THE ROOK AND THE SPARROW.

Lady-bird! lady-bird! fly away home,-
The glow-worm is lighting her lamp,

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The dew's falling fast, and your fine speckled wings Will flag with the close-clinging damp.

Lady-bird! lady-bird! fly away home,-
Good luck if you reach it at last!

The owl's come abroad, and the bat 's on the roam,
Sharp set from their Ramazan fast.

Lady-bird lady-bird! fly away home,

The fairy bells tinkle afar!

Make haste, or they'll catch ye, and harness
With a cobweb to Oberon's car.

Lady-bird! lady-bird! fly away home,

ye fast

Το your house in the old willow-tree, Where your children, so dear, have invited the ant And a few cosey neighbors to tea.

Lady-bird! lady-bird! fly away home,
And, if not gobbled up by the way,
Nor yoked by the fairies to Oberon's car,
You're in luck, and that's all I've to say.

THE ROOK AND THE SPARROW.-Miss Lamb.

A LITTLE boy with crumbs of bread
Many a hungry sparrow fed.

It was a child of little sense
Who this kind bounty did dispense;
For suddenly it was withdrawn,
And all the birds were left forlorn,

In a hard time of frost and snow,
Not knowing where for food to go.
He would no longer give them bread,
Because he had observed (he said)
That sometimes to the window came
A great black bird, a rook by name,
And took away a small bird's share :
So foolish Henry did not care
What became of the great rook
That from the little sparrows took,
Now and then, as 't were by stealth,
A part of their abundant wealth,
Nor evermore would feed his sparrows.
Thus ignorance a kind heart narrows.
I wish I had been there; I would
Have told the child rooks live by food
In the same way that sparrows do.
I also would have told him, too,
Birds act by instinct, and ne'er can
Attain the rectitude of man.
Nay, that even when distress
Does on poor human nature press,
We need not be too strict in seeing
The failings of a fellow-being.

TO A REDBREAST.- Langhorne.

LITTLE bird with bosom red,
Welcome to my humble shed!
Courtly domes of high degree
Have no room for thee or me;
Pride and pleasure's fickle throng
Nothing mind an idle song.

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MARINER'S HYMN.

Daily near my table steal,
While I pick my scanty meal
Doubt not, little though there be,
But I'll cast a crumb to thee,
Well rewarded if I spy

Pleasure in thy glancing eye;
See thee, when thou 'st eat thy fill,
Plume thy breast, and wipe thy bill.
Come, my feathered friend, again,
Well thou know'st the broken pane.

MARINER'S HYMN.- Mrs. Southey.

LAUNCH thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee;
Let loose the rudder bands,
Good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily,
Tempests will come;
Steer thy course steadily,
Christian, steer home!

Look to the weather bow,
Breakers are round thee;
Let fall the plummet now,
Shallows may ground thee.
Reef in the foresail, there!
Hold the helm fast!
So, let the vessel wear,·
There swept the blast.

What of the night, watchman?
What of the night?
"Cloudy, all quiet,-

No land yet, all 's right."

THE TWO ESTATES. — Mary Howitt.

THE children of the rich man, no carking care they know;

Like lilies in the sunshine, how beautiful they grow! And well may they be beautiful; in raiment of the best, In velvet, gold, and ermine, their little forms are drest. With a hat and jaunty feather set lightly on their head, And golden hair, like angels' locks, over their shoulders spread.

THE TWO ESTATES.

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And well may they be beautiful; they toil not, neither spin,

Nor dig, nor delve, nor do they aught their daily bread to win.

They eat from gold and silver all luxuries wealth can buy;

They sleep on beds of softest down, in chambers rich and high.

They dwell in lordly houses, with gardens round about, And servants do attend them if they go in or out.

They have music for the hearing, and pictures for the eye,

And exquisite and costly things each sense to gratify.

No wonder they are beautiful! and if they chance to die.

Among dead lords and ladies, in the chancel-vault, they lie,

With marble tablets on the wall inscribed, that all may know

The children of the rich man are mouldering below.

The children of the poor man, around the humble doors

They throng of city alleys and solitary moors.

In hot and noisy factories they turn the ceaseless

wheel,

And eat with feeble appetite their coarse and joyless meal.

They rise up in the morning, ne'er dreaming of delight, And weary, spent, and heartsore, they go to bed at

night.