HARRIET E. PAINE:  Bird Songs of New England.

* * * * *

THE THRUSH.

      Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt
    Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig
    A thrush resorts, and annually chants,
    At morn and evening from that naked perch,
    While all the undergrove is thick with leaves,
    A time-beguiling ditty, for delight
    Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. 
      “Ah why,” said Ellen, sighing to herself,
    “Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge,
    And nature that is kind in woman’s breast,
    And reason that in man is wise and good,
    And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge,—­
    Why do not these prevail for human life,
    To keep two hearts together, that began
    Their spring-time with one love, and that have need
    Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet
    To grant, or be received; while that poor bird,—­
    Oh come and hear him!  Thou who hast to me
    Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature,
    One of God’s simple children that yet know not
    The universal Parent, how he sings
    As if he wished the firmament of heaven
    Should listen, and give back to him the voice
    Of his triumphant constancy and love;
    The proclamation that he makes, how far
    His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!”

WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

THE AZIOLA.

    “Do you not hear the Aziola cry? 
      Methinks she must be nigh,”
      Said Mary, as we sate
    In dusk, ere stars were lit or candles brought,
      And I, who thought,
    This Aziola was some tedious woman,
      Asked, “Who is Aziola?” How elate
    I felt to know that it was nothing human,
      No mockery of myself to fear or hate;
        And Mary saw my soul,
    And laughed and said, “Disquiet yourself not,
      ’Tis nothing but a little downy owl.”

    Sad Aziola! many an eventide
      Thy music I had heard
    By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side,
      And fields and marshes wide,
    Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird,
      The soul ever stirred;
    Unlike and far sweeter than them all. 
      Sad Aziola! from that moment I
    Loved thee and thy sad cry.

SHELLEY.

* * * * *

THE MARTEN.

                      This guest of summer,
    The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
    By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath
    Smells wooingly here.  No jutty, frieze,
    Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird
    Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle. 
    Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed
    The air is delicate.

Macbeth, Act 1, Sc. 6.