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النشر الإلكتروني

There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nice, good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

This new life is likely to be

Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made

Sober with work, and silent with care

Off is his holiday garment laid,

Half forgotten that merry air:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nobody knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;

Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:

AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY.

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee.

AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY.

LREADY, close by our summer dwelling,

ALREADY,

The Easter sparrow repeats her song;

A merry warbler, she chides the blossoms--
The idle blossoms that sleep so long.

The blue-bird chants, from the elm's long branches,
A hymn to welcome the budding year.

The south wind wanders from field to forest,
And softly whispers: The Spring is here.

Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city,
Before those lays from the elm have ceased;
The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly
As in the air of her native East.

Though many a flower in the wood is waking,
The daffodil is our doorside queen;
She pushes upward the sward already,
To spot with sunshine the early green.

No lays so joyous as these are warbled
From wiry prison in maiden's bower;

No pampered bloom of the greenhouse chamber
Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower.

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Yet these sweet sounds of the early season,
And these fair sights of its sunny days,
Are only sweet when we fondly listen,
And only fair when we fondly gaze.

There is no glory in star or blossom.

Till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes,

Till breathed with joy as they wander by.

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows,
The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks,
And hollows, green in the sun, are waiting

Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks.

THE SONG OF THE SOWER.

B]

THE SONG OF THE SOWER.

I.

HE maples redden in the sun;

THE

In autumn gold the beeches stand;
Rest, faithful plough, thy work is done
Upon the teeming land.

Bordered with trees whose gay leaves fly
On every breath that sweeps the sky,
The fresh dark acres furrowed lie,

And ask the sower's hand.

Loose the tired steer and let him go
To pasture where the gentians blow,
And we, who till the grateful ground,
Fling we the golden shower around.

II.

Fling wide the generous grain; we fling
O'er the dark mould the green of spring.
For thick the emerald blades shall grow,
When first the March winds melt the snow,
And to the sleeping flowers, below,

The early bluebirds sing.

Fling wide the grain; we give the fields
The ears that nod in summer's gale,
The shining stems that summer gilds,
The harvest that o'erflows the vale,

And swells, an amber sea, between
The full-leaved woods, its shores of green.

Hark! from the murmuring clods I hear
Glad voices of the coming year;

The song of him who binds the grain,
The shout of those that load the wain,
And from the distant grange there comes
The clatter of the thresher's flail,
And steadily the millstone hums
Down in the willowy vale.

III.

Fling wide the golden shower; we trust
The strength of armies to the dust;
This peaceful lea may haply yield
Its harvest for the tented field.
Ha! feel ye not your fingers thrill,

As o'er them, in the yellow grains,
Glide the warm drops of blood that fill,
For mortal strife, the warrior's veins;

Such as, on Solferino's day,

Slaked the brown sand and flowed away;

Flowed till the herds, on Mincio's brink,
Snuffed the red stream and feared to drink ;—
Blood that in deeper pools shall lie

On the sad earth, as time grows gray,
When men by deadlier arts shall die,
And deeper darkness blot the sky
Above the thundering fray;
And realms, that hear the battle cry,
Shall sicken with dismay;

And chieftains to the war shall lead

Whole nations, with the tempest's speed,
To perish in a day ;—

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