THE WOUNDED EAGLE. Mrs. Hemans. EAGLE! this is not thy sphere! Warrior-bird, what seek'st thou here? Wherefore, by the fountain's brink, Doth thy royal pinion sink? Wherefore, on the violet's bed, Eagle! wilt thou not arise! Look upon thine own bright skies! Lift thy glance! the fiery sun There his pride of place has won ; And the mounting lark is there, Eagle Eagle thou hast bow'd Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth, And the hunter's shaft hath found thee: -Wherefore didst thou leave thy place, Creature of a kingly race? Wert thou weary of thy throne? Chill and lone it well might be, Yet that mighty wing was free! Now that chain is o'er thee cast; BALTIMORE ORIOLE. Alex. Wilson. HIGH on yon poplar, clad in glossiest green, Her partner's mellow song, the brook, the breeze; THE LARK. Bernard de Ventadour. WHEN I behold the Lark up spring To meet the bright sun joyfully, How he forgets to poise his wing In his gay spirit's revelry; Alas! that mournful thoughts should spring E'en from the happy songster's glee! Strange, that such gladdening sight should bring Not joy, but pining care to me. I thought my heart had known the whole For still the more my longing soul Loves on, itself the while unloved : She stole my heart, myself she stole, And all I prized from me removed; She left me but the fierce control Of vain desires for her I loved. All self-command is now gone by, E'er since the luckless hour when she Became a mirror to my eye, Whereon I gazed complacently. Thou fatal mirror! there I spy Love's image; and my doom shall be, Like young Narcissus, thus to sigh, And thus expire, beholding thee. THE REDBREAST. John Jones. SWEET Social bird, with breast of red, Thy look oblique, thy prying head, Thy cheerful song in winter's cold, |