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The lambs like snow all nibbling go upon the ferny hills, The gladsome voice of gushing streams the leafy forest fills, Then welcome, little swallow, by our morning lattice heard, Because thou com’st when nature bids bright days be thy re

ward. Thine be sweet mornings with the bee that's out for honey

dew, And glowing be the noontide for the grasshopper and you: And mellow shine, o'er day's decline, the sun to light thee home, What can molest thy airy nest? sleep till the day-spring come. The river blue that rushes through the valley hears thee sing, It murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light dipping wing; The thunder-cloud above us bow'd in deeper gloom is seen, When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen. Che silent power that brought thee back, with leading strings

of love, To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above, Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves, For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee

in our eves.

Oh! all thy life’s one pleasant hymn to God who sits on high,
And gives to thee o'er land and sea the sunshine of his sky

the summer shall come round because it is his word, And aye will welcome back again its little travelling bird.

Thomas Aird. 1. When does the swallow arrive in our 10. Repeat the kind wishes of the poet country?

in verse 3d. 2. How long does she remain with us? 11. Show me that the two last lines of 3. Where is she supposed to winter ? verse 4th are true. 4. Where does she build her nest?

12. Does not the swallow come here to 5. What constitutes her food ?

build a nest, and rear its young? 6. Why do we hear her twittering with 13. Is it true that each bird comes back gladness?

to its own nest? 7. What takes this sweet bird away on 14. Why are we sure that summer and its travels ?

winter, seed-time and harvest shall al. 8. When are lambs seen on the hills ?

ways be ? 9, Describe the appearance of nature 15. If this little "travelling bird" is generally, at the time of the swallow's watched over by God, need we despair? arrival here.

XII.-LESSONS TO BE DERIVED FROM BIRDS. The swan which is domesticated is termed the Mute Swan (Cygnus olor); yet it is respecting this bird that the fable became current, that it foretold its own death, and sung with peculiar sweetness at its approach. Thus Shakspeare :

And die in music.

"I wlil play the swan,

But, although the voice of the swan is but little noticed, the bird is not really mute,
as its name would imply; the notes are soft and low, and are described by Yarrelí
as “plaintive, and with little variety, but not disagreeable.” Among the many
strange creatures which New Holland has sent to us, are Black Swans; these are
now distributed over many parts of these kingdoms where aquatic menageries are
established, and form, by their dusky hue, a striking contrast to the snowy tint of
their congeners.
What is that, mother?

The lark my child !
The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child ! be thy morn's first lays

Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.
What is that, mother?

The dove, my son!
And that lo sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her constant dear one's quick return.

Ever, my son, be thou like the dove

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.
What is that, mother?

The eagle, boy!
Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying.
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.

Boy! may the eagle's flight ever be thine,

Onward and upward, true to the line.
What is that, mother?

The swan, my love!
He is floating down from his native grove;
No loved one, now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

G. W. Doane.

1. Where does the lark build its nest ? 12. Where builds he his nest? 2. What song-bird flies highest ?

13, Can he look steadily on the sun ? 3. What does he do the moment he 14. Describe him in his flight, leaves his nest ?

15. What lesson does the eagle give you 4. In what way should each of you imi- all ? tate the lark?

16. What bird is said to sing for the 5. Has not the dove been ever regarded first time just before its death ? by mankind as the emblem of fidelity and 17. What does Mr. Yarrell say about purity of heart ?


swan singing ? 6. Who will quote to me Matt. x. 16. ? 18. What is the colour of swans in this

7. What does the low sweet voice of the part of the world ? dove resemble ?

19. What about the swans of New Hol. 8. For whom is she ever calling? land ?

9. What lesson should you all learn 20. What do you understand by "dying from the dove ?

like the swan" ? 10. Name to me the king of birds.

21. Who only can use the triumphant 11. Does he dread the storm and the words of 1 Cor. xv. 55, at their death? thunderbolt ?


“Our island is well situated for observing the phenomena of migration, which, viewed from it, may be likened to a tide-stream, flowing north-wards in spring, with a southern reflux in autumn. We may say, indeed, that our island is an Africa to the wild fowl of the Arctic regions, and an Arctic breeding-place to the swallow, which winters in Africa. Let us paint a summer in the Arctic regions. It is very short, but short as it is, it sees the birth of thousands of most interesting beings, and every islet and every promontory is thronged by a dense population. As if by magic, the snows of winter have dissolved, and coarse herbage has covered the land. Every small pool, every lake, every inlet, is garlanded with vegetation. Driving onwards from the south, (our temperate latitudes,) arrive myriads of wild-fowl, water birds of various species, scoter ducks, widgeons, eider ducks, king ducks, pochards, etc., and also several species of wading birds. The work of incubation now commences. The ground is converted into a city of nests, rarely intruded upon by the foot of man. Here myriads of wild fowl are reared. The water supplies them with food, and the reeds bend over their nests. But the summer is, as we have said, short. It passes not into winter by the transition of a mellowed autumn. As it sprang almost of a sudden out of winter, so it retires; but the wild birds, instinct-taught, anticipate the time when river and lake, pond and inlet, will be locked up with ice. Their young are fledged, strong on the wing, and now they commence their southern journey, not to seek a breeding home, but open lakes, open creeks, and seas wherein the ice-floe is never witnessed, and from which they may derive their sustenance.”- Tract 80ciety's Monthly Volume.

WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way.

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean's side ?

There is a power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-
The desert and illimitable air-

Lone-wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere :
Yet, stoop not, weary, to the welcome land

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end ;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest;
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given

And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright. Bryant. 1. Our island-what island?

11. The rosy depths of what? 2. In what direction does the tide stream 12. Could a fowler injure it;-and why of migration flow in spring.

not? 3. How does it flow in autumn ?

13. Name the places it might be seeking 4. To what birds is Great Britain an for its nest. Africa or warm region ?

14. What call you the principle which 5. Where does the swallow winter? guides the actions of irrational creatures ?

6. Does summer come suddenly in the 15. What does the adjective weary agree Arctic regions ?

with? 7. Name birds that now come flocking 16. Where would the waterfowl find rest? from the south?

17. Explain these words “the abyss of 8. Does winter in northern regions come heaven hath swallowed up thy form." in suddenly or by degrees ?

18. What important lesson had the poet 9. Where do the wild-fowl then go, and learned from the wild-fowl? for what purpose ?

19. To whom mustwe look, to be brought 10. What time in the day did the poet safely to the end of the journey of life? see this waterfowl ?


"ONE of the most pleasing characteristics of this writer's works is their intense hu. manity. A man's heart beats in his every line. His writings all

take a sober colour from the eye,

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality." He loves, pities, and feels with, as well as for, his fellow “human mortal.” Hence his writing is blood-warm. He is a brother, speaking to men as brothers, and as brothers are they responding to his voice. Byron addressed men as reptiles or fiends; Wordsworth and others soliloquise, careless whither their voices be listened to or

not. But po poet can be loved, as well as admired, who does not speak from the broad level of humanity.

Besides this quality of generous, genial manhood, LONGFELLOW is distinguished by a mild religious earnestness. We do not vouch for the orthodoxy of his creed, but we do vouch for the fine Christianity of his spirit. No poet has more beautifully expres. sed the depth of his conviction, that life is an earnest reality, a something with eter. nal issues and dependencies; that this earth is no scene of revelry, or market of sale, but an arena of contest, and a hall of doom. This is the inspiration of his Psalm of Life, than which we have few things fiber, in moral tone, since those odes by wbich the millions of Israel tuned their march across the wilderness, and to which the fiery pillar seemed to listen with complacency, and to glow out a deeper crimson in silent praise. To man's now wilder, more straggling, but still God-guided and hope ful progress towards a land of fairer promise, LONGFELLOW'S Psalm is a noble accompaniment. Ear'nest, adj.

Biv'ou-ac, n.
Goal, n.

Main, n.
Fleet'ing, part.

For-lorn', adj.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,

“Life is but an empty dream !"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal ;
“ Dust thou art, to dust returnest”

Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow

Js our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day,
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act--act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

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