Oh! beautiful and gentle dove,

Thy welcome sad will be,

When thou shalt hear no voice of love
In murmurs from the leafy tree :
Yet freedom, freedom shalt thou find,
From this cold prison cell;

Go, then, to sunshine and to wind,

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

REV. W. L. BOWLES.

THE SWAN.

FAIR is the Swan, whose majesty prevailing
O'er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake,
Bears him on while proudly sailing,

He leaves behind a moon-illumin'd wake:
Behold! the mantling spirit of reserve
Fashions his neck into a goodly curve;
An arch thrown back between luxuriant wings
Of whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs
To which, on some unruffled morning, clings
A flaky weight of Winter's purest snows!
Behold! as with a gushing impulse, heaves
That downy prow, and softly cleaves
The mirror of the crystal flood,

Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood,
And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state,
Winds the mute creature without visible mate
Or rival, save the Queen of night,

Showering down a silver light,

From heaven, upon her chosen favourite.

WORDSWORTH.

MAY.

WHEN apple-trees in blossom are,
And cherries of a silken white;
And king-cups deck the meadows fair,
And daffodils in brooks delight;
When golden wall-flowers bloom around,
And purple violets scent the ground,
And lilac 'gins to show her bloom,—
We then may say the May is come.

When happy shepherds tell their tale
Under the tender leafy tree;

And all adown the grassy vale

The mocking cuckoo chanteth free ;
And Philomel, with liquid throat,
Doth pour the welcome, warbling note,
That had been all the Winter dumb,-
We then may say the May is come.
When fishes leap in silver stream,

And tender corn is springing high,
And banks are warm with sunny beam,
And twittering swallows cleave the sky,
And forest bees are humming near,

And cowslips in boys' hats appear,

And maids do wear the meadow's bloom,

We then may say the May is come.

CLARE.

RURAL SOUNDS.

NOR rural sights alone, but rural sounds,
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,

That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood

Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of Ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once.
Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
But animated Nature sweeter still,

To soothe and satisfy the human ear.

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
The livelong night: nor these alone, whose notes
Nice-finger'd Art must emulate in vain,
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime
In still repeated circles, screaming loud,
The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.
Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,
Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,
And only there, please highly for their sake.

THE BLUE-BIRD.

WHEN Winter's cold tempests and snows are no more, Green meadows and brown furrow'd fields re-appearing, The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,

And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering; When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,

When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, O then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of Spring!

And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.
Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spicewood and sassafras budding together:
O then to your gardens, ye housewives repair,

Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure:
The Blue-bird will chant from his box such an air,
That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure!

He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,

The red-flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms; He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,

And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;

He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,

The worms from the webs, where they riot and welter;

His song and his services freely are ours,

And all that he asks is-in Summer a shelter.

The ploughman is pleas'd when he gleans in his train,
Now searching the furrows-now mounting to cheer him ;

The gardener delights in his sweet, simple strain ;

And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him; The slow lingering schoolboys forget they'll be chid, While gazing intent as he warbles before them

In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,

That each little loiterer seems to adore him.

When all the gay scenes of the Summer are o'er.
And Autumn slow enters so silent and sallow,
And millions of warblers, that charm'd us before,
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking Swallow;
The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow,
Till forc'd by the horrors of Winter to roam,

He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.

While Spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,
The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven,
Or love's native music have influence to charm,
Or sympathy's glow to our feelings are given,

Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be ;
His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure;
For, through bleakest storms, if a calm he but see,
He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure.

ALEXANDER WILSON.

The Blue-Bird, Saxicola Sialis, of America, greatly resembles our RobinRedbreast, both in form and in character; and had he the brown-olive of our little favourite instead of his own sky-blue, could scarcely be distinguished from him. He makes his appearance early in Spring, and on account of his social disposition and pleasing note, everywhere meets with a hearty welcome.

TO A SNOW-DROP.

WHY dost thou, silver-vested flower,

While tempests howl, and snow-storms lower,
Thus boldly brave stern Winter's power,
And rear thy head?

Why so impatient? why not stay,

Till zephyrs drive rude blasts away,

And day's bright orb with cheering ray,
Warm thy cold bed?