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ON THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEPARTURE.
Sweet poet of the woods—a long adieu !
Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! Ah ! 't will be long ere thou shalt sing anew,
And pour thy music on “the night's dull ear.” Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await,
Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate,
And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy
nest; And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide
The gentle bird, who sings of pity best : For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow, and to love !
AN INVITATION TO THE FEATHERED RACE.
Again the balmy Zephyr blows,
Fresh verdure decks the grove,
And tunes his notes to love.
Ye gentler warblers ! higher fly,
And shun the noontide heat ;
Here freely hop from spray to spray,
Or weave the mossy nest;
At night here sweetly rest.
Amidst this cool translucent rill,
That trickles down the glade,
And revel in the shade.
No school-boy rude, to mischief prone,
E'er shews his ruddy face,
In this sequester'd place.
Hither the vocal thrush repairs,
Secure the linnet sings, The goldfinch dreads no slimy snares,
To clog her painted wings.
Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt
Yon distant woods among,
Thy sweetly plaintive song.
Let not the harmless redbreast fear,
Domestic bird, to come, And seek a sure asylum here
With one that loves his home.
My trees for you, ye artless tribe,
preserve ; Oh, let me thus your friendship bribe !
Come, feed without reserve.
these cherries I protect, To you these plums belong :
Sweet is the fruit that you have peck'd,
But sweeter far your song.
Let then this league betwixt us made
Our mutual interests guard,
The chimney-haunting Swallow, too, my eye
THE BIRD CAUGHT AT SEA.
PRETTY little feather'd fellow,
Why so far from home dost rove ? What misfortune brought thee. hither,
From the green, embowering grove? Let thy throbbing heart be still,
Here secure from danger rest thee; No one here shall use thee ill,
Here no cruel boy molest thee. Barley-corns and crumbs of bread,
Crystal water, too, shall cheer thee ; On soft sails recline thy head,
Sleep, and fear no danger near thee. So when kindly winds shall speed us
To the land we wish to see, Then, sweet captive, thou shalt leave us,
Then amidst the groves be free.