Who dozes those sweet hours away,
When thou beginn'st thy merry lay;
And 'cause his lazy limbs refuse
To tread the meadows' morning dews,
And there thy early wild notes hear,
He keeps thee lonely prisoner.
Not such am I, sweet warbler; no!
For should thy strains as sweetly flow,
As sweetly flow, as gaily sound
Within thy prison's wiry bound,
As when thou soar'st with lover's pride,
And pour'st thy wild notes far and wide,
Yet still, depriv'd of every scene,
The yellow lawn, the meadow green,
The hawthorn bush, besprent with dew,
The skyey lake, the mountain blue,
Not half the charms thou'dst have for me,
As ranging wide at liberty.
"Of all birds I should like to be a Lark. He revels in the brightest time of the day, in the happiest season of the year, among fresh meadows and opening flowers; and when he has sated himself with the sweetness of earth, he wings his flight up to Heaven, as if he would drink in the melody of the morning stars. Hark to that note! How it comes trilling down upon the ear! What a stream of music, note falling over note in delicious cadence! Who would trouble his head about operas and concerts, when he could walk in the fields, and hear such music for nothing?-There are homilies in Nature's works worth all the wisdom of the schools, if we could but read them rightly; and one of the pleasantest lessons I ever received in a time of trouble, was from hearing the notes of a Lark."-Tales of a Traveller.
The nest of this delightful songster is well described by Grahame :
The daisied lea he loves, where tufts of grass
Luxuriant crown the ridge; there, with his mate,
He founds their lowly house, of withered herbs,
And coarsest spear-grass; next, the inner work
With finer and still finer fibres lays,
Rounding it curious with his speckled breast.
COME, Sweetest of the feather'd throng!
And soothe me with thy plaintive song:
Come to my cot, devoid of fear,
No danger shall await thee here:
No prowling cat, with whisker'd face,
Approaches this sequester'd place:
No schoolboy with his willow-bow
Shall aim at thee a murderous blow:
No wily lim'd twig e'er molest
Thy olive wing or crimson breast:
Thy cup, sweet bird! I'll daily fill
At yonder cressy, bubbling rill;
Thy board shall plenteously be spread
With crumblets of the nicest bread;
And when rude Winter comes and shows
His icicles and shivering snows,
Hop o'er my cheering hearth and be
One of my peaceful family:
Then soothe me with thy plaintive song,
Thou sweetest of the feather'd throng!
He then During the Summer the Robin retires to the woods and thickets. loses his "scarlet stomacher," and does not recover it till the Autumn This accounts for the strange assertion of Pliny, who says, that it is only a redbreast in Winter, but becomes a fire-tail in Summer.-Nat. Hist., x. 29. During the time of incubation, he drives all birds of his own species from his little settleUnum ment, and furiously attacks every intruder that ventures on his beat. arbustum non alit duos erithacos. Notwithstanding his quarrelsome and selfish disposition, his seeming humbleness and necessities win our pity in seasons of severity.
The Redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first
Against the window beats; then, brisk alights
On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the family askance,
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is;
Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs
Attract his slender feet.
TO THE INSECT OF THE GOSSAMER.
SMALL, viewless aëronaut, that by the line
Of Gossamer suspended, in mid air
Ends thy breeze-guided voyage? With what design
In ether dost thou launch thy form minute,
Mocking the eye? Alas! before the veil
Of denser clouds shall hide thee, the pursuit
Of the keen swift may end thy fairy sail !
Thus on the golden thread, that Fancy weaves,
Buoyant, as Hope's illusive flattery breathes,
The young and visionary Poet leaves
Life's dull realities, while sevenfold wreaths
Of rainbow-light around his head revolve;
Ah! soon at Sorrow's touch the radiant dreams dissolve.
MRS. C. SMITH.
The Gossamer-webs are most commonly to be seen in the Autumn covering the fields, and floating in the air. A strange notion entertained by old writers, was, that they were composed of dew burnt in the sun. It is, however, caused by an infinite number of small spiders, which, when they want to change their place, have the power of shooting forth several long threads, to which they attach themselves, and thus becoming buoyant, are carried gently through the air, See Kirby and Spence's Introd., vol. 2, p. 334, and White's Selborne, Lett. xxiii.
TURN on the prudent Ant thy heedless eyes,
Observe her labours, sluggard, and be wise.
No stern command, no monitory voice,
Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice:
Yet timely provident she hastes away,
To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day :
When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain,
She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain.
How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours,
Unnerve thy vigour, and unchain thy powers?
While artful shades thy downy couch enclose,
And soft solicitation courts repose,
Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight,
Year chases year with unremitted flight,
Till want now following, fraudulent and slow,
Shall spring to seize thee like an ambush'd foe.
DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON.
O, NATURE! holy, meek, and mild,
Thou dweller on the mountain wild;
Thou haunter of the lonesome wood;
Thou wanderer by the secret flood;
Thou lover of the daisied sod,
Where Spring's white foot hath lately trod;
Finder of flowers, fresh-sprung and new,
Where sunshine comes to seek the dew;
Twiner of bowers for lovers meet;
Smoother of sods for poets' feet;
Thrice-sainted matron! in whose face,
Who looks in love, will light on grace;
Far-worshipp'd goddess! one who gives
Her love to him who wisely lives;—
O! take my hand, and place me on
The daisied footstool of thy throne;
And pass before my darken'd sight
Thy hand, which lets in charmed light;
And touch my soul, and let me see
The ways of GOD, fair dame, in thee.
Or lead me forth o'er dales and meads,
E'en as her child the mother leads;
Where corn, yet milk in its green ears,
The dew upon its shot blade bears;
Where blooming clover grows, and where
She licks her scented foot, the hare;
Where twin-nuts cluster thick, and springs
The thistle with ten thousand stings;
Untrodden flowers and unprun'd trees,
Gladden'd with songs of birds and bees:
The ring where last the fairies danc'd-
The place where dank Will latest glanc'd—
The tower round which the magic shell
Of minstrel threw its lasting spell-
The stream that steals its way along,
To glory consecrate by song:
And while we saunter, let thy speech
God's glory and his goodness preach.
O, when the sun sinks, and the bright
Round moon sheds down her lustrous light;
When larks leave song, and men leave toiling ;
And hearths burn clear, and maids are smiling;
When hoary hinds, with rustic saws,
Lay down to youth thy golden laws;
And beauty is her wet cheek laying
To her sweet child, and silent praying;
With thee in hallow'd mood I'll go,
Through scenes of gladness or of woe;
Thy looks inspir'd, thy chasten'd speech,
Me more than man has taught, shall teach;
And much that's gross, and more that 's vain,
As chaff from corn, shall leave my strain.
I feel thy presence and thy power,
As feels the rain yon parched flower;
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