GRAHAME.

HE little woodland dwarf, the tiny Wren,
That from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear.
Of stature most diminutive herself,

Not so her wondrous house; for, strange to
tell!

Her's is the largest structure that is formed

By tuneful bill and breast. 'Neath some old root,
From which the sloping soil, by wintry rains,
Has been all worn away, she fixes up
Her curious dwelling, close, and vaulted o'er,
And in the side a little gateway porch,

In which (for I have seen) she'll sit and pipe
A merry stave of her shrill roundelay.
Nor always does a single gate suffice
For exit, and for entrance to her dome;
For when (as sometimes haps) within a bush
She builds the artful fabric, then each side
Has its own portico. But, mark within!
How skilfully the finest plumes and downs
Are softly warped; how closely all around
The outer layers of moss! each circumstance
Most artfully contrived to favour warmth !

Here read the reason of the vaulted roof;
Here Providence compensates, ever kind,
The enormous disproportion that subsists
Between the mother and the numerous brood,
Which her small bulk must quicken into life.
Fifteen white spherules, small as moorland hare-bell,
And prettily bespecked like fox-glove flower,
Complete her number. Twice five days she sits,
Fed by her partner, never flitting off,

Save when the morning sun is high, to drink

A dewdrop from the nearest flowret cup.

But now behold the greatest of this train
Of miracles, stupendously minute;
The numerous progeny, clamant for food,
Supplied by two small bills, and feeble wings
Of narrow range; supplied, ay, duly fed,
Fed in the dark, and yet not one forgot!