

An unsubstantial, fairy place;

That is fit home for thee '

WILL LAM

THE SKYLARK.

BIRD of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,

O to abide in the desert with thee !

Wild is thy lay and loud

Far in the downy cloud,

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,

O to abide in the desert with thee !

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What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

TO THE SKYLARK.

What shapes of sky or plain?

ETHEREAL minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?

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

A privacy of glorious light is thine,
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam,
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE THRUSH.

Hate and pride and fear,

If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,

SWEET bird! that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past or coming, void of care;

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
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,

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
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and

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 To airs of spheres,

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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
And glossy plumage dark and sleek,
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy:
I see thee slyly cowering through
That wiry web of silvery dew,
That twinkles in the morning air,
Like casements of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, her simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;
The rarest things to break of day
Look shortly forth, and shrink away.

A fleeting moment of delight

I sunned me in her cheering sight;
As short, I ween, the time will be
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day,
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay,
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring, ·
Thou art already on the wing.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

THE BOBOLINK.

BOBOLINK! that in the meadow,
Or beneath the orchard's shadow,
Keepest up a constant rattle
Joyous as my children's prattle,
Welcome to the north again!
Welcome to mine ear thy strain,
Welcome to mine eye the sight
Of thy buff, thy black and white.
Brighter plumes may greet the sun
By the banks of Amazon;
Sweeter tones may weave the spell
Of enchanting Philomel;
But the tropic bird would fail,
And the English nightingale,

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Filling youths' and maidens' dreams
With mysterious, pleasing themes;
Then, amid the sunlight clear
Floating in the fragrant air,

Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure
By thy glad ecstatic measure.

A single note, so sweet and low,
Like a full heart's overflow,
Forms the prelude; but the strain
Gives no such tone again,
For the wild and saucy song
Leaps and skips the notes among,
With such quick and sportive play,
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay.

Gayest songster of the spring!
Thy melodies before me bring
Visions of some dream-built land,
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned,
I might walk the livelong day,
Embosomed in perpetual May.
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows;
For thee a tempest never blows;
But when our northern summer 's o'er,
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore
The wild rice lifts its airy head,
And royal feasts for thee are spread.
And when the winter threatens there,
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear,
But bear thee to more southern coasts,
Far beyond the reach of frosts.

Bobolink! still may thy gladness
Take from me all taints of sadness;
Fill my soul with trust unshaken
In that Being who has taken
Care for every living thing,
In summer, winter, fall, and spring.

THOMAS HILL.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name :

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,

Wearing a bright black wedding coat;
White are his shoulders and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;

Look, what a nice new coat is mine,
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.

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!
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seed for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

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 Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows ; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

PERSEVERANCE.

A SWALLOW in the spring

Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring Wet earth and straw and leaves.

Day after day she toiled

With patient art, but ere her work was crowned,
Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,
And dashed it to the ground.

She found the ruin wrought,

But not cast down, forth from the place she flew, And with her mate fresh earth and grasses brought And built her nest anew.

But scarcely had she placed The last soft feather on its ample floor, When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste And wrought the ruin o'er.

But still her heart she kept, And toiled again, — and last night, hearing calls, I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept Within the earth-made walls.

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