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ODE TO THE CUCKOO. Above the steeple shines a plate,

That turps and turns, to indicate
LOGAN.

From what point blows the weather : Hall, beauteous stranger of the grove!, , Look up

your braips begin to swim, Thou messenger of spring!

'Tis in the clouds—that pleases him, Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,

He chooses it the rather. And woods thy welcome sing.

Fond of the speculative height, What time the daisy decks the green,

Thither he wings his airy flight, Thy certain voice we hear ;

And thence securely sees Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

The bustle and the raree-show, Or mark the rolling year?

That occupy mankind below,

Secure and at his ease.
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,

You think, no doubt, be sits and muses And hear the sound of music sweet

On fature broken bones and bruises, From birds among the bowers.

If he should chance to fall.

No; not a single thought like that
The school-boy wandering thro' the wood Employs bis philosophic pate,
To pull the primrose gay,

Or troubles it at all.
Starts, the new voice of spring to bear,
And imitates thy lay.

He sees that this great round-abont

The world, with all its motley rout,
What time the pea puts on the bloom Church, army, physic, law,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

Its customs, and its businesses,
An annual guest in other lands,

Is, no concern at all of his, Another spring to hail.

And says—what says be ?-Caw.

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THE KITTEN.

Though ne'er a Madam of tbem all

Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
JOANNA BAILLIE.

More varied trick and whim displays, >

To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. WANTON drole, whose harinless play 3 Doth power in measur'ık verses dwelly : Y Begailes the rustic's closing day,

All thy vagaries wild to tell When drawn the evening fire about, Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound, Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout, The giddy scamper round and round, And child upon bis three-foot stool, With leap, and jerk, and high carvet, Waiting till his supper cool:

And many a wbirling somerset," And maid, wbose cheek outblooms the rose, (Permitted be the modern muse As bright the blazing faggot glows,

Expression technical to use)
Who, bending to the friendly light, :, These mock the deftliest rhymester's skill,
Plies ber task with busy sleight;

But poor in art, though rich in will.
Come, shew thy tricks and sportive graces
Thus circled round with merry faces. The nimblest tumbler, stage bedight,

To thee is but a clumsy wight, Backward, coiled, and crouching low, Who every limb and sinew strains With glaring eye-balls watch thy foe, To do what costs thee little pains, The housewife's spindle whirling round, For which, I trow, the gaping crowd Or thread, or straw, that on the ground Requites him oft with plaudits loud. Its shadow throws, by urchin sly

But, stopped awhile tby wanton play, Held out to lure thy roving eye ;

Applauses too, thy feats repay, Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring For then, beneath some urchin's hand, Upon the futile, faithless thing.

With modest pride thou takest thy stand, Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill, While many a stroke of fondness glides Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, Along thy back and tabby sides; As oft beyond thy curving side

Dilated swells thy glossy fur, Its jetty tip is seen to glide;

And loudly sings thy busy purr; Till, from thy centre, starting far,

As, timing well the equal sound, Thou sidelong rear'st, with tail in air, Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, Erected stiff, and gait awry,

And all their harmless claws disclose, Like Madam in her tantrums high ; Like prickles of an early rose ;

While softly from thy whiskered cheek Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.

But not alone, by cottage fire, Do rustics rude, thy tricks admire;The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or, with unfettered fan fty Through airy heights of poesy, Pausing, smiles, with altered air, To see thee climb his elbow-chair, Or, struggling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slippered toe, The widowed dame, or lonely maid, Who in the still, but cheerless shade Of home unsocial, spends her age, And rarely turns a lettered page; Upon her hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork, or paper ball, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch The ends of ravelled skein to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her sober skill. Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, In lonely tower or prison pent, Reviews the wit of former days, And loathes the world and all its ways;. What time the lamp's unsteady gleam Doth rouse him from his moody dream, Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat, His heart with pride less fiercely beat, And smiles, a link in thee to find That joins him still to living kind.

Whence hast thon then? thon witless puss, The magic power to charm us thus ? Is it, that in thy glaring eye, And rapid movements, we descry, While we at ease, secure from ill, The chimney corner snugly hill, A lion, darting on his prey ? A tiger, at his rathless play? Or, is it, that in thee we trace With all thy varied wanton grace, An emblem, viewed with kindred eye, Of tricksy, restless infancy? Ah! many a lightly-sportive child, Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled, To dull and sober manhood grown, With strange recoil our hearts disown. Even so, poor Kit ! must thou endure, When thou becom'st a cat demure, Full many a cuff and angry word, Chid roughly from the tempting board, And yet, for that thou hast, I ween, So oft our favorite playmate been, Soft be the change which thou shalt prove, When time hath spoiled thee of our love; Still be thou deemed, by housewife fat, A comely, careful, mousing cat, Whose dish is, for the public good, Replenish'd oft with savoury food. Nor, when thy span of life be past, Be thou to pond or dunghill cast; Bat gently borne on good man's spade, Beneath the decent sod be laid, And children show, with glistening eyes, The place where poor old Pussy lies.

LAMBS AT PLAY.

BLOOMFIELD.

SAY, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen
Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enlivening green,
Say, did you give the thrilling transport way?
Did your eye brighten, when young lambs, at play,
Leaped o'er your path with animated pride,
Or gazed in merry clusters by your side ?
Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace,
At the arch meaning of a kitien's face,
If spotless innocence, and infant mirth
Excite to praise or give reflection birido

In shades like these pursue your favourite joy,
'Midst nature's revel, sports that never cloy.--
A few begin a short but vigorous race,
And indolence, abashed, soou tlies the place:
Thus challeng'd forth, see thither, one by one
From every side assembling playmates run;
A thousand wily antics mark their stay,
A starting crowd impatient of delay.
Like the fond dove froin fearful prison freed,
Each seems to say, “Come, let us try our speed :"
Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong,
The green turf trembling as they bound along;
Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb,
V here every molehill is a bed of thyme;
There panting stop, yet scarcely can refrain
A bird, a leaf will set them off again,
Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow,
Scattering the wild-briar roses into snow,
Their little limbs increasing efforts try,
Like the torn flower the fair assemblage tly.
Ah, fallen rose ! sad emblem of their doom ;
Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom !

THE HORSE.

But neighs to the shrill trumpet's dreadful

blast, YOUNG.

Till death, and when he groars, he groans

his last ! SURVRY the warlike horse! didst thou in

vest With thunder his robus', distended chest ?

THE LION. No sense of fear his dauntless soul allays;

YOUNG Tis dreadful to behold his nostrils blaze : To paw the vale he proudly takes delight, Fierce o'er the sands the lordly Lion stalks, And triumphs in the fulness of his might; Grimly majestic in his lonely walks : High-rais’d, he snuffs the battle from afar, When round he glares, all living creatures And burns to plunge amid the raging war: fly; He mocks at death, and throws his foam He clears the desert with his rolling eye, around,

By the pale moon he takes his destin'd round, And in a storm of fury shakes the ground. Lashes his sides, and furious tears the ground. How does his firm, his rising heart, advance Now shrieks and dying groans the forest fill, Full on the brandish'd sword, and shaken He rages, rends, his rav’nous jaws distil lance;

With crimson foam, and when the banquet's While his fix'd eye-balls meet the dazzling o'er, shield,

He strides away, and paints his steps with Gaze, and return the lightning of the field!

gore. He sinks the sense of pain in gen'rous pride, In fiight alone, the shepherd puts his trust, Nor feels the shaft that trembles in his side; And shudders at the talon in the dust.

While softly from thy whiskered cheek Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.

But not alone, by cottage fire, Do rustics rude, thy tricks admire; The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or, with unfettered fancy, fly Through airy heights of poesy, Pausing, smiles, with altered air, To see thee climb his elbow-chair, Or, struggling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slippered toe, The widowed dame, or lonely maid, Who in the still, but cheerless shade Of home unsocial, spends her age, And rarely turns a lettered page; Upon her hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork, or paper ball, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch The ends of ravelled skein to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her sober skill. Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, In lonely tower or prison pent, Reviews the wit of former days, And loathes the world and all its ways; What time the lamp's unsteady gleam Doth rouse him from his moody dream, Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat, His heart with pride less fiercely beat, And smiles, a link in thee to find That joins him still to living kind.

Whence hast thoa then? thou witless puss,
The magic power to charm us thus ?
Is it, that in thy glaring eye,
And rapid movements, we descry,
While we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney corner snugly hill,
A lion, darting on his prey ?
A tiger, at his rathless play?
Or, is it, that in thee we trace
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem, viewed with kindred eye,
Of tricksy, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly-sportive child,
Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown,
Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,
When thou becom'st a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chid roughly from the tempting board,
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favorite playmate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove,
When time hath spoiled thee of our love;
Still be thon deemed, by bousewife fat,
A comely, careful, mousing cat,
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenish'd oft with savoury food.
Nor, when thy span of life be past,
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast;
But gently borne on good man's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid,
And children show, with glistening eyes,
The place where poor old Pussy lies.

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LAMBS AT PLAY.

BLOOMFIELD.

SAY, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen
Spring's morning smiles, and soul.enlivening green,
Say, did you give the thrilling transport way?
Did your eye brighten, when young lambs, at play,
Leaped o'er your path with animated pride,
Or gazed in merry clusters by your side ?
Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace,
At the arch meaning of a kitien's face,
If spotless innocence, and infant mirth
Excite to praise or give reflection birth

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