Soon shall they make more bold essay,
Mix with their kindred groups in play,
And round the village-dwellings stray,
And church-topp'd height.

Now watch to see thee duly bring
Thy wonted meal, and forward spring
With small brisk note, and on the wing
Their dole receive;

Now fearless follow, here and there,
The insect myriads of the air;
And thee to fresh domestic care
Forsaken leave.

Go! and a mother's task renew,
Thy cares, and toils, and joys pursue,
Long as mild Autumn, bath'd in dew,
The welkin warms;

Till chill October's fickle hour

Shall warn thee, with thy tribes, to cower
On each slope roof and sunny tower,
In countless swarms.

Then, where more balmy Winters smile, Speed thee to blest Hesperian isle, Libya's warm shores, or palmy Nile,

On wings of wind:

Taught by His voice, who bids thee know

Thy season, when to come and

go,

To seek our genial skies, or throw

Our storms behind.

Farewell, sweet bird! thou still hast been

Companion of our Summer scene,

Lov'd inmate of our meadows green,

And rural home:

The twitter of thy cheerful song
We've lov'd to hear; and all day long
See thee on pinion, fleet and strong,
About us roam.

And dost thou no wise lore impart ?
Yes, still thou bidd'st us act our part
With body prompt and willing heart.
While Summer lasts:

Prepar'd the course to take, that HE
For us appoints, who summons thee
To climes of grateful warmth to flee
From wintry blasts.

O may that warning voice be heard,
Howe'er reveal'd! To thee, sweet bird,
The tongue that speaks the instructive word,
Within thee dwells:

To us, where'er around we look,

Each passing wing, the field, the brook,

But most his own unerring Book

GOD's wisdom tells.

That Book directs our mental sight,
To mark the migratory flight,
With power, surpassing human might,
On thee impress'd :—

And trains, by thy observant kind,
Man's wilful and reluctant mind,
Its refuge in God's laws to find,

And there to rest.

RURICOLA,

Field Naturalist's Magazine, 1833.

"The Swallow is one of my favourite birds, and a rival of the nightingale ; for he glads my sense of seeing as much as any other does my sense of hearing. He is the joyous prophet of the year-the harbinger of the best season: he lives a life of enjoyment amongst the loveliest forms of nature: Winter is unknown to him; and he leaves the green meadows of England in Autumn, for

the myrtle and orange groves of Italy, and for the palms of Africa :-he has always objects of pursuit, and his success is secure. Even the beings selected for his prey are poetical, beautiful, and transient. The ephemeræ are saved by his means from a slow and lingering death in the evening, and killed in a moment, when they have known nothing of life but pleasure. He is the constant destroyer of insects,-the friend of man; and with the stork and the ibis, may be regarded as a sacred bird. The instinct, which gives him his appointed seasons, and which teaches him always when and where to move, may be regarded as flowing from a Divine Source; and he belongs to the Oracles of Nature, which speak the awful and intelligible language of a present Deity."— Salmonia.

TO A WOUNDED SINGING-BIRD.

POOR singer! hath the fowler's gun,

Or the sharp Winter, done thee harm?
We'll lay thee gently in the sun,

And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm:
Perhaps some human kindness still

May make amends for human ill.

We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well,
And save thee from the Winter wild,
Till Summer fall on field and fell;

And thou shall be our feather'd child,
And tell us all thy pain and wrong
When thou canst speak again in song.

Fear not, nor tremble, little bird,-
We'll use thee kindly now,
And sure there's in a friendly word

An accent even thou shouldst know;
For kindness which the heart doth teach,
Disdaineth all peculiar speech.

'Tis common to the bird, and brute,

To fallen man, to angel bright,

And sweeter 'tis than lonely lute

Heard in the air at night

Divine and universal tongue,
Whether by bird or spirit sung!

:

But hark is that a sound we hear
Come chirping from its throat,―
Faint-short-but weak and very clear,
And like a little grateful note?
Another ha, look where it lies,
It shivers, gasps,-is still,-it dies!

'Tis dead-'tis dead! and all our care
Is useless. Now, in vain

The mother's woe doth pierce the air,
Calling her nestling bird again!
All 's vain-the singer's heart is cold,
Its eye is dim,-its fate is told!

BARRY CORNWALL.

THE DOVE FROM THE ARK.

RIDE on-the ark, majestic and alone
On the wide waste of the careering deep,

Its hull scarce peering through the night of clouds,
Is seen. But lo! the mighty deep has shrunk!
The ark from its terrific voyage rests

On Ararat! The raven is sent forth,

Send out the dove, and as her wings far off

Shine in the light, that streaks the severing clouds, Bid her speed on, and greet her with a song :—

Go, beautiful and gentle dove,—

But whither wilt thou go?

For though the clouds ride high above,

How sad and waste is all below!

The wife of Shem, a moment to her breast
Held the poor bird and kiss'd it. Many a night
When she was listening to the hollow wind
She press'd it to her bosom, with a tear ;
And when it murmur'd in her hand, forgot
The long, loud tumult of the storm without.
She kisses it, and, at her father's word,
Bids it
go forth.

The dove flies on! In lonely flight
She flies from dawn to dark;
And now amid the gloom of night,
Comes weary to the ark.

Oh! let me in,—she seems to say,
For long and lone has been my way;

Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest
And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast.

So the bird flew to her who cherish'd it.
She sent it forth again out of the ark;
Again it came at evening fall, and lo,
An olive-leaf pluck'd off, and in its bill.
And Shem's wife took the green leaf from its bill,
And kiss'd its wings again, and smilingly
Dropp'd on its neck one silent tear for joy.
She sent it forth once more and watch'd its flight,
Till it was lost amid the clouds of heaven:
Then, gazing on the clouds where it was lost,
Its mournful mistress sung this last farewell:-

Go, beautiful and gentle dove,

And greet the morning ray;

For lo! the sun shines bright above,

And night and storm are pass'd away:

No longer drooping, here confin'd,

In this cold prison dwell;

Go, free to sunshine and to wind,

Sweet bird, go forth, and fare-thee-well.