Well did they know that service all by rote; And there was many and many a lovely note – Some, singing loud, as if they had complained; Some with their notes another manner feigned; And some did sing all out with the full throat.

The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake : Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake, And, prithee, let us that can sing, dwell here; For every wight eschews thy song to hear, Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make.

Well satisfied, I thanked her; and she said:

By this mishap no longer be dismayed,

Then spake one bird, and full assent all gave: This matter asketh counsel good as grave;.

L'ENVOY.

Pleasure's Aurora, day of gladsomeness!

Luna by night, with heavenly influence Illumined! root of beauty and goodness! Write, and allay, by your beneficence,

When on the boughs the purple buds expand,
The banners of the vanguard of the Spring;
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap,
And wave their fluttering signals from the steep.

GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

Version of WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

The Black Cock.

GOOD-MORROW to thy sable beak,
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek,
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy!
I see thee slowly cowering through
That wiry web of silver dew,
That twinkles in the morning air
Like casement of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;
The rarest things, to light of day
Look shortly forth, and break away.

One fleeting moment of delight
I warmed me in her cheering sight;
And short, I ween, the time will be
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowden's mist, red beams the day;
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay;
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring;
Thou art already on the wing.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

The Birds of Killingworth.

It was the season when through all the land The merle and mavis build, and building sing Those lovely lyrics written by His hand

Whom Saxon Cædmon calls the Blithe-heart King;

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Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee;

The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be;
And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd,
Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly,
Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said,
"Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!"

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet

Of tropic isle remote, and, passing, hailed
The village with the cheers of all their fleet;
Or, quarrelling together, laughed and railed
Like foreign sailors landed in the street
Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise
Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys.

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth,
In fabulous days, some hundred years ago;
And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth,
Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow,
That mingled with the universal mirth,
Cassandra-like prognosticating woe:

They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words

To swift destruction the whole race of birds.

And a town-meeting was convened straightway
To set a price upon the guilty heads
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay,
Levied black-mail upon the garden-beds
And cornfields, and beheld without dismay
The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds,
The skeleton that waited at their feast,
Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased.

Then from his house, a temple painted white,
With fluted columns, and a roof of red,

The Squire came forth,-august and splendid sight!

Slowly descending, with majestic tread,