In the close murmur of a sparkling noise;
And lay the groundwork of her hopeful song,
Still keeping in the forward stream so long,
Till a sweet whirlwind (striving to get out)
Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about,
And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast,
Till the fledged notes at length forsake their nest,
Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky,
Winged with their own wild echoes, prattling fly.
She opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tide
Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride
On the waved back of every swelling strain,
Rising and falling in a pompous train;
And while she thus discharges a shrill peal
Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal
With the cool epode of a graver note;
Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat
Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse bird;
Her little soul is ravished, and so poured
Into loose ecstasies, that she is placed
Above herself, music's enthusiast.

Shame now and anger mixed a double stain
In the musician's face: "Yet, once again,
Mistress, I come: now reach a strain, my lute,
Above her mock, or be forever mute.
Or tune a song of victory to me,
Or to thyself sing thine own obsequy."
So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings,
And with a quavering coyness tastes the strings.
The sweet-lipped sisters musically frighted,
Singing their fears are fearfully delighted;
Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs
Are fanned and frizzled in the wanton airs
Of his own breath, which, married to his lyre,
Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven's self
look higher;

From this to that, from that to this he flies,
Feels music's pulse in all her arteries;
Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads,
His fingers struggle with the vocal threads,
Following those little rills, he sinks into
A sea of Helicon; his hand does go
Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop,
Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup.
The humorous strings expound his learned touch
By various glosses; now they seem to grutch
And murmur in a buzzing din, then jingle
In shrill-toned accents striving to be single;
Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke
Gives life to some new grace; thus doth he invoke
Sweetness by all her names; thus, bravely thus
(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)
The lute's light genius now does proudly rise,
Heaved on the surges of swoll'n rhapsodies;
Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curl the air
With flash of high-born fancies, here and there
Dancing in lofty measures, and anon
Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,

Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs,
Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares ;
Because those precious mysteries that dwell
In music's ravished soul he dare not tell,
But whisper to the world; thus do they vary,
Each string his note, as if they meant to carry
Their master's blest soul (snatched out at his ears
By a strong ecstasy) through all the spheres
Of music's heaven; and seat it there on high,
In the empyrean of pure harmony.

At length (after so long, so loud a strife
Of all the strings, still breathing the best life
Of blest variety, attending on
His fingers' fairest evolution,

In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall)
A full-mouthed diapason swallows all.

This done, he lists what she would say to this;
And she, although her breath's late exercise
Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat,
Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note.
Alas! in vain! for while (sweet soul) she tries
To measure all those wild diversities
Of chattering strings, by the small size of one
Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone;
She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies:
She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize,
Falling upon his lute: O, fit to have
(That lived so sweetly), dead, so sweet a grave!

BIRDS.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

FROM "THE PELICAN ISLAND."

BIRDS, the free tenants of land, air, and ocean, Their forms all symmetry, their motions grace; In plumage, delicate and beautiful,

Thick without burden, close as fishes' scales,
Or loose as full-blown poppies to the breeze;
With wings that might have had a soul within
them,

They bore their owners by such sweet enchantment, Birds, small and great, of endless shapes and colors,

Here flew and perched, there swam and dived at pleasure;

Watchful and agile, uttering voices wild

And harsh, yet in accordance with the waves
Upon the beach, the winds in caverns moaning,
Or winds and waves abroad upon the water.
Some sought their food among the finny shoals,
Swift darting from the clouds, emerging soon
With slender captives glittering in their beaks;
These in recesses of steep crags constructed
Their eyries inaccessible, and trained
Their hardy broods to forage in all weathers:
Others, more gorgeously apparelled, dwelt
Among the woods, on nature's dainties feeding,

The snap of his tremendous bill was like
Death's scythe, down cutting everything it

struck.

The heedless lizard, in his gambols, peeped
Upon the guarded nest, from out the flowers,
But paid the instant forfeit of his life;
Nor could the serpent's subtlety elude
Capture, when gliding by, nor in defence
Might his malignant fangs and venom save him.

Erelong the thriving brood outgrew their cradle,

Ran through the grass, and dabbled in the pools;

No sooner denizens of earth than made
Free both of air and water; day by day,
New lessons, exercises, and amusements
Employed the old to teach, the young to learn.
Now floating on the blue lagoon behold them;
The sire and dam in swan-like beauty steering,
Their cygnets following through the foamy wake,
Picking the leaves of plants, pursuing insects,
Or catching at the bubbles as they broke :
Till on some minor fry, in reedy shallows,
With flapping pinions and unsparing beaks,
The well-taught scholars plied their double art,
To fish in troubled waters, and secure
The petty captives in their maiden pouches;
Then hurried with their banquet to the shore,
With feet, wings, breast, half swimming and
half flying.

But when their pens grew strong to fight the

storm,

And buffet with the breakers on the reef,
The parents put them to severer proof;
On beetling rocks the little ones were mar-
shalled;

There, by endearments, stripes, example, urged
To try the void convexity of heaven,
And plough the ocean's horizontal field.
Timorous at first they fluttered round the verge,
Balanced and furled their hesitating wings,
Then put them forth again with steadier aim ;
Now, gaining courage as they felt the wind
Dilate their feathers, fill their airy frames
With buoyancy that bore them from their feet,
They yielded all their burden to the breeze,
And sailed and soared where'er their guardians

led;

Ascending, hovering, wheeling, or alighting,
They searched the deep in quest of nobler game
Than yet their inexperience had encountered;
With these they battled in that element,
Where wings or fins were equally at home,
Till, conquerors in many a desperate strife,
They dragged their spoils to land, and gorged at
leisure.

JAMES MONTGOMERY,

TO A BIRD

THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF LAAKEN IN THE
WINTER.

O MELANCHOLY bird, a winter's day
Thou standest by the margin of the poor,
And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school
To patience, which all evil can allay.
God has appointed thee the fish thy prey,
And given thyself a lesson to the fool
Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule,
And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.

There need not schools nor the professor's chair,
Though these be good, true wisdom to impart :
He who has not enough for these to spare,
Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart,
And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair,
Nature is always wise in every part.

LORD THURLOW.

TO A WATERFOWL.

WHITHER, midst falling dew,

He who, from zone to zone,

flight,

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

He fishes at ease

In the summer breeze,

But we go angling in stormiest seas.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

No song-note have we but a piping cry,

THE STORMY PETREL.

A THOUSAND miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the stormy sea,
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast.
The sails are scattered 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 like stone Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.

Up and down!— up and down!

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,
And 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 seeketh 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

IN the hollow tree, in the old gray tower,
The spectral owl doth dwell;

Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour,
But at dusk he 's abroad and well!
Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him;
All mock him outright by day;

But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away!

O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,
Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl!

And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold,
And loveth the wood's deep gloom;

And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold,
She awaiteth her ghastly groom;

Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,
As she waits in her tree so still;

But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,
She hoots out her welcome shrill !

O, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl, Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl! Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy plight! The owl hath his share of good :

If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark greenwood!
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate,
They are each unto each a pride;
Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside!

So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl,
Sing, ho! for the reign of the horned owl!
We know not alway
Who are kings by day,

But the king of the night is the bold brown owl!

BARRY CORNWALL.

TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. BURLY, dozing humble-bee! Where thou art is clime for me; Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek,

I will follow thee alone,

Thou animated torrid zone ! Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines.

Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Insect lover of the sun,

Thou in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow breezy bass.

Hot midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound,
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and birdlike pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean
Hath my insect never seen;
But violets, and bilberry bells,
Maple sap, and daffodels,

Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue,
And brier-roses, dwelt among:
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.
Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher,
Seeing only what is fair,

Sipping only what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Leave the chaff and take the wheat.
When the fierce northwestern blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,

A SOLILOQUY.

OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A GRASSHOPPER.

HAPPY insect! ever blest

With a more than mortal rest,
Rosy dews the leaves among,
Humble joys, and gentle song!
Wretched poet! ever curst
With a life of lives the worst,
Sad despondence, restless fears,
Endless jealousies and tears.

In the burning summer thou
Warblest on the verdant bough,
Meditating cheerful play,
Mindless of the piercing ray;
Scorched in Cupid's fervors, I
Ever weep and ever die.

Proud to gratify thy will, Ready Nature waits thee still; Balmy wines to thee she pours, Weeping through the dewy flowers, Rich as those by Hebe given To the thirsty sons of heaven. Yet, alas, we both agree. Miserable thou like me! Each, alike, in youth rehearses Gentle strains and tender verses; Ever wandering far from home, Mindless of the days to come (Such as aged Winter brings Trembling on his icy wings), Both alike at last we die; Thou art starved, and so am I!

WALTER HARTE.

THE GRASSHOPPER. HAPPY insect, what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill ; 'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, Nature self's thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink and dance and sing, Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee; All the summer hours produce,