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WITH fluttering start, in silence, from her nest
The sky-lark breaks :-then steadier, upwards soars,
And with melodious trill her prelude pours

To earth, in hues of full-flushed summer drest;
Now, poised on moveless wing, she seems to rest;
Careless what bird, beneath the airy height,
May cross her path with horizontal flight,
The measured lay she breathes :-then, like a guest
Singing to other spheres, is lost in light:
Till, fondly lured, she turns her faithful breast
Downward through fields of blue. The warbling strain
Near and more near she swells ;-then hushed again,
Falls like a shadow from the sunny dome,

And chants her three wild notes to welcome home.

MRS. J. CONDER.

"The sky-lark, Alauda arvensis, is justly celebrated for its song. Though monotonous, it is cheerful, and imparts gaiety to the mind of even the most serious. Its joyous matins and heavenward flight have been aptly compared to hymns, and acts of adoration and praise.-After descending half way, it ceases to sing, and drops with the velocity of an arrow to the ground." Of this familiar fact, Gay has made a beautiful application in his popular ballad of "Black-eyed Susan." See Mr. Main's papers on British Song Birds. Mag. of Nat. Hist. vol. 4. They abound in interesting matter, and are written with the feelings of a true lover of nature.

THE CUCKOO.

HAIL! beauteous stranger of the grove! The messenger of Spring!

Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet,

From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy wandering through the wood,

To pull the primrose gay,

Starts the new voice of Spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale:

An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No Winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,

Companions of the Spring!

JOHN LOGAN.

The eminent statesman, Burke, was so pleased with this beautiful poem, that when he was at Edinburgh, he made himself acquainted with its author.

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THE WALL-FLOWER.

THE Wall-flower-the Wall-flower,
How beautiful it blooms!

It gleams above the tower,
Like sun-light over tombs;
It sheds a halo of repose

Around the wrecks of Time :-
To beauty give the flaunting rose,
The Wall-flower is sublime.

Flower of the solitary place!
Grey Ruin's golden crown!
That lendest melancholy grace
To haunts of old renown;
Thou mantlest o'er the battlement,
By strife or storm decay'd;
And fillest up each envious rent,

Time's canker-tooth hath made.

Thy roots outspread the ramparts o'er,
Where, in war's stormy day,
The Douglases stood forth of yore,

In battle's grim array:

The clangour of the field is fled,

The beacon on the hill

No more through midnight blazes red,—
But thou art blooming still!

Whither hath fled the choral band
That filled the abbey's nave ?

Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees stand
O'er many a level grave;

F

In the belfry's crevices the dove

Her

young brood nurseth well,

Whilst thou, lone flower! dost shed above 'A sweet decaying smell.'

In the season of the tulip-cup,
When blossoms clothe the trees,
How sweet to throw the lattice up,
And scent thee on the breeze;
The butterfly is then abroad,
The bee is on the wing,

And on the hawthorn by the road

The linnets sit and sing.

Sweet Wall-flower-sweet Wall-flower!

Thou conjurest up to me

Full many a soft and sunny

hour

Of boyhood's thoughtless glee;
When joy from out the daisies grew,

In woodland pastures green,
And summer-skies were far more blue,
Than since they e'er have been.

Now Autumn's pensive voice is heard

Amid the yellow bowers,

And Robin is the regal bird,

And thou, the queen of Flowers!

He sings on the laburnum trees

Amid the twilight dim,

And Araby ne'er gave the breeze

Such scents, as thou to him.

Rich is the pink, the lily gay;

The rose is Summer's guest;

Bland are thy charms when these decay,— Of flowers-first, last, and best!

There may be gaudier on the bower,
And statelier on the tree;

But Wall-flower-loved Wall-flower!

Thou art the flower for me!

MOIR.

THE VIOLET.

I LOVE all things the seasons bring,
All buds that start, all birds that sing,
All leaves from white to jet;
All the sweet words that summer sends,
When she recalls her flowery friends,
But chief-the Violet.

I love, how much I love the rose,
On whose soft lips the south-wind blows,
In pretty amorous threat:

The lily paler than the moon,

The odorous wonderous month of June,
Yet more-the Violet.

She comes, the first, the fairest thing,
That Heaven upon the earth doth fling,
Ere winter's star has set:

She dwells behind her leafy screen,
And gives, as angels give, unseen,—
So, love-the Violet.

What modest thoughts the Violet teaches,
What gracious boons the Violet preaches,

Bright maiden, ne'er forget!

But learn, and love, and so depart,
And sing thou with a wiser heart,
Long live the Violet !

B. CORNWALL.

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