Upon the elm-tree's lofty bough The oriole serenely sings, While from a puerile branch below His loved one in her castle swings: And in the flower-enamelled leas, Where alders grace the streamlet's brink, I hear the charming melodies Of many a sweet-voiced bobolink. And from yon wildwood's emerald crown Come oft, in notes of heavenly tone, The hymns of thrushes, "wood," and "brown," And warbling throats to me unknown. Bird-notes are all so rich and clear, It seems as though their vocal powers Were borrowed from some higher sphere Than this discordant world of ours. Nor is their magic gift of song The only charm they o'er me throw; They ne'er the poor and helpless wrong, Nor swell the tide of human woe. Their voice is ne'er with slander fraught, Or friendships in misfortune change, Nor speech or deed betrayeth aught Of av'rice, hatred, and revenge. They seek not, with malicious tongue, To stir the bosom with mistrust, By telling what 's been said and sung, How all our faults have been discussed; Till Jealousy within awakes, And Love with doubt is much annoyed, The golden clasp of Friendship breaks, And peace of families destroyed. No rival's fame they derogate, A brother falsely charge with sin, Hoping thereby to elevate Their name above more worthy kin: They seem not e'er to envy those Whose brilliant plumes their own outshine, Or to rejoice at others' woes Whose powers of song are more divine. Nor have their hearts the cruel pride O'er humbler garbs and gifts to sneer; The lame, their hapless fate deride, Or o'er the weak to domineer. No bitter taunt, unfeeling jest, The boast of pow'r, wealth, rank, or birth, E'er flow from soaring warbler's breast, To wound the heart of lowly worth. Nor do they play the hypocrite With faithful, fond, confiding friends, Looks, manners, language counterfeit, To gain ignobly selfish ends. No word or act their aim belies, Or yield they e'er to sin's control, And sell, for worldly merchandise, The jewels of a virtuous soul. * * * * * A MOTHER'S LOVE. TO A YOUNG FRIEND. BY MARY NEAL. THY heart is young and light, maiden; Thy sunny brow is fair; For Love, and Joy, and Hope now weave Life's brightest sunbeams there. Brothers and sisters turn to bless Thy ever-welcome form, And a father's arm is near to shield Thee from life's lightest storm. But more, still more than this, maiden-- A mother's heart is near, To watch thy fair cheek, pale or flush-- To note each starting tear-- To gaze upon thy happy face, And pray that thy young heart May long be spared the bitter woe From cherished friends to part.