Still dear to each bosom the Blue Bird shall be, His voice, like the thrillings of Hope, is a

treasure,

For, thro' bleakest storms, if a calm he but see, He comes to remind us of sunshine and

pleasure!

* "The Blue Bird," says Wilson, " in his motions and general character, has great resemblance to the robin redbreast of Buffon; and, had he the brown-olive of that bird instead of his own blue, could scarcely be distinguished from him. Like him, he is known to almost every child; and shews as much confidence in man, by associating with him in summer, as the other by his familiarity in winter. His society is courted by the inhabitants of the country, and few farmers neglect to provide for him, in some suitable place, a snug little summer-house, ready fitted and rent free. For this he more than sufficiently repays them by the cheerfulness of his song, and the multitude of injurious insects which he daily destroys."

U. H. Merle.

BULLY, sweet bird, I love thy note

Of wildest minstrelsy,

When thou dost tune thy murmuring throat,

And art at liberty.

Thou art the fairies' mournful lyre,
Which tells of broken vows,
When they from frolic mirth retire
To weep amidst the boughs.

Thou art the zephyr's softest breath,

Which sighs along the gale,

When zephyrs raise, for summer's death,
Their melancholy wail.

It is the Spirit of the leaves,

Which lingers near the dead,

And through thy beak of sable grieves
For life and beauty fled.

For this, and for thy melody,

Thy soft and plaintive tone,

I'll love thee, Bully, till I die,

But not for this alone.

I scarce know how, but thou dost tell

Of sorrow, love, and bliss,

When, choked with tears, I breathed 'farewell,' And seal'd it with a kiss.

T'was winter,-but the sun-beams shed
Their light o'er sleeping earth;

Like smiles which stay, though life be fled,
The type of happier birth!

The

copse

which closed the world was bare,

Each flower and leaf had perish'd : Save thou and we, no life was there, No hope which once we cherish'd.

Who made the 'we?' 'tis, Bully, thou,
And only thou canst say:
Thou only heardst our parting vow,
Whilst throned upon thy spray.

Thou saw'st our tears in silence flow,
Our love amidst despair ;

Thou caught'st the essence of our woe,
And murmur'd it in air.

For this, I'll love thee till I die ;
For this, my prayers are given
For love and life, with liberty,—
Without, what's earth or heaven!