TO THE WOOD-ROBIN

HE wooing air is jubilant with song,
And blossoms swell

THE

As leaps thy liquid melody along

The dusky dell,

Where Silence, late supreme, foregoes her wonted spell.

Ah, whence, in sylvan solitudes remote,
Hast learned the lore

That breeds delight in every echoing note
The woodlands o'er;

As when, through slanting sun, descends the quickening shower?

Thy hermitage is peopled with the dreams
That gladden sleep;

Here Fancy dallies with delirious themes
Mid shadows deep,

Till eyes unused to tears, with wild emotions weep.

We rise, alas, to find our visions fled!

But thine remain.

Night weaves of golden harmonies the thread,
And fills thy brain

With joys that overflow in Love's awakening strain.

Yet thou, from mortal influence apart,
Seek'st naught of praise;

The empty plaudits of the emptier heart
Taint not thy lays:

Thy Maker's smile alone thy tuneful bosom sways.

Teach me, thou warbling eremite, to sing

Thy rhapsody;

Nor borne on vain ambition's vaunting wing,
But led of thee,

To rise from earthly dreams to hymn Eternity.

JOHN B. TABB.

THE THRUSH'S SONG

(FROM THE GAELIC)

EAR, dear, dear,

In the rocky glen,

Far away, far away, far away,
The haunts of men:

There shall we dwell in love

With the lark and the dove,

Cuckoo and corn-rail;

Feast on the bearded snail,

Worm and gilded fly;
Drink of the crystal rill

Winding adown the hill
Never to dry.

With glee, with glee, with glee,

Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up here;

Nothing to harm us, then sing merrily,

Sing to the loved one whose nest is near.

Qui, qui, queen, quip,

Tiurru, tiurru, chipiwi;
Too-tee, too-tee, chin-choo,
Chirri, chirri, chooee,
Quin, qui, qui!

W. MACGILLIVRAY.

THE SONG OF THE THRUSH

I

WAS on the margin of a plain,

Under a wide-spreading tree,
Hearing the song

Of the wild birds;

Listening to the language

Of the thrush cock,

Who from the wood of the valley

Composed a verse;

From the wood of the steep

He sang exquisitely.

Speckled was his breast

Amongst the green leaves,

As upon branches

Of a thousand blossoms

On the bank of a brook,

All heard

With the dawn the song,

Like a silver bell;

Performing a sacrifice.

Until the hour of forenoon;

Upon the green altar

Ministering Bardism.

From the branches of the hazel

Of green broad leaves

He sings an ode

To God the Creator:

With a carol of love
From the green glade
To all in the hollow

Of the glen who love him;

Balm of the heart

To those who love.

I had from his beak

The voice of inspiration,

A song of metres
That gratified me;
Glad was I made

By his minstrelsy.

Then respectfully

Uttered I an address

From the stream of the valley
To the bird:

I requested urgently

His undertaking a message

To the fair one

Where dwells my affection.

Gone is the bard of the leaves

From the small twigs

To the second Lunet,

The sun of the maidens!

To the streams of the plain

St. Mary prosper him,

To bring to me,

Under the green woods

The hue of the snow of one night,

Without delay.

RHYS GOCH AP RHICCART (Welsh).

THE SERVICE OF SONG

OME keep the Sabbath going to church:
I keep it staying at home,

SOME

With a bobolink for a chorister

And an orchard for a dome.

Some keep the Sabbath in surplice:

I just wear my wings;

And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.

God preaches, a noted clergyman,

And the sermon is never long;

So instead of getting to heaven at last,

I'm going all along!

EMILY DICKINSON.

EARLY SPRING

TREES, all a-throb and a-quiver

With the stirring pulse of the spring,

Your tops so misty against the blue,

With the buds where the green not yet looks through,

I know the beauty the days will bring,

But your cloudy tops are a wonderful thing!

Like the first faint streak of the dawning,
Which tells that the day is nigh;

Like the first dear kiss of the maiden,
So absolute, though so shy;
Like the joy divine of the mother
Before her child she sees-

So faint, so dear, and so blessed
Are your misty tops, O trees!

I can feel the delicate pulses

That stir in each restless fold

Of leaflets and bunches of blossoms
The life that never grows old:

Yet wait, ah wait, though they woo you

The sun, the rain-drops, the breeze;

Break not too soon into verdure,

O misty, beautiful trees!

ANNA CALLENDER BRACKETT.

Did a gleam o' sunshine warm thee,
An' deceive thee?

Niver let appearance charm thee:
Yes, believe me,

Smiles tha'lt find are oft but snares
Laid to catch thee unawares.

An' yet, I think it looks a shame
To talk such stuff;

I've lost heart, an' thou'lt do t' same,
Ay, sooin enough!

An', if thou'rt happy as tha art,
Trustin' must be t' wisest part.

Come! I'll pile some bits o' stoan
Round thi dwellin';

They may cheer thee when I've goan,-
Theer's no tellin':

An' when spring's mild day draws near, I'll release thee, niver fear!