That note, that summer note, I know :
It wakes at once, and soothes my woe;
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see-ah, still prolong the dream!
Still with the songs those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my
view.

No more now, at my lonely meal, While thou art by, alone I'll feel : For soon, devoid of all distrust,

Thou 'lt nibbling share my humble crust; Or on my finger, pert and spruce,

Thou 'It learn to sip the sparkling juice,

And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,

Be 't work of poet, or of sage,

Safe thou shalt hop across the page ; Uncheck'd shalt flit o'er Virgil's groves, Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.

Thus, heedless of the raving blast,

Thou 'lt dwell with me till winter 's past; And when the primrose tells 't is spring, And when the thrush begins to sing, Soon as I hear the woodland song,

Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.

THE GREEN LINNET.

Wordsworth.

BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs, that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather;

In this sequester'd nook how sweet

To sit upon my orchard-seat,

And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.

One have I mark'd, the happiest guest

In all this covert of the blest;

Hail to thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion,

Thou Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding spirit here to-day,

Dost lead the revels of the May,

And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment;

A life, a presence like the air,

Scattering thy gladness without care,

Too blest with any one to pair,

Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perch'd in ecstacies,

Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.

My sight he dazzles, half deceives,
A bird so like the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;

Belinda's maids are soon preferr❜d

To teach him now and then a word,
As Poll can master it;

But 't is her own important charge,

To qualify him more at large,

And make him quite a wit.

"Sweet Poll!" his doating mistress cries, "Sweet Poll!" the mimic bird replies,

And calls aloud for sack.

She next instructs him in the kiss;

'Tis now a little one, like Miss

And now a hearty smack.

At first he aims at what he hears;
And, listening close with both his ears,

Just catches at the sound;

But soon articulates aloud,

Much to the amazement of the crowd,
And stuns the neighbours round.

A querulous old woman's voice

His humourous talent next employs ;
He scolds, and gives the lie.

And now he sings, and now is sick,

Here Sally, Susan, come, come quick, Poor Poll is like to die!"

Belinda and her bird! 't is rare

To meet with such a well-match'd pair,
The language and the tone,

Each character in every part

Sustain'd with so much grace and art,

And both in unison.

When children first begin to spell,

And stammer out a syllable,

We think them tedious creatures;

But difficulties soon abate,

When birds are to be taught to prate,
And women are the teachers.

THE STORMY PETREL.

THE lark sings for joy on his own loved land, In the furrow'd fields, by the breezes fann'd ; And so revel we,

In the furrow'd sea,

As joyous and glad as the lark can be.