WHEN that the fields put on their gay attire,

Thou silent sitt'st near brake or river's brim,

Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert dim;

But when pale Winter lights the social fire,

And meads with slime are sprent, and ways with mire,

Thou charm'st us with thy soft and solemn hymn

From battlement, or barn, or hay-stack trim

And now not seldom tunest, as if for hire,
Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch

;

The pittance due to thy well-warbled song; Sweet bird! sing on; for oft near lonely hatch, Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng, And oft for entrance, 'neath the peaceful thatch, Full many a tale have told, and ditty long.

BAMPFYLDE.

ODE TO THE CUCKOO.

AIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood, To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

JOHN LOGAN.