Let us, just with a view to anticipate 

 what we shall «ZZ hear in a few short months, 

 quote the harmonious strains of Clare, that 

 lovely poet, on — 



The Nightingale. 



"Up this green woodland path we'll softly rove, 

 And list the Nightingale; she dwelleth here. 

 Hush ! let the wood -gate gently close, for fear 

 Its noise might scare her from her home of love. 

 Here I have heard her sing for many a year, 

 At noon and eve, ay, all the livelong day, 

 As though she lived on song. — In this same spot, 

 Just where the old-man's-beard all widely trails 

 Its tresses o'er the track and stops the way, — 

 And where that child the fox-glove flowers hath 



got, 

 Laughing and creeping through the moss-grown 



rails, — 

 Oft have I hunted, like a truant hoy, 

 Creeping through thorny brakes with eager joy, 

 To find her nest, and see her feed her young: 

 And where those crimpled ferns grow rank 



among 

 The hazel boughs, I've nestled down full oft, 

 To watch her warbling on some spray aloft, 

 With wings all quivering in her ecstasy, 

 And feathers rvffiing up in transport high, 

 And bill wide open — to relieve her heart 

 Of its out-sobbing song ! — But with a start, 

 If I but stirred a branch, she stopped at once, 

 And, flying off swift as the eye can glance, 

 In leafy distance hid, to sing again. 

 Anon , from bosom of that green retreat, 

 Her song anew in silvery stream would gush, 

 With jug-jug-jug and quavered trilling sweet; 

 Till, roused to emulate the enchanting strain, 

 From hawthorn spray piped loud the merry 



thrush 

 Her wild bravura through the woodlands wide." 



Mr. Adams shall now be quoted as a 

 poet, on — 



The Sky-Lark. 



The Blackbird. 



" Metliinks, methinks, a happy life is thine, 



Bird of the jetty wing and golden bill ! 

 Up in the clear fresh morning's dewy shine 

 Art thou, and singing at thine own sweet 



will : 

 Thy mellow voice floats over vale and hill, 

 Rich and mellifluous to the ear as wine 



Unto the taste; at noon we hear thee still; 

 And when grey shadows tell of Sol's decline ; 

 Thou hast thy matin and thy vesper song, 



Thou hast thy noontide canticle of praise, 

 For Him who fashioned thee to dwell among 

 The orchard-grounds, and 'mid the pleasant 

 ways 

 Where blooming hedge-rows screen the rustic 



throng : 

 Thy life's a ceaseless prayer, thy days all sab- 

 bath days." 



Now for " our own" pet, immortalised in 

 these pages by Wordsworth : — 



"Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! 

 Dost thou despise the earth, when cares 

 abound ? 

 Or, while thy 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. 



To the last point of vision, and beyond, 



Mount, daring warbler! That love- prompted 

 strain 



('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 

 Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain! 



Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege, to sing 



All independent of the leafy spring. 



Leave to the nightingale the shady wood — 

 A privacy of glorious light is thine, 



When thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

 Of harmony with rapture more divine. 



Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam, 



True to the kindred points of heaven and home ! " 



Before laying aside this elegant tome, 

 shining in its cloth of gold — we must remark 

 that, although it is not adapted for the use 

 of those who keep birds, yet it is an essen- 

 tial " Companion" for all who love birds. 

 Its circulation, therefore, ought to be uni- 

 versal. 



Mr. Adams has himself contributed largely 

 to the poetical imagery of the volume, and 

 he has superintended the getting up of some 

 beautiful illustrative colored engravings of 

 birds, designed by Edward Gilks. There 

 are no fewer than twelve of them. 



Scinde; or the Unhappy Valley, By Lieut. 

 It. F. Burton, Bombay Army. Two Vols. 

 Mr. Burton has before committed author- 

 ship ; his former attempt being Goa and the 

 Blue Mountains. This was a failure. The 

 present performance is more creditable, and 

 his field of inquiry wider and more generally 

 interesting. If we say, sub rosd, that the 

 worthy Lieutenant throws the hatchet with 

 admirable dexterity, we shall speak but the 

 truth. We name this lest, by quoting the 

 following animated sketch, we might be 

 held answ r erable for its authenticity. We 

 had rather not ! 



" Hunting an Alligator. — In the dark re- 

 cess, formed by a small bridge built over the 

 narrow brick channel which supplies the swamp, 

 and concealed from eyes profane by the warm, 

 blueish, sulphureous stream, lurks the grisly 

 monarch of the place. An unhappy kid is 

 slaughtered with the usual religious formula, and 

 its life-blood is allowed to flow as a libation into 

 the depths below. A gurgling and a bubbling of 

 the waters forewarn us that their tenant has 

 acknowledged the compliment, and presently a 

 huge snout and slimy crimson case, fringed 

 with portentous fangs, protrude from the yawn- 

 ing surface. 



