While, breaking into voluble ecstasy,

I flattered all the beauteous country round,

The happy violets, hiding from the roads
The primroses run down to, carrying gold;
The tangled hedgerows, where the cows push out
Their tolerant horns and patient churning mouths
'Twixt dripping ash-boughs — hedgerows all alive
With birds, and gnats, and large white butterflies,
Which look as if the May-flower had caught life
And palpitated forth upon the wind;
Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver mist;
Farms, granges, doubled up among the hills,
And cattle grazing in the watered vales,
And cottage chimneys smoking from the woods,
And cottage gardens smelling everywhere,
Confused with smell of orchards.

66

'See," I said, "And see, is God not with us on the earth? And shall we put him down by aught we do? Who says there's nothing for the poor and vile, Save poverty and wickedness? Behold!" And ankle-deep in English grass I leaped, And clapped my hands, and called all very fair.

THE EARLY BLUE-BIRD.

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

Blue-bird! on yon leafless tree,
Dost thou carol thus to me:
"Spring is coming! Spring is here!"
Say'st thou so, my birdie dear?
What is that, in misty shroud,
Stealing from the darkened cloud?
Lo! the snow-flakes' gathering mound.
Settles o'er the whitened ground,
Yet thou singest, blithe and clear :
"Spring is coming! Spring is here!"

Strik'st thou not too bold a strain ?
Winds are piping o'er the plain;
Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky
With a black and threatening eye;
Urchins, by the frozen rill,

Wrap their mantles closer still;
Yon poor man, with doublet old,
Doth he shiver at the cold?
Hath he not a nose of blue?

Tell me, birdling, tell me true.

Spring's a maid of mirth and glee,
Rosy wreaths and revelry:
Hast thou wooed some wingèd love
To a nest in verdant grove?
Sung to her of greenwood bower,
Sunny skies that never lower?
Lured her with thy promise fair
Of a lot that knows no care?
Prythee, bird, in coat of blue,
Though a lover, tell her true.

Ask her if, when storms are long,
She can sing a cheerful song?
When the rude winds rock the tree,
If she'll closer cling to thee?
Then the blasts that sweep the sky,
Unappalled shall pass thee by;
Though thy curtained chamber show
Siftings of untimely snow,

Warm and glad thy heart shall be;
Love shall make it spring for thee.

THE HUMMING-BIRD.

JOHN JAMES AUDUBON.

Where is the person, who, on observing this glittering fragment of the rainbow, would not pause, admire, and instantly turn his mind with reverence toward the Almighty Creator, the wonders of whose hand we at every step discover, and of whose sublime conceptions we everywhere observe the manifestations in his admirable system of creation? There breathes not such a person, so kindly have we all been blessed with that intuitive and noble feeling - admiration!

No sooner has the returning sun again introduced the vernal season, and caused millions of plants to expand their leaves and blossoms to his genial beams, than the little humming-bird is seen advancing on fairy wings, carefully visiting every opening flower-cup, and, like a curious florist, removing from each the injurious insects that otherwise would erelong cause their beauteous petals to droop and decay. Poised in the air, it is observed peeping cautiously, and with sparkling eye, into their innermost recesses; whilst the ethereal motions of its pinions, so rapid and so light, appear to fan and cool the flower, without injuring its fragile texture, and produce a delightful murmuring sound, well adapted for lulling the insects to repose.

The prairies, the fields, the orchards and gardens, nay, the deepest shades of the forests, are all visited in their turn, and everywhere the little bird meets with pleasure and with food. Its gorgeous throat in beauty

and brilliancy baffles all competition. Now it glows with a fiery hue, and again it is changed to the deepest velvety black. The upper parts of its delicate body are of resplendent changing green; and it throws itself through the air with a swiftness and vivacity hardly conceivable. It moves from one flower to another like a gleam of sunlight, upward, downward, to the right, and to the left. In this manner, it searches the extreme northern portions of our country, following, with great precaution, the advances of the season, and retreating with equal care at the approach of autumn.

THE CLOUD.

PERCY B. SHELLEY.

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves, when laid

In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their Mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under ;
And then, again, I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh, as I pass, in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast ;
And all the night 't is my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the Blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers
Lightning my pilot sits;

In a cavern under, is fettered the Thunder;
It struggles and howls at fits.

Over earth and ocean with gentle motion
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the Genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills and the crags and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The Spirit he loves remains ;

And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead :

As on the jag of a mountain-crag

Which an earthquake rocks and swings

An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.

And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardors of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,

With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the Moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn ;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The Stars peep behind her and peer.

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,