Turns desolate, shall thrill at your return
With the loud welcome home.

For He who touch'd

Your breasts with minstrelsy, and every flower
With beauty, hath a lesson for his sons,

In all the varied garniture that decks
Life's banquet-board; and he's the wisest guest
Who taketh gladly what his God doth send,
Keeping each instrument of joy in tune.
That helps to fit him for the choir of heaven.

Mrs. Sigourney.

THE SWANS.

HUSH! my heedless feet from under
Slip the crumbling banks for ever;
Like echoes to a distant thunder,

They plunge into the gentle river.
The river-swans have heard my tread,
And startle from their reedy bed.

O beauteous birds! methinks ye measure
Your movements to some heavenly tune!

O beauteous birds! 'tis such a pleasure

To see you move beneath the moon,
I would it were your true delight
To sleep by day and wake all night.

S. T. Coleridge.

THE BELFRY PIGEON.

ON the cross-beam under the old south bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air:
I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd,
And the belfry edge is gain'd at last.

"Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,

And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel-
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell-
Chime of the hour or funeral knell-

The dove in the belfry must hear it well,

When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon

When the sexton cheerly rings for noon-
When the clock strikes clear at morning light-
When the child is waked with "nine at night "-
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer-
Whatever and all in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast,
Then drops again with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men,
And daily, with unwilling feet,
Tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world and soar,

Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

THE OWL.

ALOFT in my ancient, sky-roofed hall,

In my old gray turret high,

Where the ivy waves o'er the crumbling wall,
A king! a king reign I!

Tu-whoo!

I wake the woods with my startling call

To the frighted passer-by.

N. P. Willis.

The gadding vines in the chinks that grow
Come clambering up to me;

And the newt, the bat, and the toad, I trow,

A merry band are we.

Tu-whoo!

Oh! the coffined monks in their cells below,
Have no goodlier company.

When the sweet dew sleeps in the midnight cool, To some tree-top I win;

While the toad leaps up on her throne-like stool, And our revels loud begin-

Tu-whoo!

And the bull-frog croaks by yon stagnant pool, Ere he sportive plunges in.

And the blind bat wheels through the cloister shades,
Where none unscared may pass;

And the newt glides forth through the long arcades,
Where the glowworm lights the grass-

Tu-whoo!

And will-o'-the-wisp, o'er the broad green glades,
Flits on to the far morass.

And thus I ween all the livelong night

A gladsome life lead we;

While the stars look down from their jewelled height
On our sports approvingly..

Tu-whoo!

They may bask who will in the mid-day light,

But the midnight gloom for me!

Mary E. Howitt.

TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.

GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,

Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;

And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;

O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth!

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong,
At your clear hearts, and both seem given to earth

To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song

In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth.

Leigh Hunt.