704 



THE SOUTHERN PLANTER. 



[November 



The Bird that Sung in May. 



A bird last spring came to my window shutter, 



One lovely morning at the break of day; 

 And from his little throat did sweetly utter 

 A most melodious lay. 



He had no language for his joyous passion, 



No solemn measure, no artistic rhyme; 

 Yet no devoted minstrel e'er did fashion 



Such perfect tune and time. 



It seemed of thousand joys a thousand stories, 



All gushing forth in one tumultuous tide; 

 A hallelujah for the morning glories 



That bloomed on every side. 



And with each canticle's voluptuous ending, 



He sipped a dew-drop from the dripping pane; 

 Then heavenward his little bill extending, 

 Broke forth in song again. 



I thought to emulate his wild emotion, 



And learn thanksgiving from his tuneful 

 tongue; 



But human heart ne'er uttered such devotion, 

 Nor human lips such song. 



At length he flew and left me in sorrow, 



Lest I should hear those tender notes no more; 

 And though I early waked for him each morrow, 

 He came not nigh my door. 



But'onee again, one silent summer even, 



I met him hopping in the new-mown hay; 

 But he was mute, and looked not up to heaven — 

 The bird that sung in May. 



Though now I hear from dawn to twilight hour 



The hoarse wood-pecker and the noisy jay, 

 In vain I seek through leafless grove and bower 

 The bird that sung in May. 



And such, methinks, are childhood's dawning 

 pleasures. 



They charm a moment and then fly away ; 

 Through life we sigh and seek those missing 

 treasures, 



The birds that sung in May. 



This little lesson, then, my friend, remember, 

 To seize each bright-winged blessing in its 



And never hope to catch in cold December, 

 The bird that sung in May. 



From the Ohio Farmer, 



The Eose that Bloomed TJp-Stairs. 



A MOTHER'S STORY. 



BY MRS H. L. BOSTWICK. 



Beside my door a rose-tree grew, 



And wide and high its branches threw, 



Yet blossom never yielded; 

 I searched it oft with anxious eye, 

 But failed to look where, far on. high, . 



The vines a window shielded. 



One day, intent on household cares, 

 I oped a little room up-stairs, 



Whose casement loosely closes; 

 My wee twin pets crept up beside — 

 Then Allie, starting, as she cried, 



"Mamma! mamma! your roses! 



In at the loosened sash they grew; 

 More beautiful they seemed to view 



Than any out-door bloomers; 

 And day by day, in merry pairs, 

 My babes and I would steal upstairs, 



To greet the sweet new-comers. 



When Autumn came — oh! time of gloom !- 

 My twins, my precious buds of bloom, 



Slept in the grave's dark keeping; 

 But Allie sweetly 1 wiped my eyes, 

 And gave caresses for my sighs, 



And chid my bitter weeping. 



Oh ! for a child's blest faith, to feel 

 No doubting of the future's weal — 



No haunting "ifs" and "may-bees." 

 "Don't cry, mamma," she lisped at prayers, 

 "Remember how your rose-tree bears — 

 I guess God 's got some nice 'up-stairs, ; 



Where we shall find the babies." 



Flowers. 



There is a legend, old as earth,. 



But beautiful and true, 

 Which tells us how the flowers had birth, 



And wherefore came the dew. 



When Eve — thro' Satan's sore deceit — 



Touched the forbidden tree, 

 And te/npted her "good man" to eat, 



The Lord came angrily 



And straightway turned from Eden's bowers 



These first-born sinners forth, 

 Away from all, its smiling flowers, 



Upon the barren earth. 



But pitying, ere to- Heaven he passed, 



His angles — brothers then — 

 O'er all the earth their footprints cast, 



And hill, and vale, and glen 



Sparked with flowers — -earth's starry spheres- 



And on they fled from view, 

 They strewed the flowers with pitying tears, 



Which since have passed for dew. 



And thus, though Raradise was lost 



But first of human kind, 

 Thy children know, though sorely crossed, 



God's love is left behind. 



