The Carrion Crow hath a coat of black,

Silky and sleek, like a priest's, to his back;
Like a lawyer he grubbeth-no matter what way—
The fouler the offal, the richer his prey.

Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow!

Dig! Dig! in the ground below!

The Carrion Crow hath a dainty maw,
With savory pickings he crammeth his craw;
Kept meat from the gibbet, it pleaseth his whim,
It never can hang too long for him.
Caw! Caw!

The Carrion Crow smelleth powder, 'tis said, Like a soldier escheweth the taste of cold lead; No jester or mime hath more marvellous wit, For wherever he lighteth he maketh a hit.

Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow!

Dig! Dig! in the ground below!

LINES.

Hurdis.

BUT mark with how peculiar grace yon wood,
That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze
Her sea of leaves: thither we turn our steps,

And by the way attend the cheerful sound
Of woodland harmony, that always fills

The

merry vale between. How sweet the song Day's harbinger attunes! I have not heard Such elegant divisions drawn from art. And what is he that wins our admiration? A little speck that floats upon the sunbeam. What vast perfection cannot Nature crowd Into a puny point! The Nightingale, Her solo anthem sung, and all that heard, Content, joins in the chorus of the day; She, gentle heart, thinks it no pain to please, Nor, like the moody songsters of the world, Just shows her talent, pleases, takes affront, And locks it up in envy.

THE SKYLARK.

Literary Gazette.

WHEN day's bright banner, first unfurl'd From darkness, frees the shrouded world, The Skylark, singing as he soars,

On the fresh air his carol pours;

But though to heaven he wings his flight,
As if he loved those realms of light,
He still returns with weary wing
On earth to end his wandering.

Aspiring bird, in thee I find

An emblem of the youthful mind,

Whose earliest voice, like thine, is given

To notes of joy that mount to Heaven;
But, fetter'd by the toils of life,
Its sordid cares, its bitter strife,
It feels its noble efforts vain,
And sadly sinks to earth again.

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.

No school-boy rude, to mischief prone,

E'er shews his ruddy face,

Or twangs his bow or hurls a stone
In this sequester'd place.

Hither the vocal thrush repairs,
Secure the linnet sings,

The goldfinch dreads no slimy snares,
To clog her painted wings.

Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt
Yon distant woods among,

And round my friendly grotto chant
Thy sweetly plaintive song.

Let not the harmless redbreast fear,
Domestic bird, to come,

And seek a sure asylum here

With one that loves his home.

My trees for you, ye artless tribe,
Shall store of fruit preserve;
Oh, let me thus your friendship bribe!
Come, feed without reserve.

For you these cherries I protect,

To you these plums belong :