SOOTHED by the murmurs on the sea-beat shore,
His dun-grey plumage floating to the gale,
The Curlew blends his melancholy wail
With those hoarse sounds the rushing waters pour;
Like thee, congenial bird! my steps explore
The bleak, lone sea-beach, or the rocky dale,
And shun the orange bower, the myrtle vale,
Whose
gay luxuriance suits my soul no more.

I love the ocean's broad expanse, when drest

In limpid clearness, or when tempests blow; When the smooth currents on its placid breast

Flow calm as my past moments used to flow; Or when its troubled waves refuse to rest, And seem the symbol of my present woe.

THE PEACOCK.

Albin.

HARK, yon harsh, discordant cry,
Frighting much the murmuring eve,
Can we joy from it receive?
Quickly let us pass it by:

Uninviting doth it seem ;

Listening, who would ever deem

That such beauty him was nigh?

Let us pause-thou stately bird, Why was song to thee denied (Lesson unto useless pride),

And on humbler throats conferr'd?

None would ever heed thy call
Utter'd only to appal;

Such a scream was never heard.

See, outspread thy glories shine,
Burnish'd by the setting sun,
Glad, before his race is run,

To witness splendour such as thine :-
Ah, why thus doth Folly spurn
Wisdom's call, and from it turn,
Knowing not 'tis Beauty's mine?

How to Vice doth Virtue's voice

Seem unable to declare

All the charms which are her share,

Full of discord seems her choice;

But, approach'd, how to the heart She doth happiness impart, And, taking hands with joy, rejoice.

As on that bird yon glorious orb
Sheds in peace his parting rays,
So in Virtue's latter days
Doth she all esteem absorb :

'Neath the Sun of Righteousness, Which alone hath power to bless, Doth her call no more disturb.

WHEN icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail. When blood is nipt, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring Owl, Tu-whit, tu-whoo, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw :

Then roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

And nightly sings the staring Owl,
Tu-whit, tu-whoo, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

THE WHITE STORK.

Minstrelsy of the Woods.

THE flames are on the city wall,
Temple, and tower, and palace fall;
Danger and death are hovering near,
And shrieks of terror wound the ear.
Look upward at that feeble bird,
From her no cry of woe is heard;
With all a mother's love possest,
She hovers fondly o'er her nest,
And ev'ry tender art she tries,

To bear her children through the skies.