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THE PATTICHAP'S NEST.

Well! in my many walks I've rarely found
A place less likely for a bird to form

Its nest; close by the rut-gulled wagon-road,
And on the almost bare foot-trodden ground,
With scarce a clump of grass to keep it warm,
Where not a thistle spreads its spears abroad,
Or prickly bush to shield it from harm's way;
And yet so snugly made, that none may spy
It out, save peradventure. You and I
Had surely passed it in our walk to-day, ̄
Had chance not led us by it! Nay, e'en now,
Had not the old bird heard us trampling by,
And fluttered out, we had not seen it lie
Brown as the roadway side. Small bits of hay
Pluck'd from the old prop'd haystack's pleachy brow,
And withered leaves, make up its outward wall,
Which from the gnarled oak-dotterel yearly fall,
And in the old hedge-bottom rot away.
Built like an oven, through a little hole,
Scarcely admitting e'en two figures in,
Hard to discern, the bird's snug entrance win.
"Tis lined with feathers, warm as silken stole,
Softer than seats of down for painless ease,
And full of eggs scarce bigger ev'n than pease.
Here's one most delicate, with spots as small
As dust, and of a faint and pinky red.

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A grasshopper's green jump might break the shells;
Yet lowing oxen pass them morn and night,
And restless sheep around them hourly stray.

JOHN CLARE

A THOUGHT.

UPON OCCASION OF A RED-BREAST COMING INTO HIS CHAMBER.

Pretty bird, how cheerfully dost thou sit and sing, and yet knowest not where thou art, nor where thou shalt make thy next meal; and at night must shroud thyself in a bush for lodging! What shame is it for me, that see before me so liberal provisions of my God, and find myself sit warm under my own roof, yet am ready to droop under a distrustful and unthankful dullness. Had I so little certainty of my harbor and

purveyance, how heartless should I be, how careful; how little list should I have to make music to thee or myself. Surely thou comest not hither without a Providence. God sent thee not so much to delight, as to shame me, but all in a conviction of my sullen unbelief, who, under more apparent means, am less cheerful and confident; reason and faith have not done so much in me, as in thee mere instinct of nature; want of foresight makes thee more merry, if not more happy here, than the foresight of better things maketh me.

O God, thy providence is not impaired by those powers thou hast given me above these brute things; let not my greater helps hinder me from a holy security and comfortable reliance on thee!

BISHOP HALL, 1574-1656.

THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

FROM THE SWEDISH.

Behold! the birds fly

From Gauthiod's strand,
And seek with a sigh

Some far foreign land.
The sounds of their woe

With hollow winds blend:
"Where now must we go?

Our flight whither tend?"

'Tis thus unto heaven that their wailings ascend.

"The Scandian shore

We leave in despair,

Our days glided o'er

So blissfully there:

We there built our nest

Among bright blooming trees;

There rock'd us to rest

The balm-bearing breeze;

But now to far lands we must traverse the sea.

"With rose-crown all bright

On tresses of gold,

The midsummer night

It was sweet to behold:

The calm was so deep,

So lovely the ray,

We could not then sleep,

But were tranced by the spray,

Till wakened by beams from the bright car of day.

"The trees gently bent
O'er the plains in repose;
With dew-drops besprent

Was the tremulous rose;
The oaks now are bare;

The rose is no more;
The zephyr's light air

Is exchanged for the roar

Of storms, and the May-fields have mantles of hoar

"Then why do we stay

In the North, where the sun

More dimly each day

His brief course will run?

And why need we sigh

We leave but a grave,

To cleave through the sky

On the wings which God gave;

Then, Ocean, we welcome the roar of thy wave !"

Of rest thus bereaved,

They soar in the air,
But soon are received

Into regions more fair;
Where elms gently shake
In the zephyr's light play,
Where rivulets take

Among myrtles their way,

And the groves are resounding with Hope's happy lay.

When earth's joys are o'er
And the days darkly roll,
When autumn winds roar-
Weep not, O my soul!

Fair lands o'er the sea

For the birds brightly bloom;

A land smiles for thee,

Beyond the dark tomb,

Where beams never fading its beauties illume.

Anonymous Translation.

ERIC JOMAN STAGNELIUS, 1793-1823.

THE DOVE.

RUSSIAN.

On an oak-tree sat,
Sat a pair of doves;
And they bill'd and coo'd,
And they heart to heart,
Tenderly embraced
With their little wings;
On them suddenly
Darted down a hawk.

One he seized and tore,

Tore the little dove,
With his feathered feet,
Soft, blue little dove;
And he pour'd his blood,
Streaming down the tree;
Feathers too were strewed
Widely o'er the field;
High away the down
Floated in the air.

Ah, how wept and wept,
Ah, how sobb'd and sobb'd

The poor doveling then

For her little dove.

"Weep not, weep not so, Tender little bird!"

Spake the light young hawk To the little dove.

"O'er the sea away, O'er the far blue sea,

I will drive to thee

Flocks of other doves;

From them choose thee the

Choose a soft and blue,

With his feathered feet,

Better little dove."

"Fly, thou villain! not

O'er the far blue sea,

BIRDS.

Drive not here to me
Flocks of other doves.
Ah! of all thy doves
None can comfort me,
Only he, the father

Of my little ones."

223

Translated by J. G. PERCIVAL.

THE DYING SWAN.

The plain was grassy, wild, and bare,
Wide, wild, and open to the air,
Which had built up everywhere

An under-roof of doleful gray.
With an inner voice the river ran,
Adown it floated a dying swan,
Which loudly did lament.

It was the middle of the day.

Ever the weary wind went on

And shook the reed-tops as it went.

Some blue peaks in the distance rose,
And white against the cold-white sky
Shone out their crowning snows.

One willow over the river wept,

And shook the wave as the wind did sigh;
Above in the wind was the swallow,

Chasing itself at its own wild will,

And far through the marish green and still
The tangled water-courses slept,

Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul
Of that waste place with joy

Hidden in sorrow; at first to the ear
The warble was low, and full, and clear;
And floating about the under-sky,
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear;

But anon her awful jubilant voice,
With a music strange and manifold,
Flowed forth on a carol free and bold;
As when a mighty people rejoice

With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold,
And the tumult of their acclaim is rolled

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