Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she,

One weak chirp is her only note,
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Never was I afraid of man;
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.
Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!
There as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seed for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made

Sober with work, and silent with care;

Off is his holiday garment laid,
Half forgotten that merry air,

Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln 's a humdrum crone;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
Chee, chee, chee.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

PERSEVERANCE.

A SWALLOW in the spring Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring

Wet earth and straw and leaves.

Day after day she toiled

With patient art, but ere her work was crowned,
Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,
And dashed it to the ground.

She found the ruin wrought,

But not cast down, forth from the place she flew, And with her mate fresh earth and grasses brought And built her nest anew.

But scarcely had she placed The last soft feather on its ample floor, When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste

And wrought the ruin o'er.

But still her heart she kept,

And toiled again, - and last night, hearing calls, I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept Within the earth-made walls.

What truth is here, O man! Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn! Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, trust, or plan? Have faith, and struggle on!

R. S. S. ANDROS.

THE SWALLOW.

THE gorse is yellow on the heath,

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,

The oaks are budding; and beneath,

The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,

The silver wreath of May.

The welcome guest of settled spring,
The swallow too is come at last;
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,
And hailed her as she passed.

Come, summer visitant, attach

To my reed-roof your nest of clay,
And let my ear your music catch,
Low twittering underneath the thatch,
At the gray dawn of day.

As fables tell, an Indian sage,
The Hindustani woods among,
Could in his desert hermitage,
As if 't were marked in written page,
Translate the wild bird's song.

Above the crowd

On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

'T were heaven indeed
Through fields of trackless light to soar,
On Nature's charms to feed,
And Nature's own great God adore.

CHARLES SPRAGUE,

THE DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW,

AND is the swallow gone?
Who beheld it?
Which way sailed it?

Farewell bade it none?

No mortal saw it go; -
But who doth hear
Its summer cheer

As it flitteth to and fro ?

So the freed spirit flies!

From its surrounding clay
It steals away

Like the swallow from the skies.

Whither? wherefore doth it go?

'Tis all unknown;

We feel alone

That a void is left below.

WILLIAM HOWITT.

DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOWS.

(Translation.)

THE rain-drops plash, and the dead leaves fall,
On spire and cornice and mould;
The swallows gather, and twitter and call,
"We must follow the summer, come one, come all

For the winter is now so cold."

Just listen awhile to the wordy war,
As to whither the way shall tend,
Says one, "I know the skies are fair
And myriad insects float in air

Where the ruins of Athens stand.

"And every year when the brown leaves fall,

In a niche of the Parthenon

I build my nest on the corniced wall,
In the trough of a devastating ball

From the Turk's besieging gun."

Says another, "My cosey home I fit
On a Smyrna grande café,
Where over the threshold Hadjii sit,
And smoke their pipes and their coffee sip,
Dreaming the hours away."

THE rose looks out in the valley,

And thither will I go !

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

The virgin is on the river-side,
Culling the lemons pale :
Thither, yes! thither will I go,

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

The fairest fruit her hand hath culled,
'T is for her lover all :
Thither, yes! thither will I go,

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain, She has placed the lemons pale:

Thither, yes! thither will I go,

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe.

GIL VICENTE (Portuguese). Translation