NEST OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

Up this green woodland side let's softly rove,
And list the nightingale; she dwells just here.
Hush let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear
The noise might drive her from her home of love;
For here I've heard her many a merry year—

At morn, at eve-nay, all the live-long day,
As though she lived on song. This very spot,
Just where the old-man's-beard all wildly trails
Rude arbours o'er the road, and stops the way;
And where the child its blue-bell flowers hath got,
Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails;
There have I hunted like a very boy,

Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn,
To find her nest, and see her feed her young,
And vainly did I many hours employ:
All seem'd as hidden as a thought unborn;
And where those crumpling fern-leaves ramp among
The hazel's under-boughs, I've nestled down
And watch'd her while she sang; and her renown
Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird
Should have no better dress than russet brown.
Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,
And feathers stand on end, as 't were with joy ;
And mouth wide open to release her heart
Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part
Of summer's fame she shared, for so to me
Did happy fancy shapen her employ.
But if I touch'd a bush, or scarcely stirr'd,
All in a moment stopt. I watch'd in vain :
The timid bird had left the hazel-bush,
And oft in distance hid to sing again.

CLARE.

3

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in the grove I sat reclin'd,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 't is my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and play'd

Their thoughts I cannot measure :—
But the least motion which they made,

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

WORDSWORTH.

19

DOMESTIC LOVE.

DOMESTIC LOVE! not in proud palace halls
Is often seen thy beauty to abide;
Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls,

That in the thickets of the woodbine hide;
With hum of bees around, and from the side

Of woody hills some little bubbling spring,

Shining along through banks with harebells dyed ;

And many a bird to warble on the wing,

When Morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling.

O love of loves!-to thy white hand is given

Of earthly happiness the golden key!

Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even, When the babes cling around their father's knee; And thine the voice, that on the midnight sea Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home, Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see. Spirit-I've built a shrine; and thou hast come, And on its altar closed-for ever closed thy plume!

GEORGE CROLY