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THE SKYLARK.

Literary Gazette.

WHEN day's bright banner, first unfurl'd
From darkness, frees the shrouded world,
The Skylark, singing as he soars,
On the fresh air his carol pours ;
But though to heaven he wings his flight,
As if he loved those realms of light,
He still returns with weary wing
On earth to end his wandering.

Aspiring bird, in thee I find
An emblem of the youthful mind,
Whose earliest voice, like thine, is given
To notes of joy that mount to Heaven ;
But, fetter'd by the toils of life,
Its sordid cares, its bitter strife,
It feels its noble efforts vain,
And sadly sinks to earth again.

ADDRESS IN FAVOUR OF A SINGING BIRD.

By an American Lady.

The tuneful strains that glad thy heart,

Ah! whence, obdurate, do they flow? Thy warbler's song, unknown to art, But breathes its little

song

of woe.

His life of pleasure but a day,

That transient day, how soon it flies ! Regard, my friend, the plaintive lay,

Restore him to his native skies.

E’er while a tenant of the grove,

And blithest of the feather'd train, He gave to freedom, joy, and love,

The artless, tributary strain.

Indignant see him

spurn

the

cage, With feeble wings its wires assail; And now despair succeeds to rage,

And sorrow pours the mournful tale.

O you, whose fond parental care

First bade my grateful song arise, First taught me how to wing the air,

And range abroad the boundless skies ;

My grief for you, ah! what can tell !

Who, now, each duteous rite performs ? And, when you bid the world farewell, With leaves shall shroud

your

lifeless forms!

But oh! still deeper than the rest,

For thee, dear partner of my love!
No anxious cares assail my

breast-
Ah! whither, whither dost thou rove?

What clime, what unknown region hears

Thy tender song of sorrow flow ? Who now thy pensive moments cheers,

And soothes or shares thy every woe?

For thee I framed the tuneful lay

Then, tuneful lay, farewell to you ! To all that 's charming, all that 's gay,

And thou, dear flatterer, Hope, adieu !

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Our prospects brighten as they take their flight.—YOUNG.

I've seen a Pheasant from a brake

Start up, spring forth, and soar on high; Its golden plumage, wide display'd,

Seem'd of the lovely rainbow's dye.

Splendid, when cowering on the ground;

But when upsprung, and stretch'd for flight, Oh, never did my wondering eyes

In nature see so fair a sight!

Then rapid as the lightning's gleam,

Or as the Indian arrow flies, Flitted before my eyes the beam

Of joys I since had learn’d to prize.

In vain I stretch'd my eager hands

To press the shadowy pinions down; The dear delight eludes the grasp, —

I find the beauteous treasure flown.

THE HUMMING-BIRD.

MINUTEST of the feather'd kind,
Possessing every charm combined,
Nature, in forming thee, design'd

That thou should'st be
A proof within how little space
She can comprise such perfect grace,
Rendering thy lovely fairy race

Beauty's epitome.

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