Light of Asia.

* * * * *

THE STORMY PETREL.

    A thousand miles from land are we,
    Tossing about on the roaring sea—­
    From billow to bounding billow cast,
    Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. 
    The sails are scattered abroad like weeds;
    The strong masts shake like quivering reeds;
    The mighty cables and iron chains;
    The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,—­
    They strain and they crack; and hearts like stone
    Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.

    Up and down!—­up and down! 
    From the base of the wave to the billow’s crown,
    And amid the flashing and feathery foam,
    The stormy petrel finds a home. 
    A home, if such a place may be
    For her who lives on the wide, wide sea,
    On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,
    And only seeketh her rocky lair
    To warm her young, and to teach them to spring
    At once o’er the waves on their stormy wing!

    O’er the deep!—­o’er the deep! 
    Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep—­
    Outflying the blast and the driving rain,
    The petrel telleth her tale—­in vain;
    For the mariner curseth the warning bird
    Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard! 
    Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill
    Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still;
    Yet he ne’er falters—­so, petrel, spring
    Once more o’er the waves on thy stormy wing!

BARRY CORNWALL.

* * * * *

TO THE CUCKOO.

    Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! 
      Thou messenger of Spring! 
    Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
      And woods thy welcome sing.

    What time the pea puts on the bloom,
      Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
    An annual guest in other lands
      Another Spring to hail.

    Delightful visitant! with thee
      I hail the time of flowers,
    And hear the sound of music sweet
      From birds among the bowers.

    Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
      Thy sky is ever clear;
    Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
      No Winter in thy year!

    Oh, could I fly, I’d fly with thee! 
      We’d make, with joyful wing,
    Our annual visit o’er the globe,
      Attendants on the Spring.

JOHN LOGAN.

* * * * *

BIRDS AT DAWN.

    The beautiful day is breaking,
      The first faint line of light
      Parts the shadows of the night,
    And a thousand birds are waking. 
    I hear the Hairbird’s slender trill,—­
    So fine and perfect it doth fill
    The whole sweet silence with its thrill.