CHORUS OF BIRDS.
IF the race of men are wise,
Soon to us they'll sacrifice,
Soon before us suppliant fall,
For we glance and rule o'er all.
When I sail the sky, my gaze
Every nook beneath surveys;
When to earth from heaven I shoot
I am guardian of the fruit :
Foe of every glutton worm
Feasting on the tender germ,
Or on trees, with budlets swelling,
Finding both his food and dwelling.
All that mar the garden's sweets
I pursue to their retreats;
All that creep, and all that sting,
Shudder when they hear my wing;
They by tiny talons slain,
Ne'er shall slime the flowers again.
Storm may beat, or sun may shine,
Happy, happy life is mine!
From the biting winter's cold
Swathed not in the mantle's fold,
Scorched not by the piercing ray
Of the sultry summer day,
Mid the flowery meads I wrap me,
Where the cradling leaflets lap me;
Thus the glowing heat I shun,
When, enthusiast of the sun,
Taught by heaven his shrilly tune,
Wakes the insect bard of noon.
When the frost I cannot bide,
In the sheltering grot I hide,
There, through gloomy winter, gay,
Mid the mountain nymphs, I play ;
With the balmy breath of spring,
With the myrtle's blossoming,
Straight to feast I speed my flight
On its buds of virgin white,
Or on sweets of perfumed flowers,
Culled amid the Graces' bowers.
J. ANSTICE,
from ARISTOPHANES, Av. 1058.
QUA CURSUM VENTUS.
As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail at dawn of day
Are scarce long leagues apart descried ;
When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied,
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas
By each was cleaving, side by side.
E'en so-but why the tale reveal
Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel,
Astounded, soul from soul estranged.
At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered-
Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!
To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,
Through winds and tides one compass guides-
To that, and your own selves, be true.
But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.
One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where'er they fare,—
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!
At last! at last, unite them there!
THE tomb to the blushing rose thus said,
"Of the tears upon thee by the morning shed,
What makest thou, Queen of love?"
The rose in her turn thus questioned the tomb :
"What makest thou in thy gulf of gloom,
Of all thou devour'st from above?"
Said the rose to the tomb, "From these precious
A scent that of amber and honey appears,
I breathe out mid the silence of night." And the tomb replied to the rose, "Plaintive flower, Of every soul that I seem to devour,
I make a blest angel of light."
BEAUTY is but a vain and doubtful good,
A shining gloss, that vadeth suddenly :
A flower that dies, when first it 'gins to bud;
A brittle glass, that's broken presently:
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.
And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie withered in the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
So beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
SHAKESPEARE,
The Passionate Pilgrim.
OH, that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake,
Would all their colours from the sunset take:
From something of material sublime,
Rather than shadow our own soul's daytime
In the dark void of night. . .
Things cannot to the will
Be settled, but they tease us out of thought;
Or is it that imagination brought
Beyond its proper bound, yet still confined,
Lost in a sort of purgatory blind,
Cannot refer to any standard law
Of either earth or heaven? It is a flaw
In happiness, to see beyond our bourn,—
It forces us in sunnier skies to mourn,
It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
HE LAID HIS HAND UPON ME.
LAY Thy Hand upon me
When I fall asleep,
Through the silent hours
Close beside me keep:
Then the Prince of Darkness,
Ruler of the air,
Will not dare to touch me
If Thy Hand is there.
Lay Thy Hand upon me,
Tenderly restrain
All too eager longings,
Every impulse vain :
Calm my spirit's chafing,
Restless with long care:
Murmurs melt in silence
When Thy Hand is there.
Lay Thy Hand upon me
When I rashly stray
Into paths forbidden,
Choosing my own way,
Ah! how much correction,
Lord, I have to bear,
Yet must take it meekly,
For Thy Hand is there.
Lead me now and always
Even to the last,
Till the way is ended
And the darkness past:
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