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Every spring awakes new hope,

Some sought their food among the finny shoals,
Every autumn new regret.

Swift darting from the clouds, emerging soon
”T is the truth (but truth is strange) With slender captives glittering in their beaks ;
Naught's immutable but change." These in recesses of steep crags constructed

Their eyries inaccessible, and trained Snow-bunting, in winter cry:

Their hardy broods to forage in all weathers : • Misery, and cold, and dearth!

Others, more gorgeously appareled, dwelt
Darkness in the shrouded sky!

Among the woods, on nature's dainties feeding,
Silence o’er the snowy earth !

Herbs, seeds, and roots; or, ever on the wing,
Every tree looks white and wan,

Pursuing insects through the boundless air :
Barbed with icicles, unclad,

In hollow trees or thickets these concealed
Like some featherless old man,

Their exquisitely woven nests; where lay
Withered, toothless, poor, and sad. Their callow offspring, quiet as the down
Yet be trustful, Man and Bird ;

On their own breasts, till from her search the dam
Winter shall not kill the soul.

With laden bill returned, and shared the meal
Life on earth is hope deferred,

Among her clamorous suppliants, all agape ;
Since beyond it lies the Pole.

Then, cowering o'er them with expanded wings,
Death, whose bounds are snow and ice,

She felt how sweet it is to be a mother.
Is the door of Paradise."

Of these, a few, with melody untaught,
WILLIAM JOWN COURTHOPE.

Turned all the air to music within hearing,
Themselves unseen ; while bolder quiristers
On loftiest branches strained their clarion-pipes,

And made the forest echo to their screams
A BIRD'S NEST.

Discordant, — yet there was no discord there,

But tempered harmony; all tones combining, But most of all it wins my admiration

In the rich confluence of ten thousand tongues, To view the structure of this little work,

To tell of joy and to inspire it. Who A bird's nest, mark it well within, without :

Could hear such concert, and not join in chorus ?
No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut,

JAMES MONTGOMERY.
No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,
No glue to join : his little beak was all ;
And yet how neatly finished ! What nice hand,

PLEA FOR THE BIRDS.
With every implement and means of art,
And twenty years' apprenticeship to boot,
Could make me such another? Fondly then

Plato, anticipating the reviewers,
We boast of excellence, where noblest skill

From his republic banished without pity
Instinctive genius foils.

The poets : in this little town of yours,
JAMES HURDIS.

You put to death, by means of a committee,
The ballad-singers and the troubadlours,

The street-musicians of the heavenly city,

The birils, who make sweet music for us all
FROM "THE PELICAN ISLAND."

In our dark hours, as David did for Saul.
- Birds, the free tenants of land, air, and ocean,
Their forms all symmetry, their motions grace ; The thrush, that carols at the dawn of day
In plumage, delicate and beautiful,

From the green steeples of the piny wood ;
Thick without burden, close as fishes' scales, The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay,
Or loose as full-blown poppies to the breeze ; Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ;
With wings that might have had a soul within The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray,
them,

Flooding with melody the neighborhood ;
They bore theirowners by such sweet enchantment, Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng
Birds, small and great, of endless shapes and That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song,

colors,
Here flew and perched, there swam and dived at You slay them all! and wherefore ? For the gnin
pleasure ;

Of a scant handful more or less of wheat,
Watchful and agile, uttering voices wild Or rye, or barley, or some other grain,
And harsh, yet in accordance with the waves Scratched up at random by inclustrious feet
Upon the beach, the winds in caverns moaning, Searching for worm or weevil after rain ;
Or winds and waves abroad upon the water. Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet

FROM "THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH."

BIRDS.

--

A JUNE SONG.

As are the songs these uninvited guests

BIRDS BY MY WINDOW. Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts.

Sweet birds that by my window sing, Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ?

Or sail around on careless wing, Do you ne'er think who made them, and who

Beseech ye, lend your caroling,
taught

While I salute my darling.
The dialect they speak, where melodies
Alone are the interpreters of thought ?

She's far from me, away, away,
Whose household words are songs in many keys,

Across the hills, beyond the bay, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught !

But still my heart goes night and day Whose habitations in the tree-tops even

To meet and greet my darling. Are half-way houses on the road to heaven !

Brown wren,

from out whose swelling throat Think, every morning when the sun peeps through Uustinted joys of music float,

The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, Come lend to me thine own June note,
How jubilant the happy birds renew

To warble to my darling.
Their old melodious madrigals of love !
And when you think of this, remember too

Sweet dove, thy tender, lovelorn coo
”T is always morning somewhere, and above Melts piensively the orehard through :
The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Grant me thy gentle voice to woo,
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

And I shall win my darling.
Think of your woods and orchards without birds !

Lark, ever leal to dawn of day, Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams,

Pause ere thou wingst thy skyward way, As in an idiot's brain remembered words

Pause, and bestow one quivering lay,

One anthem for my darling.
Hang empty mid the cobwebs of his dreams !
Will bleat of Hocks or bellowing of herts

Ah, mocker! rich as leafy June,
Make up for the lost music, when your teams

Thou 'lt grant, I know, one little boon, Dray home the stingy harvest, and no more

One strain of thy most matchless tune, The feathered gleaners follow to your door?

To solace my own darling. What! would you rather see the incessant stir

Bright choir, your peerless song shall stir Of insects in the windrows of the hay,

The rapturons chords of love in her ; And hear the locust and the grasshopper

But who shall be our messenger, Their melancholy hurly-gurlies play?

When we salute my darling? Is this more pleasant to you than the whirr

Of meadow-lark, and its sweet roundelay, O voiceless swallow, crown of spring, Or twitter of little fielıllares, as you take

Lend us awhile thy swist curved wing : Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake ? Straight as an arrow thou shalt bring

This greeting to my darling ! You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know

They are the wingeil warılens of your farms,
Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe,

THE MOCKING-BIRD.
And from your harvests keep a hundred harmis ;
Even the blackest of them all, the crow,
Renders good service as your man-at-arms,

ONCE, Paumanok,
Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail,

When the snows had melted, and the FifthAnd crying havoc on the slug and snail.

month grass was growing,

l'p this sea-shore, in some briers, How can I teach your children gentleness,

Two guests from Alabama, two together, And mercy to the weak, and reverence

And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted For Life, which, in its weakness or excess,

with brown, Is still a gleam of Gol's omnipotence,

And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand, Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less And every day the she-bird, crouched on her The selfsame light, although avertel hence,

nest, silent, with bright eyes, When by your laws, your actions, and your speechi, And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, You contradict the very things I teach?

never disturbing them, Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.

EDWARD SPENCER.

FROM " OUT OF THE CRADLE ENDLESSLY ROCKING."

H. W. LOXGFELLOW.

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And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound

“O rising stars ! of the sea,

Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will And at night, under the full of the moon, in

rise with some of you. calmer weather, Over the hoarse surging of the sea,

“O throat ! O trembling throat !

Sound clearer through the atmosphere !
Or flitting from brier to brier by day,
I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one,

Pierce the woods, the earth ;
the he-bird,

Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the

one I want. The solitary guest from Alabama. * Blow ! blow ! blow !

“Shake out, carols ! Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok's shore !

Solitary here - the night's carols !
I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.” Carols of lonesome love ! Death's carols !

Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon !

0, under that moon, where she droops almost Yes, when the stars glistened,

down into the sea ! All night long, on the prong of a moss-scalloped o reckless, despairing carols !

stake, Down, almost amid the slapping waves,

“But soft! sink low ; Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears. Soft ! let me just murmur ;

And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea ; He called on his mate;

For somewhere I believe I heard my mate reHe poured forth the meanings which I, of all

sponding to me,
So faint-I must be still, be still to listen ;

But not altogether still, for then she might not “Soothe ! soothe ! soothe !

come immediately to me. Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind, embracing and lap

“Hither, my love! ping, every one close,

Here I am! Here! But my love soothes not me, not me.

With this just-sustained note I announce myself “Low hangs the moon - it rose late.

This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. 0, it is lagging - 0, I think it is heavy with love, with love.

“Do not be decoyed elsewhere !

That is the whistle of the wind - it is not my “0, madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land,

voice; With love with love.

That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray ;

Those are the shadows of leaves. O night ! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers ?

“O darkness! O in vain ! What is that little black thing I see there in the o, I am very sick and sorrowful."

men, know.

to you ;

white ?

WALT WHITMAN.

TO THE CUCKOO.

When the tongue swingsout to the midnight moon,

When the sexton cheerly rings for noon,
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove !

When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
Thou messenger of spring!

When the child is waked with “nine at night," Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,

When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
And woods thy welcome sing.

Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,
Soon as the daisy decks the green,

Whatever tale in the bell is hearid,
Thy certain voice we hear.

He broods on his folded feet unstirreil,
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
Or mark the rolling year !

He takes the time to smooth his breast,

Then drops again, with filmed eyes,
Delightful visitant! with thee

And sleeps as the last vibration dies.
I hail the time of flowers,

Sweet bird ! I would that I could be
And hear the sound of music sweet

A hermit in the crowd like thee!
From birds among the bowers.

With wings to fly to wood and glen,

Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ;
The school-boy, wandering through the wood And daily, with unwilling teet,
To pull the primrose gay,

I tread, like thee, the crowded street,
Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, But, unlike me, when day is o’er,
And imitates thy lay.

Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar ;

Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,
What time the pea puts on the bloom, Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
Thou Miest thy vocal vale,

And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.
An annual guest in other lands,

I would that in such wings of gold
Another spring to hail.

I could my weary heart upfold ;

I would I could look down inmoved
Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,

(Unloving as I am unloved),
Thy sky is ever clear;

And while the world throngs on beneath,
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe ;
No winter in thy year !

And never sail with others' sadness,
0, could I fly, I'd fly with thee !

And never glad with others' gladness,
We'd make, with joyful wing,

Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,

And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.
Attendants on the spring.

JOHN LOGAN.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS

THE SKYLARK.

THE BELFRY PIGEON.

air ;

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morn
I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet ;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Cireling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has passed,
And the belfry edge is gained at last ;
'T is a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ;
And I often stop with the fear I feel, –
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,
(hime of the hour, or funeral knell,
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea !

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place, -
0, 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

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