And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings! 
      He, too, is no mean preacher: 
    Come forth into the light of things,
      Let Nature be your teacher.

    Sweet is the love which Nature brings: 
      Our meddling intellect
    Misshapes the beauteous forms of things: 
      We murder to dissect.

    Enough of Science and of Art: 
      Close up these barren leaves: 
    Come forth, and bring with you a heart
      That watches and receives.

W. WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

THE PARROT.

A TRUE STORY.

    The deep affections of the breast
      That heaven to living things imparts,
    Are not exclusively possessed
          By human hearts.

    A Parrot, from the Spanish main,
      Full young and early caged came o’er,
    With bright wings, to the bleak domain
          Of Mulla’s shore.

    To spicy groves where he had won
      His plumage of resplendent hue,
    His native fruits, and skies, and sun,
          He bade adieu.

    For these he changed the smoke of turf,
      A heathery land and misty sky,
    And turned on rocks and raging surf
          His golden eye.

    But petted in our climate cold,
      He lived and chattered many a day: 
    Until with age, from green and gold
          His wings grew gray.

    At last when blind, and seeming dumb,
      He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more,
    A Spanish stranger chanced to come
          To Mulla’s shore;

    He hailed the bird in Spanish speech,
      The bird in Spanish speech replied;
    Flapped round the cage with joyous screech,
          Dropt down, and died.

T. CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

THE COMMON QUESTION.

    Behind us at our evening meal
      The gray bird ate his fill,
    Swung downward by a single claw,
      And wiped his hooked bill.

    He shook his wings and crimson tail,
      And set his head aslant,
    And, in his sharp, impatient way,
      Asked, “What does Charlie want?”

    “Fie, silly bird!” I answered, “tuck
      Your head beneath your wing,
    And go to sleep;”—­but o’er and o’er
      He asked the selfsame thing.

    Then, smiling, to myself I said:—­How
      like are men and birds! 
    We all are saying what he says,
      In actions or in words.

    The boy with whip and top and drum,
      The girl with hoop and doll,
    And men with lands and houses, ask
      The question of Poor Poll.

    However full, with something more
      We fain the bag would cram;
    We sigh above our crowded nets
      For fish that never swam.

    No bounty of indulgent Heaven
      The vague desire can stay;
    Self-love is still a Tartar mill
      For grinding prayers alway.