round us on this merry May,
Every strain of grove-music our ears were now catching,
And we saw every movement that came in our way.

A sweet, tiny bird on a twig near the river,
Was warbling softly his choice matin lay,
While near on a branch we soon did discover
A serpent preparing to make him his prey.

Then glancing the eye to a branch that was near them,
We saw there a nest that contained a young brood;
While this parent bird was singing to cheer them,
The other returned to the nest with their food.

The worm which she held in her beak she soon gave them,
Then off in the thicket she darted again,
To seek for their food, and from hunger relieve them;
But on her return how great was her pain!

For while she had wandered, this serpent intruder
Had charmed her loved mate, as he sat on the spray,
His sweet song had ceased, and his notes became ruder,
But his fluttering wings could not bear him away.

We flew to the rescue--struck down the invader
Before the sweet songster had yielded his life,
Put an end to this cunning and mischievous raider,
And quieted all of the songster's great strife.

We learned from the scenes of this morning's ramble
That moments of happiness soon may decay;
While plucking the flowers to beware of the bramble,
Which hid among blossoms may sadly betray.

We learned that the joys of this world are not lasting;
That what we call pleasure may be a vain show;
While joys seem the sweetest they only are blasting,
And happiness frequently ends in great woe.

We learned that when Nature seems most to invite us,
To build some fond hope on some loved scheme of ours,
That there may be sadness preparing to blight us,
Which evades all our watchings, defies all our powers.

MY MOTHER'S LOVE.

Nine months after writing this poem, my mother died, Dec. 21st, 1894.

My vision eye beholds a form,
Bent low by years of life's fierce storm,
That moves with feeble tread;
Though time has worn that weary frame
The heart still keeps its sacred flame
True, undiminished.

No power but Death can ever quell--
No mortal tongue can ever tell
A mother's boundless love;
'Tis shadowed in the secret sigh,
Or in the moisture of the eye--
E'en silence, it may prove.

Itself a