Procured with cost, preserved with care,

I mean the gaudy Cockatoo. He is a bird of price and fame,

And talks, as other birds can do;
For, if you ask him what's his name,
He'll say 'tis "Pretty Cockatoo."

Yet in those words of simple lore
Does all this scholar's wisdom lie;
For, put a thousand questions more,
You'll only get the same reply:
Ask him, who form'd the mount and plain?
Who first the glowing landscape drew?
Who bade the steamboats plough the main ?
He'll say, 'twas "Pretty Cockatoo."

Thus children oft, when sent to school,
Perform the same unmeaning rounds ;

Learn all by accidence or rule,

But see no meaning in the sounds: Yet, Reader! if 'tis but by rote

Thou run'st thy daily lessons through, And never giv'st the sense a thought, Thou'rt but a prating Cockatoo.

A bird may come to sound its name,
A bird might almost learn to spell;
But boys and girls must seek to aim

At something more than birds can tell.
The wreath, which grows on wisdom's bough,
Is free to all, though cropp'd by few:
Be that thy bright reward, and thou
Shalt shame the senseless Cockatoo.

THE OWL.

Why dost thou wander, lonesome owl,
Now every thing beside, each fowl

And beast, to rest is laid?

Why do thy broad wings shine so light

From mead to mead, when the dim night Bids all the prospect fade?

Doth the sun blind thine eyes by day,

That, hid from sight, thou steal'st away

Amid the ivy tree?

Go, silly owl, go sleep till morn

Shall to the woods and fields return,

Then wake, and sport like me.

"Ah! little boy," the owl would say, "Thou dost not know how blithe and gay

I hail the twilight hour.

When the pale stars are up, then I
Am out beneath their gentle sky,
The mistress of the bower.

When lark and linnet lie asleep
In their warm nest, 'tis then I keep
My merry-makings here:

My hootings long and loud, no less
Than their sweet songs, can joy express,
And my companions cheer.

The moon sheds down her brightest beams, To guide me by the woods and streams,

Home to my dark old tree;