TO 



MY BROTHER'S CHILDREN. 



YOUNG wanderers by the mountain-streams, 

 Whose days are all like sunny dreams, 

 To you, from woodlands far away, 

 I come, with legend and with lay : 

 Songs of many a tuneful bird, 

 Amid your own green vallies heard ; 

 Warblers whose strains are full of glee, 

 Blythe as your own blythe songs can be ; 

 And tale, and sketch, and song I bring, 

 Of birds who wave the glossy wing, 

 And sing their tiny broods to rest, 

 In the deep forests of the west. 



Of other songsters too I tell, 

 Who in fair eastern gardens dwell, 

 Sipping the dews from Indian flowers, 

 And nestling in the spicy bowers. 



A3 



