A WREN'S NEST.

AMONG the dwellings framed by birds
I field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little Wren's
In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires,
And seldom needs a laboured roof,
Yet is it to the fiercest sun

Impervious, and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,
In perfect fitness for its aim,
That to the Kind by special grace
Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek.

An opportune recess,

The Hermit has no finer eye

For sadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey walls,
A canopy in some still nook;
Others are pent-housed by a brae
That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mate
Warbles by fits his low clear song;
And by the busy streamlet both
Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build,
Where, till the flitting bird's return,
Her eggs within the nest repose,
Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good,
There is a better and a best;
And, among fairest objects, some
Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak,

The leafy antlers sprout;

For She who planned the mossy lodge
Mistrusting her evasive skill,

Had to a Primrose looked for aid
Her wishes to fulfil.

High on the trunk's projecting brow,
And fixed an infant's span above
The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest,
The prettiest of the grove!

The treasure proudly did I show

To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain :

'Tis gone a ruthless spoiler's prey,
Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,
Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved
Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, passing by
In clearer light the moss-built cell
I saw, espied its shaded mouth,
And felt that all was well.

The Primrose for a veil had spread
The largest of her upright leaves;
And thus, for purposes benign,
A simple flower deceives.

Concealed from friends who might disturb

Thy quiet with no ill intent,

Secure from evil eyes and hands

On barbarous plunder bent,

Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young
Take flight, and thou art free to roam,
When withered is the guardian Flower,
And empty thy late home,

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,
Amid the unviolated grove

Housed near the growing Primrose tuft
In foresight, or in love.

NUTTING.

1833.

It seems a day

(I speak of one from many singled out One of those heavenly days that cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, , I left our cottage threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps Toward some far-distant wood, a figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds

Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal Dame-

Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and,

truth,

in

More ragged than need was! O'er pathless

rocks,

Through beds of matted fern and tangled

thickets,

Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough

Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign

Of devastation; but the hazels rose

Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin scene!-A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed

The banquet ;-or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;

A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope.
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
The violets of five seasons re-appear
And fade, unseen by any human eye;
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,