The gleanings of the sumptuous board
Conveyed by some indulgent fair,
Are in a nook of safety stor'd,

And not dispens'd till thou art there.

In stately hall and rustic dome,

The gaily robed and homely poor

Will watch the hour when thou shalt come,
And bid thee welcome to the door.

The Herdsman on the upland hill,
The Ploughman in the hamlet near,
Are prone thy little paunch to fill,
And pleas'd thy little psalm to hear.
The Woodman seated on a log

His meal divides atween the three,
And now himself, and now his dog,
And now he casts a crumb to thee.

For thee a feast the School-boy strews
At noontide, when the form's forsook
A worm to thee the Delver throws,

And Angler when he baits the hook.

At tents where tawny Gipsies dwell,

;

In woods where Hunters chase the hind, And at the Hermit's lonely cell,

Dost thou some crumbs of comfort find.

Nor are thy little wants forgot,

In Beggar's hut or Crispin's stall;

The Miser only feeds thee not,

Who suffers ne'er a crumb to fall.

The youth who strays, with dark design,
To make each well-stored nest a prey,

If dusky hues denote them thine

Will draw his pilfering hand away.

The Finch a spangled robe may wear,
The Nightingale delightful sing,
The Lark ascend most high in air,

The Swallow fly most swift on wing.

The Peacock's plumes in pride may swell,
The Parrot prate eternally;

But yet no bird man loves so well

As thee with thy simplicity.

JOHN JONES.

The Robin Redbreast, Sylvia Rubecula, on account of its extreme familiarity and its song, which it continues through the Winter, is a universal favourite. It seems to have little instinctive fear of man: it is the labourer and gardener's companion; it attends him at his work; hops around his feet, and almost under his spade, and collects the insects he turns up with much confidence. It even accompanies him at his meals, and picks up every crumb that falls, with apparent assurance of security. In the Winter, it enters our houses, and becomes as it were one of the family. Addison, in the Spectator, No. 85, attributes much of the respect paid to it, to the old ballad of "The Children in the Wood;" and hence Isaac Walton denominates it, "The Honest Robin, that loves mankind both dead and alive." Collins also introduces it in the Dirge in Cymbeline:

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss and gathered flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

Indeed most of our Poets have sung its praises, but none more pleasingly than the faithful old servant, John Jones.

CEDARS.

PLEASANT and fertile trees that bear,
What may both sight and taste invite,
And with the riches of the year,
All senses equally delight,
Exalt your humble tops, and join

With the proud cedars in this praise,
To celebrate the Power Divine ;

Who from the earth you both did raise.
That in this pious strife both win the field,
Cedars to shrubs, shrubs may to cedars yield.

THOMAS STANLEY, 1647.

APRIL.

I HAVE found violets. April hath come on,
And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain
Falls in the beaded drops of Summer time.
You may hear birds at morning, and at eve
The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls,
Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in
His beautiful bright neck, and from the hills
A murmur, like the hoarseness of the sea,
Tells the release of waters, and the earth
Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves
Are lifted by the grass-and so I know
That Nature, from her delicate ear, hath heard
The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring.

Smell at my Violets !-I found them where
The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank

That lean'd to running water.

There's to me

A daintiness about these early flowers

That touches one like poetry. They blow
With such a simple loveliness among

The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out
Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts
Whose beatings are too gentle for the world.

I love to go in the capricious days

Of April and hunt Violets; when the rain
Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod
So gracefully to the kisses of the wind.

may

It be deemed unmanly, but the wise
Read Nature like the manuscript of Heaven,
And call the flowers its poetry. Go out!
Ye spirits of habitual unrest,

And read it when the fever of the world
Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life
Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be
Like a beguiling music to its flow,

And you will no more wonder that I love
To hunt for Violets in the April time.

N. P. WILLIS.

NATIVE HOME.

UPON the Ganges' regal stream,
The sun's bright splendours rest,
And gorgeously the noon-tide beam
Reposes on its breast:

But in a small secluded nook,

Beyond the western sea,

There rippling glides a narrow brook,

That's dearer far to me.

Benares.

The Lory* perches on my hand,
Caressing to be fed,

And spreads its plumes at my command,
And stoops its purple head :-
But where the Robin, humble guest,
Comes flying from the tree
Which bears its unpretending nest,
Alas! I'd rather be.

The Fire-fly flashes through the sky,
A meteor rich and bright;
And the wide space around, on high,
Gleams with its emerald light:
Though glory tracks that shooting star,
And bright its splendours shine,
The glow-worm's lamp is dearer far
To this sad heart of mine.

Throughout the summer-year, the flowers
In all the flush of bloom,

Clustering around the forest bowers,

:

Exhale their rich perfume
The daisy, and the primrose pale,
Though scentless they may be,
That gem a far, far distant vale,
Are much more prized by me.

The Lotus opes its chalices,
Upon the tank's broad lake,
Where India's stately palaces
Their ample mirror's make :—
But reckless of each tower and dome,
The splendid and the grand,

I languish for a cottage home
Within my native land.

* A species of Paroquet.

MISS ROBERTS.