How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Skimming about on the breezy sea,
Cresting the billows like silvery foam,
Then wheeling away to its cliff-built home! 
What joy it must be to sail, upborne,
By a strong free wing, through the rosy morn,
To meet the young sun, face to face,
And pierce, like a shaft, the boundless space!

To pass through the bowers of the silver cloud;
To sing in the thunder hall aloud;
To spread out the wings for a wild, free flight
With the upper cloud-wings,—­oh, what delight! 
Oh, what would I give, like a bird, to go,
Right on through the arch of the sun-lit bow,
And see how the water-drops are kissed
Into green and yellow and amethyst.

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Wherever it listeth, there to flee;
To go, when a joyful fancy calls,
Dashing down ’mong the waterfalls;
Then wheeling about, with its mate at play,
Above and below, and among the spray,
Hither and thither, with screams as wild
As the laughing mirth of a rosy child.

What joy it must be, like a living breeze,
To flutter about ’mid the flowering trees;

Lightly to soar, and to see beneath,
The wastes of the blossoming purple heath,
And the yellow furze, like fields of gold,
That gladdened some fairy region old! 
On the mountain tops, on the billowy sea,
On the leafy stems of a forest tree,
How pleasant the life of a bird must be!

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

“Will you walk into my parlor?”
  Said a spider to a fly;
“’Tis the prettiest little parlor
  That ever you did spy. 
The way into my parlor
  Is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things
  To show you when you’re there.” 
“O no, no,” said the little fly,
  “To ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair
  Can ne’er come down again.”

“I’m sure you must be weary
  With soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?”
  Said the spider to the fly. 
“There are pretty curtains drawn around;
  The sheets are fine and thin;
And if you like to rest awhile,
  I’ll snugly tuck you in.” 
“O no, no,” said the little fly,
  “For I’ve often heard it said
They never, never wake again,
  Who sleep upon your bed.”

Said the cunning spider to the fly,
  “Dear friend, what shall I do
To prove the warm affection
  I’ve always felt for you? 
I have, within my pantry,
  Good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome—­
  Will you please to take a slice?”
“O no, no,” said the little fly,
  “Kind sir, that cannot be;
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry,
  And I do not wish to see.”