that most poetical of old mansions; and the ancient housekeeper, at that time its sole inhabitant, pointed out this flower with a particular emphasis. “And here's the rose of May," said she, drawing out a slender spray from a tangle of jessamine that hung about the stone-work of the terrace; "a main pretty thing, though there's little store set by it now-adays."

THE DOR-HAWK.
FERN-OWL, Churn-owl, or Goat-sucker,
Night-jar, Dor-hawk, or whate'er
Be thy name among a dozen,-
Whip-poor-Will's and Who-are-you's cousin,
Chuck-Will's-widow's near relation,
Thou art at thy night vocation,

Thrilling the still evening air!

In the dark brown wood beyond us,
Where the night lies dusk and deep;
Where the fox his furrow maketh,
Where the tawny owl awaketh

Nightly from his day-long sleep;
There Dor-hawk is thy abiding,

Meadow green is not for thee; While the aspen branches shiver, 'Mid the roaring of the river,

Comes thy chirring voice to me. Bird, thy form I never looked on,

And to see it do not care; Thou hast been, and thou art only As a voice of forests lonely,

Heard and dwelling only there.

Bringing thoughts of dusk and shadow;
Trees huge-branched in ceaseless change;
Pallid night-moths, spectre-seeming;
All a silent land of dreaming,

Indistinct and large and strange.

Be thou thus, and thus I prize thee

More than knowing thee face to face,
Head and beak and leg and feather,
Kept from harm of touch and weather,
Underneath a fine glass-case.

I can read of thee, and find out
How thou fliest, fast or slow;
Of thee in the north and south too,
Of thy great moustachioed mouth too,
And thy Latin name also.
But, Dor-hawk, I love thee better
While thy voice unto me seems
Coming o'er the evening meadows,
From a dark brown land of shadows,

Like a pleasant voice of dreams!

This singular bird, which is found in every part of the old world, as well in the cold regions of Siberia, as in the hot jungles of India, and the lion-haunted forests of Africa, has, as we have said, a large class

of relations also in America: the Whip-poor-Will, the Willy-come-go, the Work-away, and the Whoare-you? being all of the same family. In Africa and among the American Indians these birds are looked upon with reverence or fear; for, by some they are supposed to be haunted by the dead, and by others to be obedient to gloomy or evil spirits. The Dor-Hawk of our own country has been subject to slander, as his name of the goat-sucker shows. This name originated of course in districts where goats were used for milking, and furnished, no doubt, an excuse for the false herd, who stole the milk and blamed the bird.

The Dor-Hawk, like the owl, is not seen in the day; and like it also, is an inhabitant of wild and gloomy scenes; heathy tracks abounding in fern; moors, and old woods. It is so regular in the time of beginning its nightly cry, that good old Gilbert White declares, it appeared to him to strike up exactly when the report of the Portsmouth evening gun was heard. He says also, that its voice, which resembles the loud purring of a cat, occasions a singular vibration even in solid buildings; for that, as he and some of his neighbours sate in a hermitage on a steep hill-side, where they had been taking tea, a Dor-Hawk alighted on the little cross at the top, and uttered his cry, making the walls of the building sensibly vibrate, to the wonder of all the company.

I can give no anecdotes of the bird from my own experience. I know him best by his voice, heard mostly from scenes of a wild and picturesque character, in the gloom and shadow of evening, or in the deep calm of summer moonlight. I heard him first in a black, solemn-looking wood, between Houghton Tower, and Pleasington Priory, in Lancashire. Since then I have become familiar with his voice in the pleasant woods of Winter-down, and Claremont, in Surrey.

THE OAK-TREE.

Sing for the Oak-Tree,

The monarch of the wood;

Sing for the Oak-tree,

That groweth green and good;

That groweth broad and branching
Within the forest shade;

That groweth now, and yet shall grow
When we are lowly laid!

The Oak-Tree was an acorn once,
And fell upon the earth;
And sun and showers nourished it,
And gave the Oak-tree birth.
The little sprouting Oak-Tree!

Two leaves it had at first,
Till sun and showers had nourished it,
Then out the branches burst.

The little sapling Oak-Tree!

Its root was like a thread, Till the kindly earth had nourished it, Then out it freely spread:

On this side and on that side

It grappled with the ground; And in the ancient, rifted rock

Its firmest footing found.

The winds came, and the rain fell;

The gusty tempests blew; All, all were friends to the Oak-Tree, And stronger yet it grew. The boy that saw the acorn fall,

He feeble grew and grey;

But the Oak was still a thriving tree,
And strengthened every day!
Four centuries grows the Oak-Tree,
Nor doth its verdure fail;
Its heart is like the iron-wood,

Its bark like plated mail.
Now, cut us down the Oak-Tree,

The monarch of the wood;

And of its timbers stout and strong
We'll build a vessel good!

The Oak-Tree of the forest

Both east and west shall fly; And the blessings of a thousand lands Upon our ship shall lie!

For she shall not be a man-of-war,

Nor a pirate shall she be :But a noble, Christian merchant-ship, To sail upon the sea.

Then sing for the Oak-Tree,

The monarch of the wood;

Sing for the Oak-Tree,

That groweth green and good; That groweth broad and branching

Within the forest shade;

That groweth now, and yet shall grow, When we are lowly laid!

THE CAROLINA PARROT.

PARROTS, with all their cleverness, are not capable of keeping up a dialogue; otherwise we might suppose something like the following to be in character with their humour and experience.

POLL'S MISTRESS.

I've heard of imp, I've heard of sprite;
Of fays and fairies of the night;
Of that renowned fiend Hobgoblin,
Running, racing, jumping, hobbling;
Of Puck, brimful of fun; also
Of roguish Robin Goodfellow.
I've seen a hearth where, as is told,
Came Hobthrush in the days of old,
To make the butter, mend the linen,
And keep the housewife's wheel a-spinning.
I've heard of pigmies, pixies, lares,
Shoirim, gemedim, and fairies:-
And, Parrot, on my honest word,
I hardly think thou art a bird ;—

peared restless and inconsolable for several days. On reaching New Orleans, I placed a looking-glass inside the place where she usually sat, and the instant she perceived her image, all her former fondness seemed to return, so that she could scarcely absent herself from it for a moment. It was evident that she was completely deceived. Always when evening drew on, and often during the day, she laid her head close to that of the image in the glass, and began to doze with great composure and satisfaction. In a short time she had learned to know her name; to answer and come when called on; to climb up my clothes, sit on my shoulder, and eat from my mouth. I took her with me to sea, determined to persevere in her education." And, to give an ending rather different to Mr. Wilson's, here we have presented her to our readers in the possession of an English lady, and with her education, for a Parrot, very complete.

To the exiled prophet good Bringing him his daily food.

RAVEN.

Yes, by Cherith-brook there grew
Mighty cedars not a few;
And a raven-tree was there
Spreading forth its branches bare:
"I was our home, when thither ran
From the king an awful man,
Robed and sandaled as in haste,
With a girdle round his waist;
Strongly built, with brow severe,
And the bearing of a seer.
Down by Cherith-brook he lay;
And at morn and set of day
Thus a voice unto us said,
"By you must this man be fed;
Bring him flesh, and bring him bread."
And by us he was supplied,

Duly morn and eventide,

Until Cherith-brook was dried!

POET.

Wondrous miracle of love!

RAVEN.

Doth it thus thy spirit move?
Deeper truth than this shall reach thee,
Christ he bade the raven teach thee:
They plough not, said he, nor reap,
Nor have costly hoards to keep;
Storehouse none, nor barn have they,
Yet God feeds them every day!
Fret not then your souls with care
What to eat, or what to wear,
He who hears the ravens' cry
Looketh with a pitying eye
On his human family.

POET.

Raven, thou art spirit-cheering;
What thou say'st is worth the hearing:
Never more be it averred
That thou art a doleful bird!

FLOWER COMPARISONS.

AH cousin Blanche, let's see
What's the flower resembling thee!
With those dove-like eyes of thine,
And thy fair hair's silken twine;
With thy low, broad forehead, white
As marble, and as purely bright;
With thy mouth so calm and sweet,
And thy dainty hands and feet;
What's the flower most like to thee?
Blossom of the orange-tree!
Where may the bright flower be met
That can match with Margaret,
Margaret stately, staid, and good,
Growing up to womanhood;

Loving, thoughtful, wise, and kind,
Pure in heart and strong in mind?
Eyes deep-blue as is the sky
When the full moon sails on high;
Eyebrow true and forehead fair,
And dark, richly-braided hair,
And a queenly head well set,
Crown my maiden Margaret.

Where's the flower that thou canst find
Match for her in form and mind?

Fair white lilies, having birth
In their native genial earth; -
These, in scent and queenly grace,
Match thy maiden's form and face!

Now for madcap Isabel-
What shall suit her, pr'ythee tell!
Isabel is brown and wild;
Will be evermore a child;
Is all laughter, all vagary,
Has the spirit of a fairy.
Are you grave? - The gipsy sly
Turns on you her merry eye,
And you laugh, despite your will.
Isabel is never still,
Always doing, never done,
Be it mischief, work, or fun.
Isabel is short and brown,
Soft to touch as eider-down;
Tempered, like the balmy south,
With a rosy, laughing mouth;
Cheeks just tinged with peachy red,
And a graceful Hebe-head;
Hair put up in some wild way,
Decked with a hedge-rose's spray.
Now, where is the bud or bell
That may match with Isabel?

Streaky tulip jet and gold,
Dearly priced whenever sold;
Rich in colour, low and sweet,
This for Isabel is meet.

Last for Jeanie, grave and mild –
Jeanie never was a child!
Sitting on her mother's knee,
Hers was thoughtful infancy;
Growing up so meek and good,
Even from her babyhood.
All her mother's labour sharing;
For the house and children caring;
To her bed in silence creeping;
Rising early, little sleeping;
Learning soon of care and need;
Learning late to write and read;
To all hardships reconciled,
For she was a poor man's child!
What's the lowly flower of earth
Match for Jeanie's humble worth?

Soon poor Jeanie's flower is met,The meek, precious violet!

LITTLE STREAMS.

LITTLE streams, in light and shadow
Flowing through the pasture meadow;
Flowing by the green way-side :
Through the forest dim and wide:
Through the hamlet still and small;
By the cottage; by the hall;

By the ruined abbey still;
Turning, here and there, a mill;
Bearing tribute to the river;
Little streams, I love you ever!
Summer music is there flowing;
Flowering plants in them are growing;
Happy life is in them all,
Creatures innocent and small;
Little birds come down to drink
Fearless on their leafy brink;
Noble trees beside them grow,
Glooming them with branches low,
And between, the sunshine glancing,
In their little waves is dancing.

Little streams have flowers a many,
Beautiful and fair as any;

Typha strong, and green bur-reed;
Willow-herb with cotton-seed;
Arrow-head with eye of jet,
And the water-violet;

There the flowering rush you meet,
And the plumy meadow-sweet;
And in places deep and stilly,
Marble-like, the water-lily.

Little streams, their voices cheery
Sound forth welcomes to the weary,

Flowing on from day to day
Without stint and without stay.
Here, upon their flowery bank,
In the old-times Pilgrims drank;
Here have seen, as now, pass by
Kingfisher and dragon-fly;

Those bright things that have their dwelling
Where the little streams are welling.

Down in valleys green and lowly,
Murmuring not and gliding slowly;
Up in mountain hollows wild,
Fretting like a peevish child;
Through the hamlet, where all day
In their waves the children play, —
Running west, or running east,
Doing good to man and beast,
Always giving, weary never,
Little streams, I love you ever!

THE WOLF.

THINK of the lamb in the fields of May Cropping the dewy flowers for play; Think of the sunshine, warm and clear; Of the bending corn in golden ear;