The waves beside them danced; but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:

Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

KEATS.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

As it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did

spring,

Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefulest ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry;
Tereu, tereu, by and by:
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in
vain,

None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,

Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;

King Pandiva, he is dead,

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
All thy fellow-birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing;
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.

R. BARNEFIELD.

THE NIGHTINGALE'S SONG.

ROUND my own pretty rose I have hovered all day,

I have seen its sweet leaves one by one fall away:

"I'd rather sleep in the ivy wall: No rain comes through, though I hear it fall;

The sun peeps gay at dawn of day, And I sing, and wing away, away!"

"O Birdie, Birdie, will you, pet? Diamond stones and amber and jet We'll string on a necklace fair and fine, To please this pretty bird of mine."

"Oh! thanks for diamonds, and thanks for jet;

But here is something daintier yet,-
A feather necklace, round and round,
That I would not sell for a thousand

pound!"

"O Birdie, Birdie, won't you, pet?
We'll buy you a dish of silver fret,
A golden cup and an ivory seat,
And carpets soft beneath your feet."

“Can running water be drunk from gold?

Can a silver dish the forest hold?
A rocking twig is the finest chair,
And the softest paths lie through the

air:

Good-by, good-by, to my lady fair." ALLINGHAM.

TO THE SKY-LARK.

ETHEREAL minstrel, pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?

Stirred above the patent ball,
The wild geese flew,

Nor near so wild as that doth me befall,

Or, swollen Wisdom, you.

In the front there fetched a leader, Him behind the line spread out, And waved about,

As it was near night,

When these air-pilots stop their flight.

Cruising off the shoal dominion
Where we sit,

Depending not on their opinion,
Nor hiving sops of wit;
Geographical in tact,

Naming not a pond or river,

Pulled with twilight down in fact,
In the reeds to quack and quiver,
There they go,

Spectators at the play below,
Southward in a row.

Cannot laud and map the stars
The indifferent geese,

Nor taste the sweetmeats in odd jars,
Nor speculate and freeze;
Rancid weasands need be well,
Feathers glossy, quills in order,
Starts this train, yet rings no bell;
Steam is raised without recorder.

"Up, my feathered fowl, all,"
Saith the goose commander,
"Brighten your bills, and flirt your
pinions,

My toes are nipped, let us render
Ourselves in soft Guatemala,
Or suck puddles in Campeachy,
Spitzbergen-cake cuts very frosty,
And the tipple is not leechy.