THE GOLDEN-CROWNED THRUSH.

In the hot midsummer noontide, When all other birds are sleeping, Still one in the silent forest, Like a sentry, watch in keeping, Singing in the pine-tops spicy: "I see, _I_ see, _I SEE_, _I_ SEE."

No one ever sees _you_, atom!

You are hidden too securely.

I have sought for hours to find you.

It is but to tease us, surely, That you sing in pine-tops spicy: "I see, _I_ see, _I SEE_, _I_ SEE."

HARRIET E. PAINE: _Bird Songs of New England._

THE THRUSH.

Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig A thrush resorts, and annually chants, At morn and evening from that naked perch, While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, A time-beguiling ditty, for delight Of his fond partner, silent in the nest.

"Ah why," said Ellen, sighing to herself, "Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge, And nature that is kind in woman's breast, And reason that in man is wise and good, And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge,-- Why do not these prevail for human life, To keep two hearts together, that began Their spring-time with one love, and that have need Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet To grant, or be received; while that poor bird,-- Oh come and hear him! Thou who hast to me Been faithless, hear him, _though a lowly creature, One of G.o.d's simple children that yet know not The universal Parent, how he sings As if he wished the firmament of heaven Should listen, and give back to him the voice Of his triumphant constancy and love;_ The proclamation that he makes, how far His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!"

WORDSWORTH.

THE AZIOLA.

"Do you not hear the Aziola cry?

Methinks she must be nigh,"

Said Mary, as we sate In dusk, ere stars were lit or candles brought, And I, who thought, This Aziola was some tedious woman, Asked, "Who is Aziola?" How elate I felt to know that it was nothing human, No mockery of myself to fear or hate; And Mary saw my soul, And laughed and said, "Disquiet yourself not, 'Tis nothing but a little downy owl."

Sad Aziola! many an eventide Thy music I had heard By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side, And fields and marshes wide, Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird, The soul ever stirred; Unlike and far sweeter than them all.

Sad Aziola! from that moment I Loved thee and thy sad cry.

Sh.e.l.lEY.

THE MARTEN.

This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze, b.u.t.tress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle.

Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed The air is delicate.

_Macbeth_, Act 1, Sc. 6.

JUDGE YOU AS YOU ARE?

How would you be If He which is the top of Judgment should But judge you as you are? Oh, think on that, And Mercy then will breathe within your lips Like man new made.

_Measure for Measure_, Act 2, Sc. 2.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

Merrily singing on briar 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 in that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers; Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, Wearing a bright-black wedding coat; White are his shoulders, and white his crest, Hear him call 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.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Freckled with purple, a pretty sight!

There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might.

Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about.

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

W. C. BRYANT.

MY DOVES.

My little doves have left a nest Upon an Indian tree, Whose leaves fantastic take their rest Or motion from the sea; For, ever there, the sea-winds go With sunlit paces to and fro.

The tropic flowers looked up to it, The tropic stars looked down, And there my little doves did sit, With feathers softly brown, And glittering eyes that showed their right To general Nature's deep delight.

My little doves were ta'en away From that glad nest of theirs, Across an ocean rolling gray, And tempest clouded airs.

My little doves,--who lately knew The sky and wave by warmth and blue!

And now, within the city prison, In mist and dullness pent, With sudden upward look they listen For sounds of past content-- For lapse of water, swell of breeze, Or nut-fruit falling from the trees.

Soft falls their chant as on the nest Beneath the sunny zone; For love that stirred it in their breast Has not aweary grown, And 'neath the city's shade can keep The well of music clear and deep.

So teach ye me the wisest part, My little doves! to move Along the city-ways with heart a.s.sured by holy love, And vocal with such songs as own A fountain to the world unknown.

MRS. BROWNING.

THE DOVES OF VENICE.

I stood in the quiet piazza, Where come rude noises never; But the feet of children, the wings of doves, Are sounding on forever.

And the cooing of their soft voices, And the touch of the rippling sea, And the ringing clock of the armed knight, Came through the noon to me.

While their necks with rainbow gleaming, 'Neath the dark old arches shone, And the campanile's shadow long, Moved o'er the pavement stone.

And from every "coigne of vantage,"