On the placid breast of the inland lake The wild duck delights her pastime to take; The wild ocean waves, His wing in the foaming billow he laves. The halcyon loves, in the noontide beam, In the summer breeze, But we go angling in the stormiest seas. No song-note have we, but a piping cry, That blends with the storm, when the winds rise When the land-birds wail We sport in the gale, And merrily over the ocean we sail. [high; During the severe gales in November, 1836, a Stormy Petrel was driven inland, and took shelter in a pigsty, in Wellington, Salop, where it was made captive, and remained for some time in the possession of the editor of this little work. It afforded him no little amusement while skimming on the surface of a tub of water; and, strange to say, was remarkably tame. Circumstances, however, rendered it necessary that it should be destroyed, in order to be preserved, and it (notwithstanding the length of time it had been out of its "element wild") fully verified the fact of its being easily converted into a lamp by the natives of the Feroe Islands, by the immense quantity of oil (for so small a creature) which was discharged from its bill after it was killed. THE NIGHTINGALE. BEAUTIFUL Nightingale, who shall portray TO A REDBREAST THAT FLEW IN AT MY WINDOW. Graham. FROM Snowy plains, and icy sprays, That note, that summer note, I know : No more now, at my lonely meal, While thou art by, alone I'll feel : For soon, devoid of all distrust, Thou 'lt nibbling share my humble crust; Or on my finger, pert and spruce, Thou 'It learn to sip the sparkling juice, And when (our short collation o'er) Be't work of poet, or of sage, Safe thou shalt hop across the page; Uncheck'd shalt flit o'er Virgil's groves, Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves. Thus, heedless of the raving blast, Thou 'lt dwell with me till winter 's past; 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; 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? |