30

WELCOME, BAT, AND OWLET GREY.

Baillie.

O WELCOME, Bat, and Owlet grey,
Thus winging lone your airy way;
And welcome, moth, and drowsy fly,
That to mine ear come humming by;
And welcome, shadows long and deep,
And stars that from the pale sky peep!
O welcome all! to me ye say,
My woodland love is on her way.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair,
Her breath is in the dewy air,
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound
That steals along the stilly ground.
O dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou in this witching hour!
O noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou in the fall of night!

THE DOVE.

Moore.

THE Dove let loose in eastern skies,
Returning fondly home,

Ne'er stoops to earth her wings, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam.

But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay,

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, Lord! from every stain
Of sinful passion free,

Aloft, through virtue's purest air,
To steer my course to thee!

No sin to cloud, no line to stay
My soul, as home she springs;
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,

Thy freedom on her wings.

THE HUMMING-BIRD.

Alex. Wilson.

WHEN the morning dawns, and the blest sun again
Lifts his red glories from the eastern main,
Then through our woodbines, wet with glittering
dews,

The flower-fed Humming-bird his round pursues;
Sips, with inserted tube, the honey'd blooms,
And chirps his gratitude as round he roams;
While richest roses, though in crimson drest,
Shrink from the splendour of his gorgeous breast.
What heavenly tints in mingling radiance fly!
Each rapid movement gives a different dye;
Like scales of burnish'd gold they dazzling show,
Now sink to shade, now like a furnace glow!

THE CARRION CROW.

Eliza Cook.

THE Wolf may howl, the jackal may prowl,
Rare brave beasts are they;

The worm may crawl in the carcase foul,
The tiger may glut o'er his prey;—

The bloodhound may hang with untiring fang, He is cunning and strong I trow;

But Death's staunch crew holds none more true Than the broad-wing'd Carrion Crow.

My roost is the creaking gibbet's beam,
Where the murderer's bones swing bleaching;
Where the clattering chain rings back again
To the night-wind's desolate screeching.

To and fro, as the fierce gusts blow,
Merrily rock'd am I ;

And I note with delight the traveller's fright
As he cowers and hastens by.

D

I scent the deeds of fearful crime,

I wheel o'er the parricide's head;

I have watch'd the sire who, mad with ire,
The blood of his child hath shed.

I can chatter the tales at which

The ear of innocence starts;

And ye would not mark my plumage as dark, If ye saw it beside some hearts.

I have seen the friend spring out as a foe,
And the guest waylay his host,
And many a right arm strike a blow
The lips never dared to boast.

I have seen the soldier millions adored
Do other than deed of the brave,

When he wore a mask as well as a sword,
And dug a midnight grave.

I have flutter'd where secret work has been done, Wrought with a trusty blade;

But what did I care, whether foul or fair,

If I shared the feast it made?

A struggle, a cry, a hasty gash,
A short and heavy groan;