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ELCOME, pure thoughts, welcome, ye silent groves—
These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves : Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring.
Sie HENRY WOTTON, 1568–1639.
FLIGHT OF CRANES.
A SIMILE FROM HOMKR.
As when of many sorts the long-neck'd fowl
Unto the large and flowing plain repair,
In multitudes—high flying in the air,
And by-and-by at once light on the ground,
And th' earth whereon they settle to resound;
So when the Achaians went up from the fleet,
And on their march were to the towers of Troy,
But on Scamander's flowery bank they stray,
Or leaves in spring, or multitude of flies
Translated by II01E3.
THE SWALLOW AND THE GRASSHOPPER.
FROM THE GREKK, 450 B, C.
Chirping warbler, bear’st away
Winged-one with lovely wings!
Fellow-guest, whom summer brings !
'Tis not fair-indeed, 'tis wrong,
Trunslution of G. TREVOR.
Attic maiden, breathing still
Of the fragrant flowers that blow
Whence the streams of honey flow.
Noisy prattler, cease to do
To your fellow-prattler wrong;
Least of all the heirs of song.
Both are ever on the wing,
Wanderers both in foreign bowers;
Both depart with summer hours.
Translation of G. MERIVALE.
SONG OF THE SWALLOW.
FRON THE GREEK,
Sung by the Children, passing from Door to Door, at the Return of the Swallor.
The swallow is come!
The swallow is come!
Have you nothing to spare,
For no gray-beards are we,
But boys who will have our own way.
Hal. While we have been conversing, the May-flies, which were in such quantities, have become much fewer; and I believe the reason is. that they have been greatly diminished by the flocks of swallows which everywhere pursue them. I have seen a single swallow take four, in less than a quarter of a minute, that were descending to the water.
Translation of MITCHELL
Poict. I delight in this living landscape! The swallow is one of my favorite birds, and a rival of the nightingale; for he cheers my sense of seeing as much as the other does my sense of hearing. He is the glad prophet of the year-the harbinger of the best season: he lives a life of enjoyment among the loveliest forms of Nature. Winter is unknown to him; and he leaves the green meadows of England, in autumn, for the myrtle and orange groves of Italy, and for the palms of Africa. He has always objects of pursuit, and his success is secure. Even the beings selected for his prey are poetical, beautiful, and transient. The ephemeræ are saved by his means from a slow and lingering death in the evening, and killed in a moment, when they have known nothing of life but pleasure. He is the constant destroyer of insects-the friend of man; and, with the stork and ibis, may be regarded as a sacred bird. This instinct, which gives him his appointed seasons, and teaches him always when and where to move, may be regarded as flowing from a Divine Source; and he belongs to the Oracles of Nature, which speak the awful and intelligible language of a present Deity.
SIR HUMPHREY DAVY.
FROM "THE POLYOLBION."
When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave,
Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole
Those choristers are perch'd, with many a speckled breast;
Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous night
THE BLACK COCK.
Good-morrow to thy sable beak,
A maid there is in yonder tower,
One fleeting moment of delight
I warmed me in her cheering sight,
JOANNA BAI! LIE.
TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.
Wing'd mimic of the woods! thou motley fool,
Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe: