Open, open gate and door: May thy fortunes, as they run, : Rich, and of a noble house; May thy sire, in aged ease, Nurse a boy who calls thee mother; Rock a girl who calls him brother; Then search, worthy gentles, the cupboard's close nook; To the lord, and still more to the lady, we look: Custom warrants the suit, let it still then bear sway, And your Crow, as in duty most bounden, shall pray. THE Swallow, the Swallow, has burst on the sight, Can your pantry nought spare, That his palate may please, A fig, or a pear, Or a slice of rich cheese? Mark, he bars all delay: At a word, my friend, say, Is it yes-is it nay? Do we go-do we stay? *The song of the swallow, who, as the harbinger of spring, was a great favourite among the Greeks, by which, too, the little mendicants used to levy contributions on the good-nature of their fellow-citizens. One gift and we 're gone; On your gate and your door Or our strength shall be tried From her seat we will tear her ; But small hands to the task. A small aid to our mirth; Let its size speak its worth. Yet open, yet open Your gate and your door; Neither giants nor grey-beards, We your bounty implore. TO THE NIGHTINGALE. Milton. O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still; Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May, Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill Portend success in love. O, if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; As thou, from year to year, hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. TO A WOUNDED SINGING-BIRD. Barry Cornwall. POOR singer! hath the fowler's gun, And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm; Perhaps some human kindness still May make amends for human ill. We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well, Till summer fall on field and fell, And thou shalt be our feather'd child; And tell us all thy pain and wrong, When thou canst speak again in song. Fear not, nor tremble, little bird,— An accent even thou should'st know; |