wings;
  The stones in showers behind it convulsively it flings;
  Onward, and ever onward,—­the fleetest horses tire,—­
  But its strength grows less and less, their tramping ever nigher. 
  The poor distracted thing! it feels its lonely birth;
  It may not rise to heaven, so it cometh to the earth;
  To the earth, as to a mother, since to the earth it must,—­
  Its head in her bosom nestled, its eye veiled with her dust. 
  But she will not receive it.  From earth and heaven outcast,
  The Ostrich dies, as it lived, unfriended to the last.

    Of the wild and wayward Ostrich, say, have ye never heard? 
  Of the poor, distracted, lonely, outcast, and wandering bird?

    But not alone it wandereth.  My spirit stirs in me,
  With a sort of half-fraternal and drawing sympathy;
  This lonely, restless spirit, that would rise from the heavy ground
  To the sky of light and love that stretcheth all around. 
  But, with all its restless longings, it too must earth-bound stay,
  And, with wings half formed for soaring, here hold its weary way,
  Hungering for food of heaven, feeding on dust and stone,
  While about it lie unheeded, as it hasteth on alone,
  Its deeds of good or evil, a fruitful mystery;
  But it presseth on, nor recketh what their event may be. 
  And when doubt and fear assail it, it may not rise above
  To the glorious, peaceful height of fear-outcasting love;
  But something draws it downward, breathes of its lower birth,
  Prompts it to seek a refuge in the blindness of the earth. 
  And it hides its head in earthliness; at least it will not see
  The blow it cannot ward off; and the foe it may not flee. 
  But something softly whispers that these wings shall grow to soar—­
  Heaven grant!—­in the cloudless depths of love for evermore. 
  It whispers that again these blinded eyes shall see;
  Heaven grant in their yearning gaze the long-sought home may be! 
  It whispers each word and act shall to fruition spring;
  Heaven grant they may joy to man, and peace to the spirit bring!

    Of the wild and wandering Ostrich, say, have ye never heard? 
  The type of the restless soul of man, the weary, wingless bird.

COWS.

I admire cows in their proper places.  They are undoubtedly useful animals; some may think them handsome and graceful:  this is, as yet, an unsettled question.  They certainly figure pretty extensively in all sketches of rural scenery, and may, therefore, be considered as picturesque objects; but I think that on canvas they take to themselves beauties which they do not possess in actual life.  I do not object to see them at a distance, quietly grazing in a meadow by the brink of a winding stream, and all that sort of thing, provided the distance is very great, and a strong fence intervenes.  For I would have you know, that I am a delicate young lady of nervous temperament