Stained with blood, and never tiring, With its beak it does not cease, From the cross 'twould free the Saviour, Its Creator's son release.

And the Saviour speaks in mildness: "Blest be thou of all the good!

Bear, as token of this moment, Marks of blood and holy rood!"

And that bird is called the cross-bill; Covered all with blood so clear, In the groves of pine it singeth Songs, like legends, strange to hear.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

PRETTY BIRDS.

Among the orchards and the groves, While summer days are fair and long, You brighten every tree and bush, You fill the air with loving song.

NURSERY.

THE LITTLE BIRD SITS.

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays: Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in gra.s.s and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The b.u.t.tercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace: The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE LIVING SWAN.

Then some one came who said, "My Prince had shot A swan, which fell among the roses here, He bids me pray you send it. Will you send?"

"Nay," quoth Siddartha, "if the bird were dead To send it to the slayer might be well, But the swan lives; my cousin hath but killed The G.o.d-like speed which throbbed in this white wing."

And Devadatta answered, "The wild thing, Living or dead, is his who fetched it down; 'Twas no man's in the clouds, but fall'n 'tis mine, Give me my prize, fair Cousin." Then our Lord Laid the swan's neck beside his own smooth cheek And gravely spake, "Say no! the bird is mine, The first of myriad things which shall be mine By right of mercy and love's lordliness.

For now I know, by what within me stirs, That I shall teach compa.s.sion unto men And be a speechless world's interpreter, Abating this accursed flood of woe, Not man's alone; but, if the Prince disputes, Let him submit this matter to the wise And we will wait their word." So was it done; In full divan the business had debate, And many thought this thing and many that, Till there arose an unknown priest who said, "If life be aught, the savior of a life Owns more the living thing than he can own Who sought to slay--the slayer spoils and wastes, The cherisher sustains, give him the bird:"

Which judgment all found just.

_Light of Asia._

THE STORMY PETREL.

A thousand miles from land are we, Tossing about on the roaring sea-- From billow to bounding billow cast, Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast.

The sails are scattered abroad like weeds; The strong masts shake like quivering reeds; The mighty cables and iron chains; The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,-- They strain and they crack; and hearts like stone Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.

Up and down!--up and down!

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, And amid the flashing and feathery foam, The stormy petrel finds a home.

A home, if such a place may be For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, And only seeketh her rocky lair To warm her young, and to teach them to spring At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!

O'er the deep!--o'er the deep!

Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep-- Outflying the blast and the driving rain, The petrel telleth her tale--in vain; For the mariner curseth the warning bird Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard!

Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still; Yet he ne'er falters--so, petrel, spring Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!

BARRY CORNWALL.

TO THE CUCKOO.

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!

Thou messenger of Spring!

Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands Another Spring to hail.

Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No Winter in thy year!

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!

We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Attendants on the Spring.

JOHN LOGAN.

BIRDS AT DAWN.

The beautiful day is breaking, The first faint line of light Parts the shadows of the night, And a thousand birds are waking.

I hear the Hairbird's slender trill,-- So fine and perfect it doth fill The whole sweet silence with its thrill.

A rosy flush creeps up the sky, The birds begin their symphony.

I hear the clear, triumphant voice Of the Robin, bidding the world rejoice.

The Vireos catch the theme of the song, And the Baltimore Oriole bears it along, While from Sparrow, and Thrush, and Wood Pewee, And, deep in the pine-trees, the Chickadee, There's an undercurrent of harmony.

The Linnet sings like a magic flute, The Lark and Bluebird touch the lute, The Starling pipes to the shining morn With the vibrant note of the joyous horn, The splendid Jay Is the trumpeter gay, The Kingfisher, sounding his rattle,--he May the player on the cymbals be, The c.o.c.k, saluting the sun's first ray, Is the bugler sounding a reveille.

"Caw! Caw!" cries the crow, and his grating tone Completes the chord like a deep trombone.

But, above them all, the Robin sings; His song is the very soul of day, And all black shadows troop away While, pure and fresh, his music rings: "Light is here!

Never fear!

Day is near!

My dear!"

MISS HARRIET E. PAINE.

EVENING SONGS.