ADDRESS IN FAVOUR OF A SINGING BIRD.

By an American Lady.

THE tuneful strains that glad thy heart,
Ah! whence, obdurate, do they flow?

Thy warbler's song, unknown to art,
But breathes its little song of woe.

His life of pleasure but a day,

That transient day, how soon it flies! Regard, my friend, the plaintive lay, Restore him to his native skies.

E'er while a tenant of the grove,
And blithest of the feather'd train,

He gave to freedom, joy, and love,
The artless, tributary strain.

Indignant see him spurn the cage,
With feeble wings its wires assail;
And now despair succeeds to rage,
And sorrow pours the mournful tale.

THE BIRD CAUGHT AT SEA.

Hill.

PRETTY little feather'd fellow,

Why so far from home dost rove? What misfortune brought thee hither, From the green, embowering grove ? Let thy throbbing heart be still, Here secure from danger rest thee; No one here shall use thee ill,

Here no cruel boy molest thee. Barley-corns and crumbs of bread, Crystal water, too, shall cheer thee; On soft sails recline thy head,

Sleep, and fear no danger near thee. So when kindly winds shall speed us To the land we wish to see,

Then, sweet captive, thou shalt leave us, Then amidst the groves be free.

WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight, to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or maze of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-tide ?

There is a Power, whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,

The desert and illimitable air,

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd,

At that far height, the cool thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not weary to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon thy toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer-home and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Loose o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou'rt gone; th' abyss of heaven

Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

THE Carrion Crow is a sexton bold,

He raketh the dead from out of the mould; He delveth the ground like a miser old,

Stealthily hiding his store of gold.

Caw! Caw!