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TO A SEA-BIRD

By Francis Bret Harte

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AUNTERING hither on listless

Careless vagabond of the sea, Little thou heedest the surf that

The bar that thunders, the shale that rings,

Give me to keep thy company.

Little thou hast, old friend, that's new;
Storms and wrecks are old things to thee;

Sick am I of these changes too;

Little to care for, little to rue, –

I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

All of thy wanderings, far and near,

Bring thee at last to shore and me; All of my journeyings end them here, This our tether must be our cheer,

I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

Lazily rocking on ocean's breast,

Something in common, old friend, have we; Thou on the shingle seekest thy nest,

I to the waters look for rest,

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I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

GRIZZLY

By Francis Bret Harte

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OWARD,- of heroic size,
In whose lazy muscles lies
Strength we fear and yet despise;
Savage, whose relentless tusks
Are content with acorn husks;
Robber, whose exploits ne'er
soared

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O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard;
Whiskered chin, and feeble nose,
Claws of steel on baby toes,
Here, in solitude and shade,
Shambling, shuffling plantigrade,
Be thy courses undismayed!

Here, where Nature makes thy bed,
Let thy rude, half-human tread

Point to hidden Indian springs,
Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses,
Hovered o'er by timid wings,
Where the wood-duck lightly passes,
Where the wild bee holds her sweets,
Epicurean retreats,

Fit for thee, and better than

Fearful spoils of dangerous man.

In thy fat-jowled deviltry

Friar Tuck shall live in thee;

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Thou mayest levy tithe and dole;
Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer,
From the pilgrim taking toll;

Match thy cunning with his fear;
Eat, and drink, and have thy fill;
Yet remain an outlaw still!

NATURE

By Jones Very

HE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by,

Because my feet find measure with its call;

The birds know when the friend

they love is nigh,

For I am known to them, both

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great and small.

The flower that on the lonely hillside grows

Expects me there when Spring its bloom has given;
And many a tree and bush my wandering knows,
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven;
For he who with his Maker walks aright,
Shall be their lord as ADAM was before;

His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,
Each object wear the dress that then it wore;
And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.

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Glad sights are common: Nature draws
Her random pictures through the year,
But oft her music bids us long

Remember those most dear.

To me, when in the sudden spring
I hear the earliest robin's lay,
With the first trill there comes again
One picture of the May.

The veil is parted wide, and lo,

A moment, though my eyelids close, Once more I see that wooded hill Where the arbutus grows.

I see the village dryad kneel,

Trailing her slender fingers through

The knotted tendrils, as she lifts
Their pink, pale flowers to view.

Once more I dare to stoop beside
The dove-eyed beauty of my choice,
And long to touch her careless hair,
And think how dear her voice.

My eager, wandering hands assist
With fragrant blooms her lap to fill,
And half by chance they meet her own,
Half by our young hearts' will.

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Till, at the last, those blossoms won,
Like her, so pure, so sweet, so shy,-
Upon the gray and lichened rocks

Close at her feet I lie.

Fresh blows the breeze through hemlock trees,
The fields are edged with green below;
And naught but youth and hope and love
We know or care to know!

Hark! from the moss-clung apple-bough,
Beyond the tumbled wall, there broke
That gurgling music of the May,—
'Twas the first robin spoke!

I heard it, ay, and heard it not,

For little then my glad heart wist What toil and time should come to pass, And what delight be missed;

Nor thought thereafter, year by year,

Hearing that fresh yet olden song,

To yearn for unreturning joys
That with its joy belong.

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