On the placid breast of the inland lake

The wild duck delights her pastime to take;
But the Petrel braves

The wild ocean waves,

His wing in the foaming billow he laves.

The halcyon loves, in the noontide beam,
To follow his sport on the tranquil stream;
He fishes at ease

In the summer breeze,

But we go angling in the stormiest seas.

No song-note have we, but a piping cry,

That blends with the storm, when the winds rise When the land-birds wail

We sport in the gale,

And merrily over the ocean we sail.

[high;

During the severe gales in November, 1836, a Stormy Petrel was driven inland, and took shelter in a pigsty, in Wellington, Salop, where it was made captive, and remained for some time in the possession of the editor of this little work. It afforded him no little amusement while skimming on the surface of a tub of water; and, strange to say, was remarkably tame. Circumstances, however, rendered it necessary that it should be destroyed, in order to be preserved, and it (notwithstanding the length of time it had been out of its "element wild") fully verified the fact of its being easily converted into a lamp by the natives of the Feroe Islands, by the immense quantity of oil (for so small a creature) which was discharged from its bill after it was killed.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

BEAUTIFUL Nightingale, who shall portray
All the varying turns of thy flowing lay!
And where is the lyre, whose chords shall reply
To the notes of thy changeful melody!
We may linger indeed, and listen to thee,
But the linked chain of thy harmony
It is not for mortal hands to unbind,
Nor the clue of thy mazy music to find.
Thy home is the wood on the echoing hill,
Or the verdant banks of the forest's rill,
And soft as the south wind the branches among,
Thy plaintive lament goes floating along.

TO A REDBREAST THAT FLEW IN AT MY

WINDOW.

Graham.

FROM Snowy plains, and icy sprays,
From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast,—
How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting.
Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
No! freely flutter round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.

That note, that summer note, I know :
It wakes at once, and soothes my woe;
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see-ah, still prolong the dream!
Still with the songs those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my
view.

No more now, at my lonely meal, While thou art by, alone I'll feel : For soon, devoid of all distrust,

Thou 'lt nibbling share my humble crust; Or on my finger, pert and spruce,

Thou 'It learn to sip the sparkling juice,

And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,

Be't work of poet, or of sage,

Safe thou shalt hop across the page; Uncheck'd shalt flit o'er Virgil's groves, Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.

Thus, heedless of the raving blast,

Thou 'lt dwell with me till winter 's past;
And when the primrose tells 't is spring,
And when the thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.

Fair Summer's heats oppress

'Neath equinoctial beams,

When birds retire to the sylvan shades,
And beasts to the limpid streams.
The cotter hies him home,

After the toils of the day;

What cheers him on his evening path?
The Robin's gladsome lay.

Brown Autumn's dreary moan
Reverb'rates through the glade,
And many a sullen, whistling blast
The forest depths invade :
The shady leaf's no more,

The blue has left the hill;
But near yon hamlet's humble shed
Is seen the Robin still.

Now Winter frowns severe;

Congealing frosts and snow

Come drifting keen from their arctic sphere,

And howling tempests blow.

But where is the songster's voice,

The little English bird?

Midst the rigid scene of the winter stern,

Is the lay of the Robin heard?