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;

And many a circle, many a short essay, Wheel'd round and round, in congregation fell The figured flight ascends, and, riding high The aërial billows, mixes with the clouds.

SINGING BIRDS.

Ben Jonson.

HARK! how each bough a several music yields;
The lusty Throstle, early Nightingale,
Accord in tune, though vary in their tale.
The chirping Swallow, called forth by the sun,
And crested Lark, doth her division run.
The yellow Bees the air with music fill,

The Finches carol, and the Turtles bill.

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.