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The Linnet.

SOME humble heart is sore and sick with grief,
And straight thou comest with thy gentle soug
To wile the sufferer from his hate or wrong,
By bringing Nature's love to his relief.

Thou churmest by the sick child's window long,
Till racking pain itself be woo'd to sleep;
And when away have vanish'd flower and leaf,
Thy lonely wailing voice for them doth weep-
Linnet! wild linnet!

God saw how much of woe, and grief, and care,
Man's faults and follies on the earth would make ;
And thee, sweet singer, for his creatures' sake,
He sent to warble wildly every where,

And by our souls to love to wake.

Oh, blessed wandering spirit! unto thee Pure hearts are knit, as unto things too fair, And good, and beautiful of earth to be

Linnet! wild linnet!

NICOLL.

On hearing a Thrush sing in a Winter Morning Walk on his Birthday.

SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank Thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys,

What wealth could neither give nor take away!
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,

The mite high heaven bestow'd, that mite with

thee I'll share.

BURNS.

To the Cuckoo.

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

O cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

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.

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

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!
Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listen'd to; that cry

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

To seek thee often did I rove

Through woods and on the green ; And thou wert still a hope, a love Still long'd 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 appears to be

An unsubstantial faëry place,
That is fit home for thee.

WORDSWORTH.

The Stormy Petrel.

A THOUSAND miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast:
The sails are scatter'd abroad, like weeds;
The strong masts shake, like quivering reeds;
The mighty cables, and iron chains,

The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,
They strain and they crack, and hearts of stone,
Their natural hard proud strength disown.

Up and down! up and down!

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,
Amidst the flashing and feathery foam,

The Stormy Petrel finds a home,

A home-if such a place may be

For her who lives on the wide wide sea,
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,

And only seeking her rocky lair

To warm her young, and to teach them to spring
At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!

O'er the Deep! O'er the Deep!

Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep,

Outflying the blast and the driving rain,

The Petrel telleth her tale-in vain;

For the mariner curseth the warning bird,

Who bringeth him news of the storm unheard!
-Ah! thus does the prophet, of good or ill,
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still:
Yet he never falters-So, Petrel! spring
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!

PROCTER.

The Green Linnet.

BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather:
In this sequester'd nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And birds and flowers once more to greet.
My last year's friends together.

One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:

Hail to thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment:

A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair;

Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,

Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,

Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A brother of the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;

As if by that exulting strain

He mock'd and treated with disdain
The voiceless form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.

WORDSWORTH.

The Robin and Blackbird.

WITH the sweet airs of spring the Robin comes;
And in her simple song there seems to gush
A strain of sorrow when she visiteth

Her last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloom
Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch
Upon the red-stemm'd hazel's slender twig
That overhangs the brook, and suits her song
To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.

In the last days of autumn, when the corn
Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest-field,
And the gay company of reapers bind

The bearded wheat in sheaves-then peals abroad
The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear,
Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song
Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree,
Close at the corn-field edge.

M'LELLAN

The Sun.

Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd!
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,

Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd

Themselves in orisons! Thou material god!
And representative of th' Unknown—
Who chose thee for his shadow.

Thou chief star!

Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth
Endurable, and temperest the hues

And hearts of all who walk within thy rays!
Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes,
And those who dwell in them! for near or far
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee,
Even as our outward aspects ;-thou dost rise,
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well!
I ne'er shall see thee more.

BYRON.

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