Then the army, elsewhere bent, So it stood there all alone, Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Which the cannon-shot had shattered. H. W. LONGFellow. TO A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER OUR EAVES. Thou too hast travelled, little fluttering thing- But much, my little bird, couldst thou but tell, For thou hast passed fair places in thy flight; Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye Did fortune try thee? was thy little purse Ah no! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one! What was it, then? some mystic turn of thought, For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask, A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain, In truth, I rather take it thou hast got Whether an Eden or a desert be Thy home, so thou remain'st alive, and free God speed thee, pretty bird; may thy small nest For well thou managest that life of thine, MRS. THOMAS CARLYLE. THE SWALLOW, THE OWL, AND THE COCK'S SHRILL CLARION IN THE "ELEGY." The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR. Forms of saints and kings are standing The cathedral door above; Yet I saw but one among them Who hath soothed my soul with love. In his mantle, - wound about him, As their robes the sowers wind, Bore he swallows and their fledglings, kind. And so stands he calm and child-like, Oh, were I like him exalted, I would be like him, a child! And my songs, green leaves and blossoms, To the doors of heaven would bear, Calling, even in storm and tempest, Round me still these birds of air. H. W. LONG fellow. THE BIRD LET LOOSE. The bird let loose in eastern skies, But high she shoots through air and light, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, So grant me, God, from every care No sin to cloud, no lure to stay My soul, as home she springs; Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings! T. MOORE. THE BROWN THRUSH. There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree. "He's singing to me! He's singing to me!" And what does he say, little girl, little boy? "Oh, the world 's running over with joy! Hush! Look! In my tree I'm as happy as happy can be!" And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, Now I'm glad! now I'm free! And always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me." So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, Το you and to me, to you and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world 's running over with joy! Don't you know? don't you see? But long it won't be, Unless we are as good as can be?" LUCY LARCOM. THE GOLDEN-CROWNED THRUSH. When all other birds are sleeping, |