THE THRUSH'S NEST.

161. THE THRUSH'S NEST.

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WITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,
That overhung a mole-hill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound
With joy; and oft, an unintruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day,
How true she wrapped the moss to form her nest,
And modelled it within with wool and clay.
And by-and-by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue;

And there I witnessed in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

CLARE.

It is

162. SWITZERLAND.

The land of beauty, and of grandeur, lady,
Where looks the cottage out on a domain
The palace cannot boast of. Seas of lakes,
And hills of forests! crystal waves that rise
'Midst mountains all of snow, and mock the sun,
Returning him his flaming beams more thick
And radiant than he sent them.-Torrents, there,
Are bounding floods! and there the tempest roams
At large, in all the terrors of its glory!

And then our valleys! Ah, they are the homes
For hearts! Our cottages, our vineyards, orchards!
Our pastures studded with the herd and fold!
Our native strains that melt us as we sing them!
A free-a gentle-simple-honest people.

JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

178

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

163. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

ONE morning (raw it was and wet-
A foggy day in winter time)

A Woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime : Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;
I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
"What is it," said I, "that you bear
Beneath the covert of your cloak,.

Protected from this cold damp air?" She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, sir, a little singing-bird."

And, thus continuing, she said,

"I had a son, who many a day Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away:

And I have travelled weary miles to see

If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

"The bird and cage they both were his
'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim
He kept it: many voyages

The singing-bird had gone with him;
When last he sailed, he left the bird behind,
From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

He to a fellow-lodger's care
Had left it, to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety;-there
I found it when my son was dead;
And now, God help me for my little wit,

179

I bear it with me, Sir; he took so much delight in it."

WORDSWORTH.

164. THE LITTLE BROWN MAN.

A LITTLE man we've here,

All in a suit of brown,
Upon town;

He's as brisk as bottled beer,

And, without a shilling rent,

Lives content:

"For d'ye see," says he, "my plan? D'ye see," says he, "my plan?

My plan, d'ye see,'s to-laugh at that!”

Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown Man.

When the rain comes through his attic,

And he lies all day a-bed

Without bread;

When the winter winds rheumatic

Make him blow his nails, for dire

Want of fire,

"D'ye see," says he, "my plan?

"D'ye see," says he, "my plan ?

My plan d'ye see,'s to-laugh at that!"

Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown Man!

From the French of Beranger.

ANON.

180

THE CLOUD.

165. THE CLOUD.

1 BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shades for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day 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
in thunder.

pass

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey 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,
While he is dissolving in rains.

THE CLOUD.

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.

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And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours 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,

Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with the burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.