Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,

Oh to abide in the desert with thee!

JAMES HOGG.

A skylark wounded on the wing
Doth make a cherub cease to sing.

He who shall hurt a little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.

W. BLAKE.

THE SWEET-VOICED QUIRE, Lord, should we oft forget to sing

A thankful evening hymn of praise, This duty, they to mind might bring, Who chirp among the bushy sprays.

For in their perches they retire,

When first the twilight waxeth dim; And every night the sweet-voiced quire Shuts up the daylight with a hymn.

Ten thousand fold more cause have we
To close each day with praiseful voice,
To offer thankful hearts to Thee,

And in thy mercies to rejoice.

GEORGE WITHER, 1628.

A CAGED LARK.

A cruel deed

It is, sweet bird, to cage thee up
Prisoner for life, with just a cup
And a box of seed,

And sod to move on barely one foot square,
Hung o'er dark street, midst foul and murky air.

From freedom brought,

And robbed of every chance of wing,
Thou couldst have had no heart to sing,
One would have thought.

But though thy song is sung, men little know

The yearning source from which those sweet notes flow.

Poor little bird!

As often as I think of thee,

And how thou longest to be free,

My heart is stirred,

And, were my strength but equal to my rage,
Methinks thy cager would be in his cage.

The selfish man!

To take thee from thy broader sphere,
Where thousands heard thy music clear,
On Nature's plan;

And where the listening landscape far and wide
Had joy, and thou thy liberty beside.

A singing slave

Made now; with no return but food;
No mate to love, nor little brood

To feed and save;

No cool and leafy haunts; the cruel wires

Chafe thy young life and check thy just desires.

Brave little bird!

Still striving with thy sweetest song

To melt the hearts that do thee wrong,
I give my word

To stand with those who for thy freedom fight,
Who claim for thee that freedom as thy right.

Chambers's Journal.

1

THE WOODLARK.

I have a friend across the street,
We never yet exchanged a word,
Yet dear to me his accents sweet
I am a woman, he a bird.

And here we twain in exile dwell,
Far from our native woods and skies,
And dewy lawns with healthful smell,
Where daisies lift their laughing eyes.

Never again from moss-built nest

Shall the caged woodlark blithely soar;
Never again the heath be pressed

By foot of mine for evermore!

Yet from that feathered, quivering throat
A blessing wings across to me ;
No thrall can hold that mellow note,

Or quench its flame in slavery.

When morning dawns in holy calm,

And each true heart to worship calls, Mine is the prayer, but his the psalm, That floats about our prison walls.

And as behind the thwarting wires

The captive creature throbs and sings, With him my mounting soul aspires

On Music's strong and cleaving wings.

My chains fall off, the prison gates
Fly open, as with magic key;
And far from life's perplexing straits,
My spirit wanders, swift and free.

Back to the heather, breathing deep
The fragrance of the mountain breeze,
I hear the wind's melodious sweep
Through tossing boughs of ancient trees.

Beneath a porch where roses climb
I stand as I was used to stand,
Where cattle-bells with drowsy chime
Make music in the quiet land.

Fast fades the dream in distance dim,
Tears rouse me with a sudden shock;

Lo! at my door, erect and trim,

The postman gives his double knock.

And a great city's lumbering noise
Arises with confusing hum,

And whistling shrill of butchers' boys;
My day begins, my bird is dumb.

KEATS'S NIGHTINGALE.

Temple Bar.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down:
The voice I heard this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath

Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side: and now 't is buried deep
In the next valley-glades

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: do I wake or sleep?

J. KEATS.

LARK AND NIGHTINGALE.

Color and form may be conveyed by words,
But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains
That from the throats of these celestial birds

Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains;