THE THRUSH.

ITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard, from morn to morn, a merry Thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, while I drank the sound,
With joy and often, an intruding guest,

I watch'd her secret toils, from day to day,
How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest,
And modell'd it within with wood and clay.
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted-over shells of green and blue;
And there I witness'd, in the Summer hours,
A brood of Nature's minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

Clare.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

SWEET Bird, that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past or coming-void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are ;
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers ;
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare ;
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs,

Attired in sweetness, sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites and wrongs,
And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven?

Drummond.

NEST OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

UP this green woodland side let's softly rove,
And list the nightingale; she dwells just here.
Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear
The noise might drive her from her home of love;
For here I've heard her many a merry year—
At morn, at eve-nay, all the live-long day,
As though she lived on song. This very spot,
Just where the old-man's-beard all wildly trails
Rude arbours o'er the road, and stops the way;
And where the child its blue-bell flowers hath got,
Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails;
There have I hunted like a very boy,

Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn,
To find her nest, and see her feed her young,

And vainly did I many hours employ :

All seem'd as hidden as a thought unborn;

And where those crumpling fern-leaves ramp among
The hazel's under-boughs, I've nestled down
And watch'd her while she sang; and her renown
Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird
Should have no better dress than russet brown.
Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,
And feathers stand on end, as 'twere with joy;
And mouth wide open to release her heart
Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part
Of summer's fame she shared, for so to me
Did happy fancy shapen her employ.
But if I touch'd a bush, or scarcely stirr'd,

All in a moment stopt. I watch'd in vain :

The timid bird had left the hazel-bush,