I've seen a Pheasant from a brake

Start up, spring forth, and soar on high;

Its golden plumage, wide display'd,
Seem'd of the lovely rainbow's dye.

Splendid, when cowering on the ground;

But when upsprung, and stretch'd for flight,

Oh, never did my wondering eyes

In nature see so fair a sight!

Then rapid as the lightning's gleam,
Or as the Indian arrow flies,
Flitted before my eyes the beam

Of joys I since had learn'd to prize.

In vain I stretch'd my eager hands
To press the shadowy pinions down;
The dear delight eludes the grasp,-
I find the beauteous treasure flown.

THE HUMMING-BIRD.

MINUTEST of the feather'd kind,
Possessing every charm combined,
Nature, in forming thee, design'd
That thou should'st be

A proof within how little space
She can comprise such perfect grace,

Rendering thy lovely fairy race

Beauty's epitome.

Those burnish'd colours to bestow,

Her pencil in the heavenly bow

She dipp'd, and made thy plumes to glow With every hue

That in the dancing sunbeam plays,

And with the ruby's vivid blaze,
Mingled the emerald's lucid rays
With halcyon blue.

Then placed thee under genial skies,
Where flowers and shrubs spontaneous rise,
With richer fragrance, bolder dyes,
By her endued;

And bade thee pass thy happy hours
In tamarind shades and palmy bowers,
Extracting from unfading flowers
Ambrosial food.

There, lovely Bee-bird, may'st thou rove
Through spicy vale and citron grove,
And woo and win thy fluttering love,
With plume so bright;

There rapid fly, more heard than seen,
'Mid orange boughs of polish'd green,
With glowing fruits and flowers between,
Of purest white.

There feed, and take thy balmy rest,

There weave thy little cotton nest,
And may no cruel hand molest

Thy timid bride;

Nor those bright, changeful plumes of thine
Be offer'd on th' unfeeling shrine,
Where some dark Beauty loves to shine
In gaudy pride.

Nor may her sable lover's care

Add to the baubles in her hair

Thy dazzling feathers, rich and rare ;
And thou, poor bird,

For this inhuman purpose bleed,

While gentle hearts abhor the deed,
And Mercy's trembling voice may plead,
But plead unheard.

Oh! bid the thoughtless triflers know,
Not all the hues thy plumes can show,
Become them like the conscious glow
Of modesty :

And that not half so lovely seems
The ray that from the diamond gleams,

As the pure gem that sweetly beams
In Pity's eye.

TO THE CROW, THAT FLIES HOME AT NIGHT.

SAY, weary bird, whose level flight,
Thus, at the dusky hour of night,
Waves through the midway air,
Why thus beyond the verge of day
Is lengthen'd out thy dark delay,
Adding another to the hours of care?

The wren, within her mossy nest, Has hush'd her little brood to rest; The wild wood-pigeon, rock'd on high, Has coo'd his last soft notes of love, And fondly nestles by his dove,

[sky.

To guard her downy young from the inclement

Haste, bird, and nurse thy callow brood,
That wait thy slow return for food,
On some bleak cliff's neglected tree;
Haste, weary bird, thy lagging flight,
This is the chilly hour of night,

Fit hour for rest for me and thee.