I think she must be in great trouble," "I know why the Robin is crying," Said Wren, with a sob in her breast; "A naughty bold robber has stolen Three little blue eggs from her nest. "He carried them home in his pocket; For fear he would come and rob me!" "Oh! what little boy was so wicked?" A dear little bird's-nest - not I." "Nor I!" said the birds in a chorus: "A cruel and mischievous boy! I pity his father and mother; He surely can't give them much joy. "I guess he forgot what a pleasure 66 guess he forgot that the rule is, I To do as you'd be always done by ; guess he forgot that from heaven There looks down an All-seeing Eye." MRS. C. F. BERRY. WHAT THE BIRDS SAY. When they chatter together, the robins and sparrows, Bluebirds and bobolinks, all the day long; - What do they talk of? The sky and the sunshine, Of love and of friendship, and all the sweet trifles Of matches in prospect; how Robin and Jenny At home, and went off on a lark with the rest. Such mild little slanders! such innocent gossip! O birds in the tree-tops! O robins and sparrows! us, And all the sweet nothings we fancy you say ? CAROLINE A. MASON. Sweet Mercy is Nobility's true badge. Titus Andronicus, Act 1, Sc. 2. THE WREN'S NEST. I took the wren's nest: Heaven forgive me! Its merry architects so small Had scarcely finished their wee hall How many hours of happy pains And she 'll fly back, and find it — gone! Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear, Ye have before all the year, you And every wood holds nooks for you, In many a busy home to come. I took the wren's nest: God forgive me! DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK. ON ANOTHER'S SORROW. Can I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share? Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, And not sit beside the nest, And not sit both night and day, Oh no! never can it be ! Never, never can it be ! WILLIAM BLAKE. THE SHEPHERD'S HOME. My banks they are furnished with bees, And my hills are white over with sheep. Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets blow. Not a pine in the grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweet-brier entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold. I found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me such plunder forbear, She will say 't was a barbarous deed; For he ne'er could be true, she averred, Who would rob a poor bird of its young; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue. SHENSTONE (d. 1678). |