WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight, to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or maze of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-tide?

There is a Power, whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,

The desert and illimitable air,

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd,

At that far height, the cool thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not weary to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon thy toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer-home and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Loose o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou'rt gone; th' abyss of heaven

Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

THE Carrion Crow is a sexton bold,

He raketh the dead from out of the mould; He delveth the ground like a miser old,

Stealthily hiding his store of gold.

Caw! Caw!

The Carrion Crow hath a coat of black,

Silky and sleek, like a priest's, to his back;
Like a lawyer he grubbeth—no matter what way—
The fouler the offal, the richer his prey.

Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow!

Dig! Dig! in the ground below!

The Carrion Crow hath a dainty maw,

With savory pickings he crammeth his craw;
Kept meat from the gibbet, it pleaseth his whim,
It never can hang too long for him.
Caw! Caw!

The Carrion Crow smelleth powder, 'tis said, Like a soldier escheweth the taste of cold lead; No jester or mime hath more marvellous wit, For wherever he lighteth he maketh a hit.

Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow!

Dig! Dig! in the ground below!

LINES.

Hurdis.

BUT mark with how peculiar grace yon wood,
That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze
Her sea of leaves: thither we turn our steps,

And by the way attend the cheerful sound
Of woodland harmony, that always fills
The merry vale between. How sweet the song
Day's harbinger attunes! I have not heard
Such elegant divisions drawn from art.
And what is he that wins our admiration?
A little speck that floats upon the sunbeam.
What vast perfection cannot Nature crowd
Into a puny point! The Nightingale,

Her solo anthem sung, and all that heard,
Content, joins in the chorus of the day ;
She, gentle heart, thinks it no pain to please,
Nor, like the moody songsters of the world,
Just shows her talent, pleases, takes affront,
And locks it up in envy.