JAMES HOGG.

* * * * *

    A skylark wounded on the wing
    Doth make a cherub cease to sing.

    He who shall hurt a little wren
    Shall never be beloved by men.

W. BLAKE.

* * * * *

THE SWEET-VOICED QUIRE.

    Lord, should we oft forget to sing
      A thankful evening hymn of praise,
    This duty, they to mind might bring,
      Who chirp among the bushy sprays.

    For in their perches they retire,
      When first the twilight waxeth dim;
    And every night the sweet-voiced quire
      Shuts up the daylight with a hymn.

    Ten thousand fold more cause have we
      To close each day with praiseful voice,
    To offer thankful hearts to Thee,
      And in thy mercies to rejoice.

GEORGE WITHER, 1628.

* * * * *

A CAGED LARK.

A cruel deed
It is, sweet bird, to cage thee up
Prisoner for life, with just a cup
And a box of seed,
And sod to move on barely one foot square,
Hung o’er dark street, midst foul and murky air.

From freedom brought,
And robbed of every chance of wing,
Thou couldst have had no heart to sing,
One would have thought. 
But though thy song is sung, men little know
The yearning source from which those sweet notes flow.

Poor little bird! 
As often as I think of thee,
And how thou longest to be free,
My heart is stirred,
And, were my strength but equal to my rage,
Methinks thy cager would be in his cage.

The selfish man! 
To take thee from thy broader sphere,
Where thousands heard thy music clear,
On Nature’s plan;
And where the listening landscape far and wide
Had joy, and thou thy liberty beside.

A singing slave
Made now; with no return but food;
No mate to love, nor little brood
To feed and save;
No cool and leafy haunts; the cruel wires
Chafe thy young life and check thy just desires.

Brave little bird! 
Still striving with thy sweetest song
To melt the hearts that do thee wrong,
I give my word
To stand with those who for thy freedom fight,
Who claim for thee that freedom as thy right.

Chambers’s Journal.

* * * * *

THE WOODLARK.

    I have a friend across the street,
      We never yet exchanged a word,
    Yet dear to me his accents sweet—­
      I am a woman, he a bird.

    And here we twain in exile dwell,
      Far from our native woods and skies,
    And dewy lawns with healthful smell,
      Where daisies lift their laughing eyes.

    Never again from moss-built nest
      Shall the caged woodlark blithely soar;
    Never again the heath be pressed
      By foot of mine for evermore!