Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;

-Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place? Nothing but silence and empty space;

Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,

That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!

As soon as 't is daylight, to-morrow,

with me

You shall go to the orchard, and then you

will see

That he has been there, and made a great rout,

And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big

All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:

-But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we 're snug and warm;
Untouch'd by his breath see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light;

Books have we to read, but that half-stifled knell, Alas! 't is the sound of the eight o'clock bell.

-Come now we 'll to bed! and when we are there He may work his own will, and what shall we care? He may knock at the door, -we 'll not let him in ; May drive at the windows,-we 'll laugh at his din; Let him seek his own home wherever it be ;

Here's a cozie warm House for Edward and me. WORDSWORTH.

BIRD IN A CAGE.

Oh who would keep a little bird confined,
When cowslip bells are nodding in the wind,
When every hedge as with "Good morrow" rings,
And heard from wood to wood the blackbird sings?
Oh who would keep a little bird confined

In his cold wiry prison? Let him fly,

And hear him sing, "How sweet is liberty."

BOWLES.

THE CRICKET.

Little inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be express'd,
Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,
And the mouse with curious snout,
With what vermin else infest

Ev'ry dish, and spoil the best;
Frisking thus before the fire,

Thou hast all thine heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they be
Form'd as if akin to thee,

Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;

Theirs is but a summer's song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpair'd, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.

Neither night, nor dawn of day,
Puts a period to thy play;
Sing then- and extend thy span
Far beyond the date of man.
Wretched man, whose years are spent
In repining discontent,

Lives not, aged though he be,

Half a span compar'd with thee.

COWPER

TO A BEE.

Thou wert out betimes, thou busy busy bee!
As abroad I took my early way,

Before the cow from her resting place
Had risen up, and left her trace
On the meadow with dew so gay,
I saw thee, thou busy busy bee!

Thou wert alive, thou busy busy bee!
When the crowd in their sleep were dead;
Thou wert abroad in the freshest hour,

When the sweetest odour comes from the flower;
Man will not learn to leave his lifeless bed,

And be wise and copy thee, thou busy busy bee!

Thou wert working late, thou busy bee!
After the fall of the cistus-flower,

I heard thee last as I saw thee first,

When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst, In the coolness of the evening hour

I heard thee, thou busy busy bee!

Thou art a miser, thou busy busy bee!
Late and early at employ;

Still on thy golden stores intent,

Thy youth in heaping and hoarding is spent What thy age will never enjoy;

I will not copy thee, thou miserly bee!

Thou art a fool, thou busy busy bee!
Thus for another to toil;

Thy master waits till thy work is done,
Till the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And then he will seize the spoil,

And will murder thee, thou poor little bee!

THE HUMMING BIRD.

SOUTHEY.

The humming bird!

the humming bird!

So fairy like and bright;

It lives among the sunny flowers,
A creature of delight!

In the radiant islands of the East,
Where fragrant spices grow,

A thousand, thousand humming birds
Are glancing to and fro.

There builds her nest, the humming bird,
Within the ancient wood,

Her nest of silky cotton down,
And rears her tiny brood.

She hangs it to a slender twig,
Where waves it light and free,
song,

As the campanero trolls his
And rocks the mighty tree.

All crimson is her shining breast,
Like to the red, red rose;

Her wing the changeful green and blue
That the neck of the peacock shows.

Thou happy, happy humming bird,
No winter round thee lowers,
Thou never saw'st a leafless tree,
Nor land without sweet flowers!

A reign of summer's joyfulness
To thee for life is given;

Thy food, the honey in the flower,
Thy drink, the dew from heaven.

Thou little shining creature,

God saved thee from the flood, With eagle of the mountain land, And tiger of the wood!

Who cared to save the elephant,

He, also, cared for thee,

And gave those broad lands for thy home,

Where grows the cedar tree!

MARY HOWITT.

GOD SPEED THE PLOUGII.

The teams are waiting in the field,
The ploughmen all a-row;
And brisk and gay as birds in May,
They make a goodly show.
The farmer stands, and sees all hands
Turn'd out and ready now;

Yet ere they start, with all our heart
We'll say, God speed the plough.