Like an unfledged hungry _bird_, that in its nest Hears its returning mother flap her wings, Circling around when some choice food she brings; The nestling’s love for both is then exprest-- It strives to reach the food and be carest, And rustles to begin its wanderings, And thanks her with unwonted chiruppings, In notes that seem too sweet for its young breast:-- So do I feel whene’er the brilliant light Of the almighty sun to which I gaze, Cheers with unusual warmth my fainting soul; Urged by internal love to bless and praise, I take the pen, with joy beyond controul, And fluttering, praise my God with all my might. _Vittoria Colonna._ Beautiful _birds_ of lightsome wing, Bright creatures that come with the voice of spring; We see you arrayed in the hues of the morn, Yet ye dream not of pride, and ye wist not of scorn, Though rainbow splendour around you glows, Ye vaunt not the beauty which nature bestows: Oh! what a lesson for glory are ye, How ye preach the grace of humility. Swift _birds_ that skim o’er the stormy deep, Who steadily onward your journey keep, Who neither for rest nor for slumber stay, But press still forward, by night or day-- As on your unwearying course ye fly, Beneath the clear and unclouded sky; Oh! may we, without delay, like you, The path of duty and right pursue. Sweet _birds_ that breathe the spirit of song, And surround heaven’s gate in melodious throng; Who rise with the earliest beams of day, Your morning tribute of thanks to pay, You remind me that we should likewise raise The voice of devotion, and song of praise; There’s something about you that points on high, Ye beautiful tenants of earth and sky. _C. W. Thompson._ _Birds_, joyous _birds_, of the wandering wing! Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? --“We come from the shores of the green old Nile, From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, From the myrrh trees of glowing Araby. A change we have found, and many a change! Faces, and footsteps, and all things strange! Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, And the young that were have a brow of care, And the place is hushed where the children played-- Nought looks the same, save the nests we made!” Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, _Birds_ that o’ersweep it in power and mirth! Yet through the wastes of the trackless air _Ye_ have a guide, and shall _we_ despair? _Ye_ over desert and deep have passed-- So shall _we_ reach our bright home at last. _Mrs. Hemans._