55 



THE FLIGHT OP THE BIRDS. 



The following beautiful poem was taken from a scrap-book, 

 and as the feeling of its author exactly corresponds with mine, 

 I insert it in my pages, which have been dedicated to a descrip- 

 tion of these happy creatures. 



Last night I sat beside the pane 

 And heard across the mist of rain 



The wild birds twitter low, 

 And thought how soon the leafy nests. 

 Now warm with little speckled breasts 



Would be filled full of snow. 



I saw the withered wet leaves fall, 

 And cried, God shield and save ye all. 



Black-birds and blue and brown; 

 And all ye tribes of noisy things, 

 With linings on your ashen wings 



Soft as thistle's down. 



And ye with topnots on your heads 

 Of crimson grains or scarlet reds, 



And tongues so wild and loud; 

 God save, I said in kindest care. 

 Seeing ye drift along the air 



Like some bright sunset cloud. 



And ye in gray and russet suits, 

 And ye with ruffles all in flutes 



About your necks a shine; 

 When April sends her lamps of dew, 

 To light the darkened daisies through, 



God bring ye, darlings mine! 



And ye with tender tuneful throats, 

 And ye with white and spotless coats, 



And ye that hold in scorn 

 Soft music, and while summer gleams 

 Sit by your doubles in the stream. 



Snapping your bills of horn. 



And let what will my life befall, 

 I shall love and need you all; 



Kor can my heart make choice 

 Or hold the nightingale preferred. 

 Above the cuckoo, less a bird. 



Than just ''a wandering voice. 



