BIRDS-birds! ye are beautiful things,

With your earth-treading feet and your cloudcleaving wings;

Where shall man wander, and where shall he dwell,
Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?

Ye have nests on the mountain all rugged and stark,
Ye have nests in the forest all tangled and dark:
Ye build and ye brood 'neath the cottagers' eaves,
And ye sleep on the sod 'mid the bonnie green leaves;
Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake,
Ye dive in the sweet flags that shadow the lake:
Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked
land,

Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.
Beautiful birds! ye come thickly around,

When the bud's on the branch, and the snow's on the ground;

Ye come when the richest of roses flush out,

And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.

Beautiful birds! how the schoolboy remembers
The warblers that chorused his holiday tune;
The robin that chirped in the frosty Decembers,
The blackbird that whistled through flower-crownéd
June.

That schoolboy remembers his holiday ramble,
When he pulled every blossom of palm he could see,
When his finger was raised as he stopped in the bramble
With "Hark! there's the cuckoo; how close he must be!"

Beautiful birds! we've encircled thy names

With the fairest of fruits and the fiercest of flames.
We paint War with his eagle, and Peace with her dove;
With the red bolt of Death, and the olive of Love:
The fountain of friendship is never complete,

Till ye coo o'er its waters so sparkling and sweet;
And where is the hand that would dare to divide
Even Wisdom's grave self from the owl by her side?

Beautiful creatures of freedom and light!
Oh! where is the eye that groweth not bright
As it watches you trimming your soft glossy coats,
Swelling your bosoms, and ruffling your throats?
Oh! I would not ask, as the old ditties sing,
To be "happy as sand-boy" or happy as king;'
For the joy is more blissful that bids me declare,
"I'm as happy as all the wild birds in the air.”
I will tell them to find me a grave when I die,
Where no marble will shut out the glorious sky;
Let them give me a tomb where the daisy will bloom,
Where the moon will shine down, and the leveret pass by;
But be sure there's a tree stretching out high and wide,
Where the linnet, the thrush, and the woodlark may hide;
For the truest and purest of requiems heard

Is the eloquent hymn of the beautiful bird.
-ELIZA COOK.

WERE I A LITTLE BIRD.

A ROVER, e'en at beauty's shrine
I'd pay a traveller's call, no more:
I would the little wings were mine
On which thou, pretty bird, dost soar!
Thou see'st full many a country bright;
Thy sports all nature's works invite;
The sky is pure, the air is free.
I'd fly quick, quick! ay, quick as light,

Were I a little bird like thee!

I'd learn of tuneful Philomel,
With gentle sounds to charm the glade;
Then hover near the pastourelle,
And join in song the rustic maid.

I'd cheer one hermit's dwelling low-
No relics selleth he, I know,
But the poor bless his charity.
I'd fly quick, quick! ay,
there I'd go,
Were I a little bird like thee!

I'd hie me to the turrets dread,
Where sadly pine the captives lone;
With hidden wing, and drooping head,
I'd chant a song of plaintive tone.
One at my sight would faintly smile;
Another muse-dreaming the while
Of fields he loved in youth to see.
I'd fly quick, quick! were't many a mile,
And I a little bird like thee!

To a king's court I'd next away—
Some pleasure-wearied, joyless elf—
Filling his halls with carols gay,
On olive-tree I'd perch myself.
Then to the hiding-place, where lie
Some poor proscribed family,
I'd bear a slip of that same tree!

I'd fly quick, quick! blow low, blow high,
Were I a little bird like thee!

But day and night, with might and main,
I'd flee from beauty's dangerous eyes,
Lest powerful Love should once again
My heart in captive bonds surprise!
If on fair bosom-likely case-
That hunter wise his net should place,
Too well I know how it would be;
I'd fly there, quick, with headlong pace,
Were I a little bird like thee!

From BERANGER.

-W. ANDERSON.

THE SEA DIVER.

My way is on the bright blue sea,
My sleep upon its rocking tide;
And many an eye has followed me,
Where billows clasp the worn sea-side.

My plumage bears the crimson blush,
When ocean by the sun is kissed!
When fades the evening's purple flush,
My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.

BLUE-BIRD, on yon leafless tree,
Dost thou carol thus to me,
"Spring is coming!-spring is here?"
Say'st thou so, my birdling dear?
What is that in misty shroud.
Stealing from the darkened cloud?
Lo! the snow-flakes' gathering mound
Settles o'er the whitened ground,
Yet thou singest blithe and clear,
"Spring is coming!-spring is here!"

Strik'st thou not too bold a strain?
Winds are piping o'er the plain,
Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky,
With a black and threatening eye;

Urchins, by the frozen rill,
Wrap their mantles closer still;
Yon poor man, with doublet old,
Doth he shiver at the cold? .
Hath he not a nose of blue?
Tell me, birdling—tell me true.

Spring's a maid of mirth and glee,
Rosy wreaths and revelry:
Hast thou woo'd some wingéd love
To a nest in verdant grove?
Sung to her in greenwood bower,
Sunny skies that never lower-
Lured her with thy promise fair
Of a lot that knows no care?
Prithee, bird, in coat of blue,
Though a lover-tell her true.

A THOUSAND birds, in joyous tone,
Proclaimed the birth of spring;
But, robin, thou art left alone
The autumn's dirge to sing.
We hear the merry linnet's voice
When waving woods look green,
And thrush and nightingale rejoice
When hawthorn buds are seen.

But when they wither on the ground,
Then, robin, thou art heard

To mourn their fall, in plaintive sound,
For thou art Pity's bird.

Where fading leaves their shadows fling,
I love to see thee nigh;

A listener, when I touch the string,
And warbling in reply.

-MISS STRICKLAND.