The Owle demure, who loveth not the lighte (Ill semblance she of wisdome to the Greeke,)
The smallest foul's dradd foe, the coward Kite,
And the stille Herne, arresting fishes meeke;
The glutton Cormorante, of sullen moode,
Regarding no distinction in his foode:
The Storke which dwelleth on the fir-tree toppe,
And trusteth that no power shall hir dismaye,
As kings, on their high stations place thir hope,
Nor wist that there be higher farre than theye;
The gay Gier-Eagle, beautifull to viewe,
Bearyng within a savage herte untrewe :
The Ibis, whome in Egypte Israel found,
Fell byrde! that living serpents can digest;
The crested Lapwynge, wailing shrill arounde,
Solicitous, with no contentment blest;
Last the foul Batt of byrde and beaste fyrst bredde,
Flitting with littel leathren sailes dispredde.
BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing!
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring?
"We come from the shore of the green old Nile,
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.
"We have swept o'er the cities, in song renown'd,— Silent they lie, with the deserts round!
We have cross'd proud rivers, whose tide hath roll'd
All dark with the warrior-blood of old;
And each worn wing had regained its home,
Under the peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome.”
And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam?
"We have found a change, we have found a pall,
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall,
And a mark on the floor, as of life-drops spilt,
-Nought looks the same, save the nest we built?"
Oh joyous birds, it hath still been so !
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go!
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep.
Say, what have ye found in the peasant's cot,
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?
-“A change we have found there, and many a change ! Faces and footsteps and all things strange!
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,
And the young that were, have a brow of care,
And the place is hush'd where the children play'd-
-Nought looks the same, save the nest we made!"
Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth!
Yet, through the wastes of the trackless air,
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair?
Ye over desert and deep have pass'd-
-So shall we reach our bright home at last!
How grateful the Muses!-a shrub or a flower,
Or a tree that has risen in some dark shady bower,
O'er the head of the poet, still grows in his lays,
Wave its branches around, and partakes of his praise :
The oak and the laurel have long been a theme,
And the willow that weeps, with its head o'er the stream;
Through the walks of creation, each bard has his tree,
But the Bramble, I trust, is reserved for me.—
Thou low-creeping plant, I 'm unable to tell,
With what pleasure I see thee crawl over my cell,
And thou put'st forth thy tendrils so tender and long,
And thou open'st thy roses, the green leaves among ;
And the grass underneath is so tender and green,
That a covering more lovely can hardly be seen ;
Then, continue each year, thus to give thy sweet shade,
Thy favours will still be with kindness repaid;
I will watch thy first shoots, I will tend thee with care,
As something, kind Bramble ! that 's lovely and rare,
And, thou fruit-bearing shrub, I will call thee my vine,
And my grapes they shall be, these dark clusters of thine.
THOS. WILKINSON.
WITH drooping bells of clearest blue,
Thou didst attract my childish view,
Almost resembling
The azure butterflies that flew
Where on the heath thy blossoms grew,
So lightly trembling.
Where feathery fern and golden broom
Increase the sandrock cavern's gloom,
I've seen thee tangled,
'Mid tufts of purple heather bloom
By vain Arachne's treacherous loom
With dewdrops spangled,
'Mid ruins crumbling to decay,
Thy flowers their heavenly hues display,
Still freshly springing,
Where pride and pomp have pass'd away
On mossy tomb and turret grey,
Like friendship clinging.
When glow-worm lamps illume the scene,
And silvery daisies dot the green
Thy flowers revealing,
Perchance to soothe the fairy-queen,
With faint sweet tones on night serene,
Thy soft bells pealing.
But most I love thine azure braid,
When softer flowers are all decay'd,
And thou appearest
Stealing beneath the hedge-row shade
Like joys that linger as they fade,
Whose last are dearest.
Thou art the flower of memory;
The pensive soul recalls in thee
The year's past pleasures;
And, led by kindred thought, will flee,
Till, back to careless infancy,
The path she measures.
Beneath autumnal breezes bleak,
So faintly fair, so sadly meek,
I've seen thee bending,
Pale as the pale blue veins that streak
Consumption's thin, transparent cheek,
With death-hues blending.
Thou shalt be sorrow's love and mine;
The violet and the eglantine
With spring are banish'd.
In summer, pinks and roses shine,
But I of thee my wreath will twine.
When these are vanish'd.
AUTHOR OF "May you like it."
The bell-flower, Campanula rotundifolia, decorates our ruined walls, dry banks, and sides of pastures, with its loose clusters of light-blue flowers, in the month of July. Its radical leaves are heart-shaped, while those of the stem are lanceolate. It is commonly called the hare-bell of Scotland.
You, winged choristers, that dwell
In woods, and there maintain a quire,
Whose music doth all art excel,
Nought can we emulate, but admire.
You, living galleys of the air,
That through the strongest tempests slide ;
And, by your wanton flight, who dare
The fury of the winds divide:
Praise HIM, and in this harmony and love,
Let your soft quire contend with that above.
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