There ever bask in uncreated rays, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their several way; And proffer up to Heaven the warm request That He who stills the raven's clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide, But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings; "An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind. What is a lordling's pomp? A cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of humankind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blessed with health and peace and sweet And oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved le. O Thou, who poured the patriotic tide That streamed through Wallace's undaunted Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, But still the patriot and the patriot bard FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON FLO LOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft, as mild Evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, JOHN BURROUGHS (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers) JOHN BURROUGHS, essayist and naturalist, was born at Roxbury, New York, in 1837. For a number of years he was in the government service, but since 1874 has lived on a farm, as his chief interests are in literature and nature study. FEATHERED LIFE IN AMERICA Y1 EARS ago, when quite a youth, I was rambling in the woods one Sunday with my brothers, gathering black-birch, wintergreens, etc., when, as we reclined upon the ground, gazing vaguely up into the trees, I caught sight of a bird that paused a moment on a branch above me, the like of which I had never before seen or heard of. It was probably the blue yellow-backed warbler, as I have since found this to be a common bird in those woods; but to my young fancy it seemed like some fairy bird, so curiously marked was it, and so new and unexpected. It seemed like an integral part of the green beech woods. I saw it a moment as the flickering leaves parted, noted the white spot in its wing, and it was gone. How the thought of it clung to me afterward! It was a revelation. It was the first intimation I had that the woods we knew so well held birds that we knew not at all. Were our eyes and ears so dull, then? There was the robin, the bluejay, the blue-bird, the yellow-bird, the cherry-bird, the cat-bird, the chipping-bird, the woodpecker, the high-hole, an occasional red-bird, and a few others, in the woods or along their borders, but who ever dreamed that there were still others that not eve the hunters saw, and whose names no one had ever heard? When, one summer day later in life, I took my gun and went to the woods again in a different, though perhaps a less simple, spirit, I found my youthful vision more than realized. There were indeed other birds, plenty of them, singing, nesting, breeding, among the familiar trees, which I had before passed by unheard and unseen. One It was a surprise that awaits every student of ornithology, and the thrill of delight that accompanies it, and the feeling of fresh, eager inquiry that follows, can hardly be awakened by any other pursuit. Take the first step in ornithology, procure one new specimen, and you are ticketed for the whole voyage. There is a fascination about it quite overpowering. It fits so well with other things-with fishing, hunting, farming, walking, camping-out— with all that takes one to the fields and woods. may go a blackberrying and make some rare discovery; or, while driving his cow to pasture, hear a new song, or make a new observation. Secrets lurk on all sides. There is news in every bush. Expectation is ever on tip-toe. What no man ever saw before may the next moment be revealed to you. What a new interest the woods have! How you long to explore every nook and corner of them! You would even find consolation in being lost in them. You could then hear the night birds and the owls, and in your wanderings might stumble upon some unknown specimen. In all excursions to the woods or to the shore, the student of ornithology has an advantage over his companions. He has one more resource, one more avenue of delight. He, indeed, kills two birds with one stone, and sometimes three. he can never go out of his way. where. The cawing of a crow If others wander, His game is everymakes him feel at |