Calling to his bird-mate, In troubleless delight! In the green and leafy wood, Where the branching ferns upcurl, Soon as is the dawning Wake the mavis and the merle; Wakes the cuckoo on the bough, Wakes the jay with ruddy breast, Wakes the mother ring-dove, Brooding on her nest! Oh, the sunny summer time! When the year is in its prime! Whate'er loves-it has delight In the joyous song it sings, In the liquid air it cleaves, Do we wake, or do we sleep, After many a dull care, Birds are singing loud! Sing then, linnet, sing then, wren, And thou, rapturous skylark, Sing and soar up from the hill! Sing, O nightingale, and pour Out for us sweet fancies new; We will sing of you! Mary Howitt. THE THRUSH'S NEST. WITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush I watched her secret toils from day to day; How true she warped the moss to form her nest, And modelled it within with wood and clay. And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue; And there I witnessed, in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. John Clare. TO THE RED-BREAST. WHEN that the fields put on their gay attire, THE GRASSHOPPER. 45 And meads with slime are sprent and ways with mire, John Bumpfylde. THE GRASSHOPPER. HAPPY insect, what can be Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; To thee, of all things upon earth, Dost neither age nor winter know; But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among (Voluptuous and wise withal, Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest. Abraham Cowley. THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass, With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass! O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, One to the fields, the other to the hearth, TO A BEE. 47 Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song— In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth. Leigh Hunt. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. THE poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, John Keats. TO A BEE. THOU wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee! Before the cow from her resting-place |