The VULTURE first rose: on the havoc profound He glanc'd; it might even a monarch astound: Nought abash'd, he flew over the desolate dell, Then, stooping, he swept o'er the water's deep swell; A favourite morsel roll'd down in the tide,

Its possession an instant enough to decide.

The GRALLATORS dipp'd, too, their long beaks in the flood;

At times they were stain'd or with gore or with blood.
The GOATSUCKERS, SCANSORS, the PARROTS, a few,
Their clamorous notes chose again to renew ;
But the powerful impression the hurricane made
The BIRDS of fine feeling detain'd in the shade:
Yet the musical WOOD-THRUSH, torn laurels among,
As ev'ning approach'd, warbled forth a sweet song:
The sad and the sombre become him the best :
Thus he sang, as he perch'd on his leafy beech nest :-

THE WOOD-THRUSH'S EVENING SONG.

Turdus Melodus.-(WILSON.)

STILL MEMORY culls, O, HAPPINESS!
For THEE her sweetest flowers;---

The violet, the pink, the rose,

And woodbine, from her bowers.

When earth becomes a dreary void,
For THEE her magic wand

She waves, and lo! in colours bright,

A wondrous fairy land!

When friends forsake us-when the fates

The dearest friends divide,

For THEE still MEMORY hovers near,

Thy long affianc'd bride.

The tender look-the dying word

She holds for ever dear;

And, while affection prompts the sigh,

And sorrow sheds the tear,

She beckons HOPE, in misty robe,
And THEE to deck the urn;

And dwells with sad delight, on hours
That never can return.

Ye VICTIMS of the STORM! for You
This requiem I sing:

And for your shroud pimenta leaves
Abundant I shall bring;

Here, wrapt in fragrance, you shall lie;
Oft from the giddy throng
I'll steal apart and warble here
For you, my saddest song.

'Tis said that Man, a monarch here,
Though he like us, too, dies,

In other worlds for ever lives

Amidst unclouded skies.

Then why not WE-why should the gates
Of death affections sever-
Why might not wĘ, as well as MAN,
Live too, and love for ever?

Ecstatic thought! midst laurel shades

For ever thus to sing;

Our long lost friends to find again

In everliving spring!

Still MEMORY culls, O, HAPPINESS!

For THEE her choicest flowers :

The violet, jasmine, pink, the rose,

And woodbines, from her bowers. (67)

(67) ORDER, PASSERES; THRUSH, the WOOD, the RED

BREASTED.

The Turdus Melodus, WOOD-THRUSH, Wood-Robin, or GroundRobin, inhabits the whole of North America, from Hudson's Bay

to Florida. Arrives in Pennsylvania about the 20th of April, and returns to the south in October. Length eight inches; the whole upper parts are a fulvous brown, brightening into reddish on the head, and inclining to olive on the rump and tail; throat and breast white, tinged with light buff colour, and beautifully marked with dark spots running all over the belly, which is white. Frequents solitary woods; sings finely in the morning and evening, and also in moist and gloomy weather: the sadder the day the sweeter its song. Eggs four or five, light blue, without spots; nest, in a laurel or elder bush, composed of beech leaves exteriorly, lined with mud, over which is laid fine black fibrous roots of plants; the nest is found in moist situations and the neighbourhood of brooks. This bird is often heard, but rarely seen. For its Morning Song, see page 351.

The Turdus Migratorius, RED-BREASTED-THRUSH, or ROBIN, of WILSON, is nine and a half inches long; sings very pleasantly; frequently seen in America in cages, in one of which it has been kept for seventeen years; inhabits the whole of North America, from Hudson's Bay to Nootka Sound and Georgia; rarely breeds on the east side of the mountains south of Virginia. See page 350.

EVE at length came, in mantle of purple array'd, While the moon o'er the mountains her radiance display'd.

The birds sought repose-who had journeys to take, Deferr'd their return till the morning should wake; Meantime, the sweet MOCKING-BIRD, true to his lay, Thus welcom❜d the NIGHT, thus took leave of the DAY.

THE MOCKING-BIRD'S NIGHT SONG.

Turdus Polyglottus.—(LINN.)

THE garish day is gone to rest,
Then welcome gentle NIGHT!
I love thy solemn silent hours
When moon and stars are bright.

I love, O night! to hear repose
In breathing slumbers sweet;
I love to hear thy crystal rills
Flow murmuring at thy feet.

Sweet night! of love the tender nurse,

I offer unto thee

The holiest and the purest vows

That e'er can offered be.

Hast thou, sweet night! a maiden seen

Array'd like seraph bright?

She wanders oft in yonder grove;

Oh tell me, gentle night!