both by what He shows, and what conceals,
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

SEPTEMBER.

And sooth to say, yon vocal grove
Albeit uninspired by love,
By love untaught to ring,
May well afford to mortal ear
An impulse more profoundly dear
Than music of the spring.

But list! though winter storms be nigh
Unchecked is that soft harmony:
There lives Who can provide,
For all his creatures: and in Him,
Even like the radiant Seraphim,
These choristers confide.

WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

THE LARK.

Happy, happy liver,
With a soul as strong as a mountain river,
Pouring out praises to the Almighty Giver.

WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

THE SWALLOW.

When weary, weary winter
Hath melted into air,
And April leaf and blossom
Hath clothed the branches bare,
Came round our English dwelling
A voice of summer cheer:
'Twas thine, returning swallow,
The welcome and the dear.

Far on the billowy ocean
A thousand leagues are we,
Yet here, sad hovering o'er our bark,
What is it that we see?
Dear old familiar swallow,
What gladness dost thou bring:
Here rest upon our flowing sail
Thy weary, wandering wing.

MRS. HOWITT.

* * * * *

RETURNING BIRDS.

Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring?
"We come from the shores of the green old Nile,
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,
From the myrrh trees of glowing Araby."

MRS. HEMANS.

* * * * *

THE BIRDS.

With elegies of love
Make vocal every spray.

CUNNINGHAM.

* * * * *

THRUSH.

Whither hath the wood thrush flown
From our greenwood bowers?
Wherefore builds he not again
Where the wild thorn flowers?

Bid him come! for on his wings
The sunny year he bringeth,
And the heart unlocks its springs
Wheresoe'er he singeth.

BARRY CORNWALL.

* * * * *

LINNET.

Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest,