THE HORNED OWL.

Barry Cornwall.

In the hollow tree, in the dull gray tower,
The spectral Owl doth dwell;

Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour,
But at dusk he 's abroad and well.

Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him;
All mock him outright by day;

But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away.

O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then is the reign of the Horned Owl!

And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold,
And loveth the wood's deep gloom;
And, with eyes that shine like the moon, stone
She awaiteth her ghastly groom:

[cold

Not a feather she moves, nor a carol she sings, As she waits in her tree so still;

But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,

She hoots out her welcome shrill.

O when the moon shines, and dogs do howl,
Then, then is the joy of the Horned Owl!

Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight!
The Owl hath his share of good:

If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark green wood.
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate,
They are each unto each a pride,

Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside !

So when the night falls, and dogs do howl,
O then for the reign of the Horned Owl!
We know not alway

Who are kings by day,

But the king of the night is the bold Brown Owl!

THE ORIOLE'S NEST.

Wilks.

THE Oriole builds her a pensile nest:

It hangs by a thread, and it waves in the skies; Yet no foe dares that tranquil asylum molest:

If he tempt the frail twig, it forsakes him-he dies.

The lion is track'd to the wild, tangled lair;

In vain the whale shrinks to the dark icy wave; The elephant's strength may not burst the fell

snare,

Nor the swift-bounding fawn find retreat in her

cave.

Yet the Oriole sings in her soft, fragile nest, Though it hang by a thread, and is rock'd by

the gale :

Foes are near, yet no tumult approaches her breast:

Her offspring no prowling marauders assail.

O'erhanging the torrent, unheeded, alone,

In her fair leafy island she nurtures her brood; Would they wish for some pathway to tempt realms unknown?

By that pathway, so envied, would dangers intrude.

Then blest be the cottage that shields me from

care;

I ask no new ties of ambition or pride; May my nest loose-suspended float calm in mid-air, Unsullied by earth, though to earth near allied.

Yet nearer to heaven, for death's wintry blast, The thread that enlinks me to earth shall dis

sever.

This nest soon must fall-its frail grace may not last

But the soul, disenthrall'd, shall be buoyant

for ever.

And aye shall it sing, where a calm, cloudless sky, And a clime ever bright, heaven's spring-tide

disclose;

Where no shelter is craved, for no danger is nigh,

And the fluttering wanderer sings to repose.

I have built o'er a torrent-for rude is life's

stream;

I have hung by a thread over death's sullen

wave;

Soft zephyrs have lulled me in youth's idle dream,

Or tempests portended the night of the grave.

My spring has swift flitted, my summer is past,

And autumn is yielding to winter's chill storm; May this fast-flagging wing find a shelter at last, Where no whirlwinds the halcyon noontide deform.

And find it I shall, for there waiteth restSo uttered the High One, whose word may not fail:

I shall find it where, deathless, hope's long-sought behest

Shall not hang by a thread, or be whirl'd by the gale.

The Oriole builds her a pensile cot;

And pensile on earth be each hope or fear; Rejoicing as though I rejoiced not,

And weeping as though unbedimm'd by a

tear.