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Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring; Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the
weather ; The blue woodland flowers just beginning to
spring, And spicewood and sassafras budding together. O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair, Your walks border up, sow and plant at your
leisure ; The Blue Bird will chant from his box such an air,
That all your hard toils will seem truly a
He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree, The red-flowering peach, and the apple's sweet
blossoms; He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms; He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours, The worms from their webs, where they riot
and welter ; His song
and his services freely are ours, And all that he asks ismin summer a shelter. The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his
train, Now searching the furrows—now mounting to
cheer him ;
The gard'ner delights in his sweet, simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear
The slow ling'ring schoolboys forget they'll be
chid, While gazing intent as he warbles before them, In mantle of sky-blue and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
When all the gay scenes of the Summer are
o'er, And Autumn slow enters so silent and sallow, And millions of warblers, that charm'd us before, Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking
swallow; The Blue Bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow, Till forced by the horrors of winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
While Spring's lovely season, serene, dewy,
warm, The green
face of earth, and the pure blue of
Heav'n, Or Love's native music have influence to charm,
Or Sympathy's glow to our feelings are giv'n;
Still dear to each bosom the Blue Bird shall be, His voice, like the thrillings of Hope, is a
treasure, For, thro’ bleakest storms, if a calm he but see, He comes to remind us of sunshine and
* “ The Blue Bird,” says Wilson," in his motions and general character, has great resemblance to the robin redbreast of Buffon; and, had he the brown-olive of that bird instead of his own blue, could scarcely be distinguished from him.' Like him, he is known to almost every child; and shews as much confidence in man, by associating with him in summer, as the other by his familiarity in winter. His society is courted by the inhabitants of the country, and few farmers neglect to provide for him, in some suitable place, a snug little summer-house, ready fitted and rent free. For this he more than sufficiently repays them by the cheerfulness of his song, and the multitude of injurious insects which he daily destroys."
WH. H. Herle.
BULLY, sweet bird, I love thy note
Of wildest minstrelsy, When thou dost tune thy murmuring throat,
And art at liberty.
Thou art the fairies' mournful lyre,
Which tells of broken vows, When they from frolic mirth retire
To weep amidst the boughs.
Thou art the zephyr's softest breath,
Which sighs along the gale,
Their melancholy wail.
It is the Spirit of the leaves,
Which lingers near the dead,
For life and beauty fled.
For this, and for thy melody,
Thy soft and plaintive tone, I'll love thee, Bully, till I die,
But not for this alone.
I scarce know how, but thou dost tell
Of sorrow, love, and bliss, When, choked with tears, I breathed 'farewell,'
And seal'd it with a kiss.