THE PATTICHAP'S NEST. Well! in my many walks I've rarely found Its nest; close by the rut-gulled wagon-road, A grasshopper's green jump might break the shells; A THOUGHT. UPON OCCASION OF A RED-BREAST COMING INTO HIS CHAMBER. JOHN CLARE Pretty bird, how cheerfully dost thou sit and sing, and yet knowest not where thou art, nor where thou shalt make thy next meal; and at night must shroud thyself in a bush for lodging! What shame is it for me, that see before me so liberal provisions of my God, and find myself sit warm under my own roof, yet am ready to droop under a distrustful and unthankful dullness. Had I so little certainty of my harbor and purveyance, how heartless should I be, how careful; how little list should I have to make music to thee or myself. Surely thou comest not hither without a Providence. God sent thee not so much to delight, as to shame me, but all in a conviction of my sullen unbelief, who, under more apparent means, am less cheerful and confident; reason and faith have not done so much in me, as in thee mere instinct of nature; want of foresight makes thee more merry, if not more happy here, than the foresight of better things maketh me. O God, thy providence is not impaired by those powers thou hast given me above these brute things; let not my greater helps hinder me from a holy security and comfortable reliance on thee! BISHOP HALL, 1574-1656. THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. FROM THE SWEDISH. Behold! the birds fly From Gauthiod's strand, Some far foreign land. With hollow winds blend: Our flight whither tend?" 'Tis thus unto heaven that their wailings ascend. "The Scandian shore We leave in despair, Our days glided o'er So blissfully there: We there built our nest Among bright blooming trees; There rock'd us to rest The balm-bearing breeze; But now to far lands we must traverse the sea. "With rose-crown all bright On tresses of gold, The midsummer night It was sweet to behold: The calm was so deep, So lovely the ray, We could not then sleep, But were tranced by the spray, Till wakened by beams from the bright car of day. "The trees gently bent Was the tremulous rose; The rose is no more; Is exchanged for the roar Of storms, and the May-fields have mantles of hoar "Then why do we stay In the North, where the sun More dimly each day His brief course will run? And why need we sigh We leave but a grave, To cleave through the sky On the wings which God gave, Then, Ocean, we welcome the roar of thy wave!" Of rest thus bereaved, Into regions more fair; Among myrtles their way, And the groves are resounding with Hope's happy lay. When earth's joys are o'er Fair lands o'er the sea For the birds brightly bloom; A land smiles for thee, Beyond the dark tomb, Where beams never fading its beauties illume. Anonymous Translation. ERIC JOMAN STAGNELIUS, 1793-1823. THE DOVE. RUSSIAN On an oak-tree sat, One he seized and tore, Tore the little dove, Floated in the air. Ah, how wept and wept, Ah, how sobb'd and soo'd The poor doveling then For her little dove. 66 Weep not, weep not so, Tender little bird!" Spake the light young hawk To the little dove. "O'er the sea away, O'er the far blue sea, I will drive to thee Flocks of other doves; From them choose thee the Choose a soft and blue, With his feathered feet, Better little dove." "Fly, thou villain! not O'er the far blue sea, Drive not here to me None can comfort me, Only he, the father Of my little ones." Translated by J. G. PERCIVAL THE DYING SWAN. The plain was grassy, wild, and bare, An under-roof of doleful gray. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on And shook the reed-tops as it went. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; Chasing itself at its own wild will, And far through the marish green and still Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Hidden in sorrow; at first to the ear But anon her awful jubilant voice, With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, |