144 THE ROOK. 



From fields uncheered by rain or dew, 

 To Cherith's brook the ravens flew, 

 Morning and eve, on pinions fleet, 

 Hov'ring around the lone retreat ; 

 By secret impulse thither led, 

 To bring the exile daily bread. 



Dark-mantled bird, I'll welcome thee, 

 Thou hast no omens dire for me. 

 Recorded on the sacred page, 

 That tale descends from age to age, 

 And still the raven's sable plumes, 

 As with a glorious light illumes. 



I turn with fond delight to trace 

 The story of thy ancient race, 

 And think, how in their hour of need, 

 God can his faithful children feed. 

 There may be want, there may be woe, 

 But still the hidden stream will flow. 

 There may be deep, heart-withering care, 

 But Cherith's brook forbids despair. 



ORDER PASSERES. 



The Rook. 

 Corvus frugilegus. LINN. 



OUR readers will not require from us any very 

 elaborate description of this well-known bird ; he 

 is, in truth, an every-day acquaintance, crossing 





