I love to hear thee sing,

When summer groves are glistening in the dew, And see, in morning's mingling gray and blue, Thy brown and glossy wing.

And when the crimson glows,

Gayly, along the soft and mellow west,
Thou teachest to thy young, within their nest.
Thy song at evening's close.

Ah! it were vain to search

Where thou from winter's cold wilt find a home;
But glad I see thee to my elm-tree come,
And near my window perch.

There is that to thee given,

That teacheth me to hymn my Maker's praise, And my faint soul from cares of earth to raise, To the pure joys of heaven.

THE BLUEBIRD'S SONG.

I know the song that the bluebird is singing, Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging; Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary,Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery. Hark! how the music leaps out of his throat! Hark! was there ever so merry a note? Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying, Up in the apple-tree swinging and swaying: "Dear little blossoms down under the snow, You must be weary of winter, I know; Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer! Summer is coming! and spring-time is here! "Little white snow-drop, I pray you arise; Bright yellow crocus! come, open your eyes; Sweet little violets, hid from the cold, Put on your mantles of purple and gold; Daffodils! daffodils! say, do you hear ?— Summer is coming! and springtime is here!" THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING.

What do the robins whisper about

From their homes in the elms and birches?

I've tried to study the riddle out,

But still in my mind is many a doubt,
In spite of deep researches.

While all the world is in silence deep,
In the twilight of early dawning

They begin to chirp and twitter aad peep,
As if they were talking in their sleep,
At three o'clock in the morning.

Perhaps they tell secrets that should not be heard
By mortals listening and prying;

Perhaps we might learn from some whispered word
The best way to bring up a little bird,
Or the wonderful art of flying.

It may be they gossip from nest to nest,
Hidden and leaf-enfolded;

For do we not often hear it confessed,
When a long-kept secret at last is guessed,
That "a little bird has told it ?"

What do the robins whisper about

In the twilight of early dawning?
Listen, and tell me, if you find it out,
What 'tis the robins whisper about
At three o'clock in the morning?

THE BROKEN WING.

In front of my pew sits a maiden-
A little brown wing in her hat,
With its touches of tropical azure,

And the sheen of the sun upon that.

Through the bloom-colored pane shines a glory
By which the vast shadows are stirred,
But I pine for the spirit and splendor
That painted the wing of that bird.

The organ rolls down its great anthem
With the soul of a song it is blent;
But for me, I am sick for the singing
Of one little song that is spent.

The voice of the curate is gentle :

"No sparrow shall fall to the ground;" But the poor broken wing on the bonnet Is mocking the merciful sound.

LOST THREE LITTLE ROBINS.

Oh, where is the boy, dressed in jacket of gray,
Who climbed up a tree in the orchard to-day
And carried my three little birdies away?
They hardly were dressed,

When he took from the nest

My three little robins, and left me distressed.
O wrens! have you seen, in your travels to-day,
A very small boy, dressed in jacket of gray,
Who carried my three little robins away

He had light colored hair,
And his feet were both bare,
And he was most cruel to me, I declare.

O butterfly! stop just one moment, I pray; Have you seen a boy dressed in jacket of gray, Who carried my three little birdies away ? From his pretty blue eyes

One might think he was wise,

But he must be wicked for one of his size.

O boy with blue eyes, dressed in jacket of gray!
If you will bring back my three robins to-day,
With sweetest of music the gift I'll repay;
I'll sing all day long
My merriest song.

And I will forgive you this terrible wrong.
Bobolink! did you see my birdies and me,
How happy we were on the old apple tree,
Until I was robbed of my young, as you see?
Oh, how can I sing,

Unless he will bring

My three robins back, to sleep under my wing.

BIRDS IN SUMMER.

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree;
In the leafy trees so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace hall,
With its airy chambers, light as noon,
That open to sun, and stars, and moon ;
That open unto the bright blue sky,

And the frolicsome winds, as they wander by!
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Skimming about on the breezy sea,
Cresting the billows like silvery foam,
Then wheeling away to its cliff built home!
What joy it must be to sail, upborne

By a strong, free wing, through the rosy morn,
To meet the young sun, full face to face,

And pierce, like a shaft, the boundless space!
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Wherever it listeth there to flee;

To go, when a joyful fancy calls,
Dashing down among the waterfalls;

Then wheeling about, with its mates at play,
Above and below, and among the spray,
Hither and thither, with screams as wild
As the laughing mirth of a rosy child.

PERSEVERANCE.

A swallow in the spring

Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves
Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring
Wet earth and straw and leaves!

Day after day she toiled

With patient art, but ere her work was crowned,
Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,
And dashed it to the ground.

She found the ruin wrought,

But not cast down, forth from the place she flew.
And with her mate fresh earth and grasses brought
And built her nest anew.

But scarcely had she placed

The last soft feather on its ample floor,
When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste
And wrought the ruin o'er.

But still her heart she kept,

And toiled again,-and last night, hearing calls,
I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept
Within the earth-made walls.

THE ROBIN'S SONG.

I asked a sweet robin, one morning in May,
Who sung in the apple tree over the way,
What it was he was singing so sweetly about,
For I tried a long while, and I could not find out.
"Why, I'm sure," he replied, "you cannot guess wrong;
Don't ye know I am singing a temperance song?
Teetotal, oh! that's the first word of my lay;
And then don't you see how I twitter away?

"'Tis because I've just dipped my breast in the spring,
And brushed the fair face of the lake with my wing;
Cold water! cold water! yes, that is my song,
And I love to keep singing it all the day long!"

THE CAPTIVE BIRD.

Birdie, up in your cage so gay,
Singing and swinging the live-long day,
Don't you wish you could fly away

Into the greenwood fair?

Under the trees the brook goes singing,

Down in the meadows the flowers are springing;
Don't you wish you were freely winging

Up in the boundless air?

Out of the east at early morn

Softly the beautiful day is born;

Don't you wish you could greet its dawn,
Rocking among the leaves?

Free as the light winds gayly blowing;
Then, when the sunset gates are glowing,
Home to a leafy shelter going,

Such as the wild bird weaves?

Birdie, say, do you ever dream,
How in the valley the waters gleam,
Slipping along in a silver stream,
Murmuring night and day?

Willows green in the light winds shiver,
Leaning down to the shining river;

Say, in the dream do your soft wings quiver,
Longing to soar away?

TO A SKYLARK.

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still.
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood:
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine;

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam,
True to the kindred points of heaven and home!
BIRDS' NESTS.

The skylark's nest among the grass
And waving corn is found;

The robin's on a shady bank,

With oak leaves strewn around.

The wren builds in an ivied thorn,
Or old and ruined wall;

The mossy nest, so covered in,
You scarce can see at all.

The martins build their nests of clay,
In rows beneath the eaves;
While silvery lichens, moss, and hair
The chaffinch interweaves.

The cuckoo makes no nest at all,
But through the wood she strays
Until she find one snug and warm,
And there her eggs she lays.
The sparrow has a nest of hay,
With feathers warmly lined;
The ring-dove's careless nest of sticks
On lofty trees we find.

Rooks build together in a wood,

And often disagree;

The owl will build inside a barn
Or in a hollow tree.