Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the sh.e.l.l, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds 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; n.o.body 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.

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH.

Oh, gentle one, thy birthday sun should rise Amid a chorus of the merriest birds That ever sang the stars out of the sky In a June morning. Rivulets should send A voice of gladness from their winding paths, Deep in o'erarching gra.s.s, where playful winds, Stirring the loaded stems, should shower the dew Upon the gra.s.sy water. Newly-blown Roses, by thousands, to the garden-walks Should tempt the loitering moth and diligent bee.

The longest, brightest day in all the year Should be the day on which thy cheerful eyes First opened on the earth, to make thy haunts Fairer and gladder for thy kindly looks.

Thus might a poet say; but I must bring A birthday offering of an humbler strain, And yet it may not please thee less. I hold That 'twas the fitting season for thy birth When March, just ready to depart, begins To soften into April. Then we have The delicatest and most welcome flowers, And yet they take least heed of bitter wind And lowering sky. The periwinkle then, In an hour's sunshine, lifts her azure blooms Beside the cottage-door; within the woods Tufts of ground-laurel, creeping underneath The leaves of the last summer, send their sweets Up to the chilly air, and, by the oak, The squirrel-cups, a graceful company, Hide in their bells, a soft aerial blue-- Sweet flowers, that nestle in the humblest nooks And yet within whose smallest bud is wrapped A world of promise! Still the north wind breathes His frost, and still the sky sheds snow and sleet; Yet ever, when the sun looks forth again, The flowers smile up to him from their low seats.

Well hast thou borne the bleak March day of life.

Its storms and its keen winds to thee have been Most kindly tempered, and through all its gloom There has been warmth and sunshine in thy heart; The griefs of life to thee have been like snows, That light upon the fields in early spring, Making them greener. In its milder hours, The smile of this pale season, thou hast seen The glorious bloom of June, and in the note Of early bird, that comes a messenger From climes of endless verdure, thou hast heard The choir that fills the summer woods with song.

Now be the hours that yet remain to thee Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love, That inextinguishably dwell within Thy heart, shall give a beauty and a light To the most desolate moments, like the glow Of a bright fireside in the wildest day; And kindly words and offices of good Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on, Where G.o.d shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates Of a more genial season, and thy path Be lost to human eye among the bowers And living fountains of a brighter land.

_March_, 1855.

AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY.

Already, close by our summer dwelling, The Easter sparrow repeats her song; A merry warbler, she chides the blossoms-- The idle blossoms that sleep so long.

The bluebird chants, from the elm's long branches, A hymn to welcome the budding year.

The south wind wanders from field to forest, And softly whispers, "The Spring is here."

Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, Before those lays from the elm have ceased; The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly As in the air of her native East.

Though many a flower in the wood is waking, The daffodil is our doorside queen; She pushes upward the sward already, To spot with sunshine the early green.

No lays so joyous as these are warbled From wiry prison in maiden's bower; No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower.

Yet these sweet sounds of the early season, And these fair sights of its sunny days, Are only sweet when we fondly listen, And only fair when we fondly gaze.

There is no glory in star or blossom Till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes Till breathed with joy as they wander by.

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows, The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks, And hollows, green in the sun, are waiting Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks.

A SONG FOR NEW-YEAR'S EVE.

Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay-- Stay till the good old year, So long companion of our way, Shakes hands, and leaves us here.

Oh stay, oh stay, One little hour, and then away.

The year, whose hopes were high and strong, Has now no hopes to wake; Yet one hour more of jest and song For his familiar sake.

Oh stay, oh stay, One mirthful hour, and then away.

The kindly year, his liberal hands Have lavished all his store.

And shall we turn from where he stands, Because he gives no more?

Oh stay, oh stay, One grateful hour, and then away.

Days brightly came and calmly went, While yet he was our guest; How cheerfully the week was spent!

How sweet the seventh day's rest!

Oh stay, oh stay, One golden hour, and then away.

Dear friends were with us, some who sleep Beneath the coffin-lid: What pleasant memories we keep Of all they said and did!

Oh stay, oh stay, One tender hour, and then away.

Even while we sing, he smiles his last, And leaves our sphere behind.

The good old year is with the past; Oh be the new as kind!

Oh stay, oh stay, One parting strain, and then away.

THE WIND AND STREAM.

A brook came stealing from the ground; You scarcely saw its silvery gleam Among the herbs that hung around The borders of the winding stream, The pretty stream, the placid stream, The softly-gliding, bashful stream.

A breeze came wandering from the sky, Light as the whispers of a dream; He put the o'erhanging gra.s.ses by, And softly stooped to kiss the stream, The pretty stream, the flattered stream, The shy, yet unreluctant stream.

The water, as the wind pa.s.sed o'er, Shot upward many a glancing beam, Dimpled and quivered more and more, And tripped along, a livelier stream, The flattered stream, the simpering stream, The fond, delighted, silly stream.

Away the airy wanderer flew To where the fields with blossoms teem, To sparkling springs and rivers blue, And left alone that little stream, The flattered stream, the cheated stream, The sad, forsaken, lonely stream.

That careless wind came never back; He wanders yet the fields, I deem, But, on its melancholy track, Complaining went that little stream, The cheated stream, the hopeless stream, The ever-murmuring, mourning stream.

THE LOST BIRD.

FROM THE SPANISH OF CAROLINA CORONADO DE PERRY.