Soon shall they make more bold essay, Now watch to see thee duly bring Now fearless follow, here and there, Go! and a mother's task renew, Till chill October's fickle hour Shall warn thee, with thy tribes, to cower 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 And dost thou no wise lore impart ? Prepar'd the course to take, that HE O may that warning voice be heard, 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, And trains, by thy observant kind, 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? And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm: May make amends for human ill. We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well, And thou shall be our feather'd child, Fear not, nor tremble, little bird,- An accent even thou shouldst know; '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, : But hark is that a sound we hear 'Tis dead-'tis dead! and all our care The mother's woe doth pierce the air, BARRY CORNWALL. THE DOVE FROM THE ARK. RIDE on-the ark, majestic and alone Its hull scarce peering through the night of clouds, 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 The dove flies on! In lonely flight Oh! let me in,—she seems to say, Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest So the bird flew to her who cherish'd it. 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. |