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Mary Wowitt.

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree;
In the leafy trees so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace-hall,
With its airy chambers, light and boon,
That opens to sun, and stars, and moon;
That open unto the bright blue sky,
And the frolicsome winds, as they wander by!

They have left their nests in the forest bough,
Those homes of delight they need not now;
And the young and the old they wander out,
And traverse their green world round about;
And hark! at the top of this leafy hall,
How, one to the other, they lovingly call :-
“Come up, come up!” they seem to say,
“ Where the topmost twigs in the breezes


Come up, come up, for the world is fair, Where the merry leaves dance in the summer

air !” And the birds below give back the cry,

We come, we come, to the branches high!” How pleasant the lives of the birds must be, Living in love, in a leafy tree, And away through the air, what joy to go, And to look on the green, bright earth below!

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Skimming about in the breezy sea,
Cresting the billows like silvery foam,
And then wheeling away to its cliff-built home!
What a joy it must be to sail, upborne
By a strong, free wing, through the rosy morn,
To meet the young sun face to face,
And pierce, like a shaft, the boundless space !

To pass through the bowers of the silver cloud,
And to sing in the thunder-halls aloud ;
To spread out the wings for a wild free flight
With the upper cloud-winds,-oh, what delight!
Oh, what would I give, like a bird, to go
Right on through the arch of the sun-lit bow,
And to see how the water-drops are kissed
Into green, and yellow, and amethyst !

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Wherever it listeth there to flee;
To go, when a joyful fancy calls,
Dashing adown ʼmong the waterfalls ;
Then wheeling about, with its mates at play,
Above, and below, and



spray ; Hither and thither, with screams as wild As the laughing mirth of a rosy child !

What a joy it must be, like a living breeze,
To flutter about ’mong the flowering trees ;
Lightly to soar, and to see beneath
The wastes of the blossoming, purple heath,
And the yellow furze, like fields of gold,
That gladden some fairy region old.
On mountain tops, on the billowy sea,
On the leafy stems of the forest-tree,
How pleasant the life of a bird must be !


St. Pierre.

Bird of the Tropic! thou, who lov'st to stray,

Where thy long pinions sweep the sultry Line, Or mark'st the bounds which torrid beams

confine By thy averted course, that shuns the ray Oblique, enamour'd of sublimer day:

Oft on yon cliff thy folded plumes recline,

And drop those snowy feathers Indians twine, To crown the warrior's brow with honours gay. O’er trackless oceans what impels thy wing ?

Does no soft instinct in thy soul prevail ? No sweet affection to thy bosom cling,

And bid thee oft thy absent nest bewail ? Yet thou again to that dear spot canst spring,

But I my long-lost home no more shall hail !


Mrs. Opie.

FEATHER'D Lyric! warbling high,
Sweetly gaining on the sky,
Opening with thy native lay,
Nature's Hymn, the eve of day;
Teaching soul on early wing
Thus to soar and thus to sing ;

While the bloom of orient light Guides thee in thy tuneful flight, May the day-spring from on high, Seen by Faith's religious eye, Cheer me with its vital ray, Promise of eternal day.


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