THE BIRD.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No Winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,

Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

John Logan.

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THE BIRD.

HITHER thou com'st. The busie wind all night
Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing
Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm,

For which coarse man seems much the fitter born,
Rain'd on thy bed

And harmless head;

And now as fresh and cheerful as the light
Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing
Unto that Providence, whose unseen arm
Curb'd them, and cloth'd thee well and warm.

All things that be praise Him; and had
Their lesson taught them when first made.

So hills and valleys into singing break;

And though poor stones have neither speech nor tongue,
While active winds and streams both run and speak,
Yet stones are deep in admiration.

Thus Praise and Prayer here beneath the sun

Make lesser mornings, when the great are done.

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THE BIRD.

For each inclosed spirit is a star

Inlightning his own little sphere,

Whose light, though fetcht and borrowed from far, Both mornings makes and evenings there.

But as these Birds of light make a land glad,
Chirping their solemn matins on each tree:
So in the shades of night some dark fowls be,
Whose heavy notes make all that hear them sad.

The turtle then in palm-trees mourns,
While owls and satyrs howl;

The pleasant land to brimstone turns,
And all her streams grow foul.

Brightness and mirth, and love and faith, all flye,
Till the day-spring breaks forth again from high.

H. Vaughan.

THE TIGER.

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THE TIGER.

TIGER! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Fram'd thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burn'd the fervour of thine eyes?
On what wings dar'd he aspire-
What the hand dar'd seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

When thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain

Formed thy strength and forged thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dar'd thy deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And sprinkled heav'n with shining tears,
Did He smile, his work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

W. Blake.

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THE FLY.

THE FLY.

Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip, and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may;
Life is short, and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine,
Hastening quick to their decline;
Thine's a summer, mine's no more,
Though repeated to threescore;

Threescore summers, when they're gone,

Will appear as short as one.

Anonymous.

THE BIRDS' MESSAGE.

YE little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shady valleys,
And see how Phillis sweetly walks
Within her garden-alleys;

Go, pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;
Ah, me! methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

THE BIRDS' MESSAGE.

Go, tell her, through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,

To her is only known my love,

Which from the world is hidden.
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so;
See that your notes strain not too low;
For still, methinks, I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tune your voices' harmony,
And sing, I am her lover;

Strain loud and sweet, that every note
With sweet content may move her.
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice;
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Oh, fly! make haste! see, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber.

Sing round about her rosy bed,

That waking, she may wonder.
Say to her, 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you, to you;
And when you hear her kind reply,
Return with pleasant warblings.
T. Heywood.

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