Owl! that lovest the cloudy sky! Through the prison panes, What there thou hearest tell to me?— "Tis a woman's scream, And she calls on one-on one of Three !" Through the grated door : ""Tis a soul that prays in agony!" Owl! that hatest the morning sky! Away!-away! I must pray in charity. From the midnight chime, Miserere, Domine! The above splendid lines were written in reference to a murder, whose details somewhat disgustingly occupied the public mind, in 1824. WHEN vernal breezes fan The fresh, ambrosial May, And fern-clad heath, and mountain moss Their spring-wove hues display, The Robin blithe is seen The fragrant bowers among, Flitting away on the wings of love In the highest strain of song, E Fair Summer's heats oppress 'Neath equinoctial beams, When birds retire to the sylvan shades, After the toils of the day; What cheers him on his evening path? Brown Autumn's dreary moan The blue has left the hill; But near yon hamlet's humble shed Now Winter frowns severe; Congealing frosts and snow Come drifting keen from their arctic sphere, And howling tempests blow. But where is the songster's voice, The little English bird? Midst the rigid scene of the winter stern, Is the lay of the Robin heard? O, yes! in some cottage hedge Shelter'd by its roof, he fears He picks, with grateful breast, Sweet, constant, faithful bird, May I, like the Robin Redbreast, prize THE GOLDFINCH. GOLDFINCH, pride of woodland glade In the sunbeam spread thy wing! |