purveyance, how heartless should I be, how careful; how little list should I have to make music to thee or myself. Surely thou comest not hither without a Providence. God sent thee not so much to delight, as to shame me, but all in a conviction of my sullen unbelief, who, under more apparent means, am less cheerful and confident; reason and faith have not done so much in me, as in thee mere instinct of nature; want of foresight makes thee more merry, if not more happy here, than the foresight of better things maketh me.

O God, thy providence is not impaired by those powers thou hast given me above these brute things; let not my greater helps hinder me from a holy security and comfortable reliance on thee!

BISHOP HALL, 1574-1656.

THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

FROM THE SWEDISH.

Behold! the birds fly

From Gauthiod's strand,

And seek with a sigh

Some far foreign land.

The sounds of their woe

With hollow winds blend :

"Where now must we go?

Our flight whither tend?"

'Tis thus unto heaven that their wailings ascend.

"The Scandian shore

We leave in despair,

Our days glided o'er

So blissfully there:

We there built our nest

Among bright blooming trees;

There rock'd us to rest

The balm-bearing breeze;

But now to far lands we must traverse the sea.

"With rose-crown all bright

On tresses of gold,

The midsummer night

It was sweet to behold:

The calm was so deep,

So lovely the ray,

We could not then sleep,

But were tranced by the spray,

Till wakened by beams from the bright car of day.

BIRDS.

"The trees gently bent
O'er the plains in repose;
With dew-drops besprent

Was the tremulous rose;
The oaks now are bare;

The rose is no more;
The zephyr's light air

Is exchanged for the roar

Of storms, and the May-fields have mantles of hoar

"Then why do we stay

In the North, where the sun

More dimly each day

His brief course will run?

And why need we sigh

We leave but a grave,

To cleave through the sky

On the wings which God gave;

Then, Ocean, we welcome the roar of thy wave!"

Of rest thus bereaved,

They soar in the air,
But soon are received

Into regions more fair;
Where elms gently shake

In the zephyr's light play,
Where rivulets take

Among myrtles their way,

And the groves are resounding with Hope's happy lay.

When earth's joys are o'er
And the days darkly roll,

When autumn winds roar-
Weep not, O my soul!

Fair lands o'er the sea

For the birds brightly bloom;

A land smiles for thee,

Beyond the dark tomb,

Where beams never fading its beauties illume.

Anonymous Translation.

ERIC JOHAN STAGNELIUS, 1793-1823.

THE DOVE.

RUSSIAN.

On an oak-tree sat,
Sat a pair of doves;

And they bill'd and coo'd,
And they heart to heart,
Tenderly embraced
With their little wings;
On them suddenly
Darted down a hawk.

One he seized and tore,

Tore the little dove,
With his feathered feet,
Soft, blue little dove;
And he pour'd his blood,
Streaming down the tree;
Feathers too were strewed.

Widely o'er the field;
High away the down
Floated in the air.

Ah, how wept and wept,
Ah, how sobb'd and sobb'd

The poor doveling then

For her little dove.

"Weep not, weep not so, Tender little bird!"

Spake the light young hawk To the little dove.

"O'er the sea away, O'er the far blue sea,

I will drive to thee

Flocks of other doves;

From them choose thee then,

Choose a soft and blue,

With his feathered feet,

Better little dove."

"Fly, thou villain! not

O'er the far blue sea,

Drive not here to me
Flocks of other doves.
Ah! of all thy doves
None can comfort me,

Only he, the father

Of my little ones."

Translated by J. G. PERCIVAL.

THE DYING SWAN.

The plain was grassy, wild, and bare,
Wide, wild, and open to the air,
Which had built up everywhere

An under-roof of doleful gray.
With an inner voice the river ran,
Adown it floated a dying swan,
Which loudly did lament.

It was the middle of the day.

Ever the weary wind went on

And shook the reed-tops as it went.

Some blue peaks in the distance rose,

And white against the cold-white sky
Shone out their crowning snows.

One willow over the river wept,

And shook the wave as the wind did sigh;
Above in the wind was the swallow,

Chasing itself at its own wild will,

And far through the marish green and still

The tangled water-courses slept,

Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul
Of that waste place with joy

Hidden in sorrow; at first to the ear
The warble was low, and full, and clear;
And floating about the under-sky,
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear;

But anon her awful jubilant voice,
With a music strange and manifold,
Flowed forth on a carol free and bold;
As when a mighty people rejoice

With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold,
And the tumult of their acclaim is rolled

Through the open gates of the city afar,

To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star.
And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds,
And the willow-branches hoar and dank,
And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds,

And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank,
And the silvery marish flowers that throng,
The desolate creeks and pools among,
Were flooded over with eddying song.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE TWA CORBIES.

OLD SCOTTISH BALLAD,

As I gaed doun by yon house-en',

Twa corbies there were sittand their lane.

The tane unto the tother sae,

"O where shall we gae dine to-day?"

"O down beside yon new-faun birk,

There lies a new-slain knicht,

Nae livin kens that he lies there,

But his horse, his hounds, and his lady fair.

"His horse is to the huntin gone,

His hounds to bring the wild deer hame;

His lady's taen another mate;

Sae we may make our dinner swate.

"O we'll sit on his bonnie briest-bane,
And we'll pyke out his bonnie grey e'en ;
Wi ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare.

"Mony a ane for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
Ower his banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair!"

Anonymous, about 1600,

THE RED-BREAST IN SEPTEMBER.

The morning mist is clear'd away,
Yet still the face of heaven is gray,

Nor yet th' autumnal breeze has stirr'd the grove,