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النشر الإلكتروني

Owl! that lovest the cloudy sky!
Where clank the chains

Through the prison panes,

What there thou hearest tell to me?—
"In her midnight dream,

"Tis a woman's scream,

And she calls on one-on one of Three !"
Look in once more,

Through the grated door :

""Tis a soul that prays in agony!"

Owl! that hatest the morning sky!
On thy pinions gray,

Away!-away!

I must pray in charity.

From the midnight chime,
To morning prime,-

Miserere, Domine!

The above splendid lines were written in reference to a murder, whose details somewhat disgustingly occupied the public mind, in 1824.

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WHEN vernal breezes fan

The fresh, ambrosial May,

And fern-clad heath, and mountain moss Their spring-wove hues display,

The Robin blithe is seen

The fragrant bowers among, Flitting away on the wings of love

In the highest strain of song,

E

Fair Summer's heats oppress

'Neath equinoctial beams,

When birds retire to the sylvan shades,
And beasts to the limpid streams.
The cotter hies him home,

After the toils of the day;

What cheers him on his evening path?
The Robin's gladsome lay.

Brown Autumn's dreary moan
Reverb'rates through the glade,
And many a sullen, whistling blast
The forest depths invade :
The shady leaf's no more,

The blue has left the hill;

But near yon hamlet's humble shed
Is seen the Robin still.

Now Winter frowns severe;

Congealing frosts and snow

Come drifting keen from their arctic sphere,

And howling tempests blow.

But where is the songster's voice,

The little English bird?

Midst the rigid scene of the winter stern,

Is the lay of the Robin heard?

O, yes! in some cottage hedge
He wiles the hours away,

Shelter'd by its roof, he fears
No towering bird of prey;
The gracious crumbs bestow'd

He picks, with grateful breast,
Then hurries away to his lonely roost,
And sings himself to rest.

Sweet, constant, faithful bird,
True to thy land and home,
Whilst other birds seek other climes,
Thou never learn'st to roam :
In Freedom's vales thou dwell'st,
Though bleak, they still are free.

May I, like the Robin Redbreast, prize
Friends, home, and liberty!

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THE GOLDFINCH.

GOLDFINCH, pride of woodland glade
In thy jet and gold array'd;
Gentle bird, that lov'st to feed
On the thistle's downy seed;
Freely frolic, lightly sing,

In the sunbeam spread thy wing!
Spread thy plumage, trim and gay,
Glittering in the noontide ray!
As upon the thorn-tree's stem
Perch'd, thou sipp'st the dewy gem.
Fickle bird, for ever roving,
Endless changes ever loving;
Now in orchards gaily sporting,
Now to flowery fields resorting;
Chasing now the thistle's down,
By the gentle zephyrs blown ;
Lightly on thou win'st thy way,
Always happy, always gay.

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