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THE OLD GREY THRUSH.

Of all the birds of tuneful note
That warble o'er field and flood,

O give me the thrush with the speckled throat,
The king of the singing wood!
For see, he sits on the topmost twig
To carol forth his glee,

And none can dance a merrier jig,
Or laugh more loud than he.

So the thrush, the thrush, the old grey thrush,
A merry, blithe old boy is he;

You may hear him on the roadside bush,
Or the topmost twig of the mountain tree.

Ere Spring, arrayed in robes of green,
Bids beautiful flowers start,

He cheereth up dull December's scene
With a song from his gushing heart.
But sweeter far are his notes to me,
When, piping to the morn,

He meets the bright sun o'er the lea
With a flourish of his horn.

So the thrush, the thrush, the old grey thrush,
A merry, blithe old boy is he ;

You may hear him on the roadside bush,

Or the topmost twig of the mountain tree.

To come with the balmy breath of Spring,
And shout to the orient beam ;

To hop on his favourite bough, and sing,
When rich, ruby sunsets gleam ;
To feed his love in her moss-built nest,
To rear us a singing brood,

And fire with song the poet's breast,

He haunteth the green-roofed wood.

Oh, the thrush, the thrush, the old grey thrush,
A merry, blithe old boy is he;

You may hear him on the roadside bush,

Or the topmost twig of the mountain tree.

EDWARD CAPERN.

THE CAMEL'S NOSE.

ONCE in his shop a workman wrought,
With languid hand and listless thought,
When, through the open window's space,
Behold, a camel thrust his face!

"My nose is cold," he meekly cried;
"Oh, let me warm it by thy side!"

Since no denial word was said,

In came the nose, in came the head-
As sure as sermon follows text,
The long and scraggy neck came next;
And then, as falls the threatening storm,
In leaped the whole ungainly* form.

Aghast the owner gazed around,
And on the rude invader frowned,
Convinced, as closer still he prest,
There was no room for such a guest;
Yet more astonished heard him say,
"If thou art troubled go away,
For in this place I choose to stay."

O youthful hearts, to gladness born,
Treat not this Arab lore with scorn!
To evil habit's earliest wile †

Lend neither ear, nor glance, nor smile,—
Choke the dark fountain ere it flows

Nor e'en admit the camel's nose!

MRS. SIGOURNEY, 1791-1865.

THE FOOLISH MOUSIKIN.

MOUSIKIN came to the mother mouse,
And said, "I have found such a pretty house
The sides are of wood, with a window before,
That's made of wire, and a great wide door;
And besides, I can smell there is cheese on the shelf
And I'm old enough now to set up for myself."
+ Trick.

* Clumsy.

WINTER.

"Mousikin," gravely said mother mouse,
"If you venture to enter that nice little house,
And taste of the cheese, with a sudden clap
The door will close, and you'll be in a trap.
Your silly words prove, you foolish elf,
You're not old enough yet to set up for yourself."

Mousikin laughed at the mother mouse;

She ventured into the nice little house.

Bang! went the door when she touched the cheese. "O mother!" she cried, "let me out, if you please." "Alas!" cried the mother, "your love of pelf

Has condemned you to stop there, shut up by yourself." TOM HOOD.

53

WINTER.

WHEN icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail ;
When blood is nipt and ways be foul,*
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whoo!

Tu-whit! tu-whoo! a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel† the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drown the parson's saw,‡
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marion's nose looks red and raw;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-whoo!

Tu-whit! tu-whoo! a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

SHAKSPEARE, 1564–1616.

*Dirty. Cool. Talk; it here means sermon.

THE ROSE.

THE rose had been washed, just washed by a shower,
Which Mary to Anna conveyed ;

The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,
And weighed down its beautiful head.

The cup was all filled, the leaves were all wet,
And it seemed, to my fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned;
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
I snapped it,-it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind;
Regardless of wringing or breaking a heart,
Already to sorrow resigned.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; And the tear that is wiped with a little address Might be followed, perhaps, by a smile.

WILLIAM COWPER, 1731-1800.

SONNET.

I MET a fairy child, whose golden hair
Around her sunny brow in clusters hung;
And as she wove her kingcup chain, she sung
The household melodies; those strains which bear
The hearer back to Eden;-surely ne'er

A brighter vision blessed my dreams.

"Whose child

Art thou ?" I said. Sweet child! in accents mild
She answered," Mother's." When I questioned where
Her dwelling was, again she answered, “ Home."
Mother and home-Ŏ blessed ignorance,

Or, rather, blessed knowledge; what advance
Further than this shall all the years to come,

THE ORPHAN BOY.

With all their lore, effect? There are but given
Two names of higher note-Father and Heaven.
WORDSWORTH,

THE ORPHAN BOY.

STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale!
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake,-
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy.
Poor foolish child-how pleased was I
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought,-
She could not bear to see my joy;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor orphan boy!
The people's shouts were long and loud,
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears;
Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd;
My mother answered with her tears.
"Why are you crying so," said I,

"While others laugh and shout with joy?"
She kissed me and with such a sigh!
She called me her poor orphan boy.
"What is an orphan boy?" I cried,
As in her face I looked and smiled;
My mother through her tears replied,
"You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!"
And now they've tolled my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy;

O lady, I have learned too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy!

55

AMELIA OPIE, 1770-1853,

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