THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE.

THE god of love, ah, benedicite!

How mighty and how gret a lord is he,
For he can make of lowè hertès highe,
Of highè lowe, and likè for to dye,
And hardè hertès he can maken fre.

And he can make, within a litel stounde,
Of sekè folkè, holè, freshe, and sounde,
Of holè folkè he can maken seke,
And he can binden and unbinden eke
That he wol have ybounden or unbounde.

To telle his might my wits may not suffice,
For he can make of wisè folke ful nice,
For he may don al that he wol devise,
And lither folkè to distroien vice,
And proudè hertès he can make agrise.

And shortly al that ever he wol he may,
Ayenès him dare no wight sayè nay:

For he can glade and grevè whom he liketh :
And whoso that he wol, he lougheth or siketh,
And most his might he sheddeth ever in May.

For every truè gentle hertè fre

That with him is, or thinketh for to be
Ayenès May shal have now som stering,
Other to joie, or elles to som mourning;
In no seson so moch as thinketh me.

For whan they mayè here the briddès singe,
And se the flourès and the levès springe,
That bringeth into hire rememberaunce
A maner esè, medled with grevaunce,
And lusty thoughtès, fulle of gret longinge.

And of that longinge cometh hevinesse,
And thereof groweth oft gret sekenesse,
Al for lackinge of that that they desire;
And thus in May ben hertès sette on fire,
So that they brennen forth in gret distresse.

CHAUCER.

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.

ST. MATT. vi. 28, 29.

FLOWERS of the field! 'tis yours to preach
Lessons of truth, and humbly teach

The faithless and the proud:

Array'd in garb of lovely hue,
OUR FATHER'S care we trace in you;
And still to HIM who made you, true,
Ye warn the thoughtless crowd.

Let those of feeble faith, whose breast
With doubts and fears can never rest,
Consider how ye grow:

Ye toil not with perplexing care:
Ye do not spin the coats ye wear,
Nor paint those colours bright and fair,
In which ye sweetly glow.

The hand of HIM, who built the skies,
Adorns His flowers with varied dyes,

And clothes each beauteous plant;
Th' ETERNAL ONE, whose sovereign power
Can make earth's haughtiest despot cower,
Stoops to regard the humblest flower,

And tend each little want.

REV. J. S. BROad, m.a.

THAN a tree, a grander child earth bears not.
What are the boasted palaces of Man,
Imperial city, or triumphal arch,

To forests of immeasurable extent,

Which Time confirms, which centuries waste not?

Oaks gather strength for ages; and when at last

They wane, so beauteous in decrepitude,

So grand in weakness! E'en in their decay
So venerable! 'Twere sacrilege t' escape

The consecrating touch of Time. Time watch'd

The blossom on the parent bough; Time saw
The acorn loosen from the

While, springing from its swaddling shell, yon oak, The cloud-crown'd monarch of our woods, by thorns

Environ'd, 'scaped the raven's bill, the tooth

Of goat and deer, the schoolboy's knife, and sprang
A royal hero from his nurse's arms.

Time

it seasons, gave

and Time gave

it years.
Ages bestow'd, and centuries grudged not;

Time knew the sapling when gay Summer's breath
Shook to the roots the infant oak, which after
Tempests moved not. Time hollow'd in its trunk
A tomb for centuries; and buried there
The epochs of the rise and fall of states,
The fading generations of the world,
The memory of man.

STRUTT'S Sylva Brit.

"The Oak, Quercus Robur, in dignity and grandeur, stands pre-eminent, and, like the lion among the beasts, is the undoubted lord of the forest. Beauty, united with strength, characterises all its parts. Even as a sapling, in its graceful slenderness, it exhibits sufficient firmness and vigour, to indicate the future monarch of the wood; a state, indeed, which it is slow to assume, but which it retains per sæcula longa, and when, at length, it is brought to acknowledge the influence of time, and becomes 'bald with dry antiquity,' no other production of the forest can be admitted as its rival in majestic and venerable decay:

:

Behold yon Oak

How stern he frowns, and with his broad brown arms
Chills the pale plain beneath him.

MASON.

See Mag. Nat. Hist., Vols. 1 and 3, for valuable details respecting the Oak.

THE bird that sees a dainty bower

Made in the tree, where she was wont to sit,

Wonders and sings-but not his power,

Who made the arbour: this exceeds her wit.
But man doth know

The spring, whence all things flow.

HERBERT.

Deep in a mossy bower.

An oak's gnarled root, to roof the cave
With Gothic fret-work sprung,
Where jewelled fern, and arum leaves
And ivy garlands hung.

And close beneath came sparkling out,

From an old tree's fallen shell

A little rill, that clipt about

The lady in her cell.

And there, methought, with bashful pride,

She seem'd to sit and look
On her own maiden loveliness
Pale imaged in the brook.

No other flower, no rival grew
Beside my pensive maid
She dwelt alone, a cloistered nun,
In solitude and shade.

No sunbeam on that fairy pool

Darted its dazzling light

Only, methought, some clear cold star
Might tremble there at night.

No ruffling wind could reach her there-
No eye, methought, but mine,

Or the young lambs that came to drink,
Had spied her secret shrine.