WARING.

H! fair befal thee, gay Fauvette, With trilling song and crown of jet ; Thy pleasant notes with joy I hail, Floating on the vernal gale. Far hast thou flown on downy wing, To be our guest in early Spring: In that first dawning of the year, Pouring a strain as rich and clear As is the Blackbird's mellow lay, In later hours of flowery May. While April skies to grove and field, Alternate shade and sunshine yield, I hear thy wild and joyous strain, And give thee welcome once again. Come, build within my hawthorn bower, And shade thy nurslings with its flower; Or where my wreathed woodbines twine, Make there a home for thee and thine. Now fair befal thee, gay Fauvette, With trilling song and crown of jet !

WILLIAM HOWITT.

OME

ye,

come ye, to the green, green wood,

Loudly the Blackbird is singing;

The Squirrel is feasting on blossom and bud,
And the curled fern is springing.

Here you may sleep, in the wood so deep,

When the moon is se wan and so weary,

And sweetly awake, when the sun through the brake
Bids the Fauvet and Whitethroat sing cheery.

BISHOP MANT.

AIN, 'mid the hawthorn's budding boughs,
Or where the dark green ivy shows
Its purple fruit the foliage through,

Would I the early Blackcap view;
With sable cowl, and amice grey,
Arrived from regions far away;

Like palmer from some sainted shrine,
Or holy hills of Palestine :

And hear his desultory bill

Such notes of varying cadence trill,
That mimic art, that quavered strain,

May strive to match, but strive in vain.

JOHN CLARE.

THE PETTYCHAP'S NEST.

ELL! in my many walks I've rarely found
A place less likely for a bird to form

Its nest-close by the rut-gulled waggon road,
And on the almost bare foot-trodden ground,
With scarce a clump of grass to keep it warm!
Where not a thistle spreads its spears abroad,
Or prickly bush, to shield it from harm's way;
And yet so snugly made, that none may spy
It out, save peradventure. You and I
Had surely passed it in our walk to-day,
Had chance not led us by it !-Nay, e'en now,
Had not the old bird heard us trampling by,
And fluttered out, we had not seen it lie,
Brown as the road-way side. Small bits of hay
Plucked from the old propt haystack's bleachy brow,
And withered leaves, make up its outward wall,
Which from the gnarl'd oak-dotterel yearly fall,
And in the old hedge-bottom rot away.
Built like an oven, through a little hole,
Scarcely admitting e'en two fingers in,
Hard to discern, the birds snug entrance win.
'Tis lined with feathers warm as silken stole,
Softer than seats of down for painless ease,

And full of eggs scarce bigger e'en than peas!
Here's one most delicate, with spots as small
As dust, and of a faint and pinky red.
-Stop! here's the bird-that woodman at the gap
Frightened him from the hedge :-'tis olive-green.
Well! I declare it is the Pettychap!

Not bigger than the wren, and seldom seen.
I've often found her nest in chance's way,

When I in pathless woods did idly roam;
But never did I dream until to-day

A

spot like this would be her chosen home.