Poor bird! in vain is all thy care! Has proved thee faithful, fond, and true; And bids the tempest work its will; More closely still she spreads her wings 66 Fly, faithful bird, there still is space, Nor perish with thy helpless race!" She heeds us not-the flames ascend, And since their lives she cannot save, The strength that wins the martyr's crown.* "The affection which the Stork manifests for her young has been proverbial from antiquity. She feeds them for a long period, nor quits them till they can defend and provide for themselves. She bears them on her wings, and protects them from danger, and has been known to perish rather than abandon them, an instance of which was exhibited in the town of Delft, in 1636, when a fire broke out in a building that had a Stork's nest on it, containing young unable to fly. The old Stork made several attempts to save them, but, finding all in vain, she at last spread her wings over them, and in that endearing attitude expired with them in the flames."-Brit. Cyclop. THE GOLDFINCH'S NEST. Graham. SOMETIMES, suspended at the limber end Of plane-tree spray, among the broad-leaved shoots, The tiny hammock swings to every gale; Sometimes in closest thickets 'tis conceal'd; Sometimes in hedge luxuriant, where the brier, The bramble, and the crooked plum-tree branch, Warp through the thorn, surmounted by the flowers Of climbing vetch, and honeysuckle wild, All undefaced by Art's deforming hand. How beautiful his plumes! his red-tinged head; wing; A fairy fan of golden spokes it seems. Он, herald of the Spring! while yet Braves the bleak gust, and driving rain, "Tis thine, as through the copses rude Some pensive wanderer sighs along, To tell of hope and fortitude, And soothe him with thy lonely song. For thee, then, may the hawthorn bush, The elder, and the spindle tree, With all their various berries, blush, And the blue sloe abound for thee! For thee the coral holly glow Its armed and glossy leaves among ; And the pellucid mistletoe O'er many a branched oak be hung! Still may thy nest, with soft moss lined, To bear thy callow young away. Oh! herald of approaching spring. |