Yet from out the darkness dreary Cometh still that cheerful note; Praiseful aye, and never weary,

Is that little warbling throat.

Thank him for his lesson's sake,

Thank God's gentle minstrel there, Who, when storms make others quake, Sings of days that brighter were.

HARRISON WEIR.

THE HEATH-COCK.

Good morrow to thy sable beak
And glossy plumage dark and sleek,
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy:
I see thee slyly cowering through
That wiry web of silvery dew,
That twinkles in the morning air,
Like casements of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, her simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;
The rarest things to break of day
Look shortly forth, and shrink away.

A fleeting moment of delight

I sunned me in her cheering sight;
As short, I ween, the time will be
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day,
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay,
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring,
Thou art already on the wing.

1

JOANNA BAILLIE.

THE BOBOLINK.

BOBOLINK! that in the meadow,
Or beneath the orchard's shadow,
Keepest up a constant rattle
Joyous as my children's prattle,
Welcome to the north again!
Welcome to mine ear thy strain,
Welcome to mine eye the sight
Of thy buff, thy black and white.
Brighter plumes may greet the sun
By the banks of Amazon;
Sweeter tones may weave the spell
Of enchanting Philomel ;
But the tropic bird would fail,
And the English nightingale,

If we should compare their worth
With thine endless, gushing mirth.

When the ides of May are past,
June and suminer nearing fast,
While from depths of blue above
Comes the mighty breath of love,
Calling out each bud and flower
With resistless, secret power,
Waking hope and fond desire,
Kindling the erotic fire,

Filling youths' and maidens' dreams
With mysterious, pleasing themes;
Then, amid the sunlight clear
Floating in the fragrant air,

Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure
By thy glad ecstatic measure.

A single note, so sweet and low,
Like a full heart's overflow,
Forms the prelude; but the strain
Gives no such tone again,
For the wild and saucy song
Leaps and skips the notes among,
With such quick and sportive play,
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay.

Gayest songster of the spring!
Thy melodies before me bring
Visions of some dream-built land,
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned,
I might walk the livelong day,
Embosomed in perpetual May.
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows ;
For thee a tempest never blows;
But when our northern summer 's o'er,
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore
The wild rice lifts its airy head,
And royal feasts for thee are spread.
And when the winter threatens there,
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear,
But bear thee to more southern coasts,
Far beyond the reach of frosts.

Bobolink still may thy gladness
Take from me all taints of sadness;
Fill my soul with trust unshaken
In that Being who has taken
Care for every living thing,
In summer, winter, fall, and spring.

THOMAS HILL

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,

Wearing a bright black wedding coat;
White are his shoulders and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink ;

Look, what a nice new coat is mine,
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she,

One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seed for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work, and silent with care;

Off is his holiday garment laid,
Half forgotten that merry air,

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;
Nobody knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

PERSEVERANCE.

A SWALLOW in the spring

Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring Wet earth and straw and leaves.

Day after day she toiled

With patient art, but ere her work was crowned, Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,

And dashed it to the ground.

She found the ruin wrought,

But not cast down, forth from the place she flew, And with her mate fresh earth and grasses brought And built her nest anew.

But scarcely had she placed The last soft feather on its ample floor, When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste And wrought the ruin o'er.

But still her heart she kept, And toiled again, and last night, hearing calls, I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept Within the earth-made walls.

What truth is here, O man! Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn? Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, trust, or plan? Have faith, and struggle on!

R. S. S. ANDROS.

THE SWALLOW.

THE gorse is yellow on the heath,

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding; and beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath of May.

THE rain-drops plash, and the dead leaves fall, On spire and cornice and mould;

The swallows gather, and twitter and call, "We must follow the summer, come one, come ali For the winter is now so cold."

Just listen awhile to the wordy war,

As to whither the way shall tend, Says one, "I know the skies are fair And myriad insects float in air

Where the ruins of Athens stand.

"And every year when the brown leaves fall,
In a niche of the Parthenon

I build my nest on the corniced wall,
In the trough of a devastating ball

From the Turk's besieging gun."

Says another, "My cosey home I fit
On a Smyrna grande café,
Where over the threshold Hadjii sit,
And smoke their pipes and their coffee sip,
Dreaming the hours away."

The sky is overcast,

Yet stars shall rise at last,
Brighter for darkness past,

And angels' silver voices stir the air.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

THE rose looks out in the valley,
And thither will I go !

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

The virgin is on the river-side, Culling the lemons pale : Thither,

- yes! thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe.

The fairest fruit her hand hath culled, "T is for her lover all :

Thither, - yes! thither will I go,

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain,
She has placed the lemons pale:
Thither, yes! thither will I go,
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

GIL VICENTE (Portuguese). Translation
of JOHN BOWRING.