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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 flex, 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.

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.

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.

What truth is here, O man ! Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn? Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, trust, or plan! Have faith, and struggle on!

R. S. S. ANDROS

THE SWALLOW.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made

Sober with work, and silent with care ; Of is his holiday garment laid,

Half forgotten that merry air,

Tic gorse is yellow on the heath,

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding; and beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,

The silver wreath of May.

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Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend ?

Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend ?

Ye never knew
The crimes for which we come to weep.

Penance is not for you,
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 't is given To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays;

Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise.

DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOWS

(Translation.) The rain-drops plash, and the dead leaves fall,

On spire and cornice and mouldl; The swallows gather, and twitter and call, “ We must follow the summer, comeone, come all,

For the winter is now so cold.” Just listen awhile to the wordy war,

As to whither the way shall tend, Says one, “I know the skies are fair And myriad insects float in air

Where the ruins of Athens stand. “And every year when the brown leaves fall,

In a niche of the Parthenon | I build my nest on the corniced wall, In the trough of a devastating ball

From the Turk's besieging gun."
Says another, “My cosey home I fit

On a Smyrna grande café,
Where over the threshold Hadjii sit,
And smoke their pipes and their coffee sip,

Dreaming the hours away."

Then spread each wing
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,

And join the choirs that sing
In yon blue dome not reared with hands.

Or, if ye stay,
To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,
Anà let me try your envied power.

Another says, “I prefer the nave

Of a temple of Baalbec ; There my little ones lie when the palm-trees wave, And, perching near on the architrave,

I fill each open beak."

The sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,

Brighter for darkness past, And angels' silver voices stir the air.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

THE NIGHTINGALE.

“Ah!" says the last, “I build my nest

Far up on the Nile's green shore, Where Memnon raises his stony crest, And turns to the sun as he leaves his rest,

But greets him with song no more. In his ample neck is a niche so wide,

And withal so deep and free, A thousand swallows their nests can hide, And a thousand little ones rear beside, —

Then come to the Nile with me."

THE rose looks out in the valley,

And thither will I go ! To the rosy vale, where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe.

They go, they go, to the river and plain,

To ruined city and town,
They leave me alone with the cold again,
Beside the tomb where my joys are lain,
With hope like the swallows flown.

GAUTIER (French).

The virgin is on the river-side,

Culling the lemons pale :
Thither, — yes ! thither will I go,
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe.
The fairest fruit her hand hath culled,

"T is for her lover all : Thither, - yes ! thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe. In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain,

She has placed the lemons pale : Thither, — yes ! thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe. GIL VICENTE (Portuguese). Translation

of JOHN BOWRING

A DOUBTING HEART.

WHERE are the swallows fled ?

Frozen and dead
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.

o doubting heart !
Far over purple seas
They wait, in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze
To bring them to their northern homes once more.
Why must the flowers die ?

Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

O doubting heart !
They only sleep below
The soft white ermine snow

While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

PRIZE thou the nightingale,
Who soothes thee with his tale,

And wakes the woods around;
A singing feather he, - a winged and wandering

sound;

The sun has hid its rays

These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth ?

O doubting heart !
The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same sunny sky

That soon, for spring is nigh,
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.
Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night;
What sound can break the silence of despair ?

O doubting heart !

Whose tender carolling
Sets all ears listening

Unto that living lyre,
Whence flow the airy notes his ecstasies inspire ;

Whose shrill, capricious song
Breathes like a flute along,

With many a careless tone, -
Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue

alone.
O charming creature rare !
Can aught with thee compare !

Thou art all song, – thy breast
Thrills for one month o' the year, - is tranquil

all the rest.

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