In his mantle,—­wound about him,
      As their robes the sowers wind,—­
    Bore he swallows and their fledglings,
      Flowers and weeds of every kind.

    And so stands he calm and child-like,
      High in wind and tempest wild;
    Oh, were I like him exalted,
      I would be like him, a child!

    And my songs,—­green leaves and blossoms,—­
      To the doors of heaven would bear,
    Calling, even in storm and tempest,
      Round me still these birds of air.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE BIRD LET LOOSE.

    The bird let loose in eastern skies,
      When hastening fondly home,
    Ne’er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
      Where idle warblers roam;

    But high she shoots through air and light,
      Above all low delay,
    Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
      Nor shadow dims her way.

    So grant me, God, from every care
      And stain of passion free,
    Aloft, through Virtue’s purer air,
      To hold my course to thee!

    No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
      My soul, as home she springs;—­
    Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
      Thy freedom in her wings!

T. MOORE.

* * * * *

THE BROWN THRUSH.

    There’s a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree. 
      “He’s singing to me!  He’s singing to me!”
    And what does he say, little girl, little boy? 
      “Oh, the world’s running over with joy! 
        Don’t you hear?  Don’t you see? 
          Hush!  Look!  In my tree
    I’m as happy as happy can be!”

    And the brown thrush keeps singing, “A nest do you see,
      And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree? 
    Don’t meddle! don’t touch! little girl, little boy,
      Or the world will lose some of its joy! 
        Now I’m glad! now I’m free! 
          And always shall be,
    If you never bring sorrow to me.”

    So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
      To you and to me, to you and to me;
    And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
      “Oh, the world’s running over with joy! 
        Don’t you know? don’t you see? 
          But long it won’t be,
    Unless we are as good as can be?”

LUCY LARCOM.

* * * * *

THE GOLDEN-CROWNED THRUSH.

    In the hot midsummer noontide,
      When all other birds are sleeping,
    Still one in the silent forest,
      Like a sentry, watch in keeping,
        Singing in the pine-tops spicy: 
      “I see, I see, I SEE, I SEE.”

    No one ever sees you, atom! 
      You are hidden too securely. 
    I have sought for hours to find you. 
      It is but to tease us, surely,
        That you sing in pine-tops spicy: 
      “I see, I see, I SEE, I SEE.”