SHORE LARK.
Usually fat, much esteemed as food, and not uncommon in our markets, this beautiful bird may be seen in different seasons ranging from Hudson's Bay to Mexico, and from New England to the Rocky Mountains. They arrive in the Northern and Middle States late in the fall, and many remain throughout the winter. As the weather grows colder in the north, however, they become quite common in South Carolina and Georgia, frequenting the plains, commons and dry ground, keeping constantly upon the ground, and roving about in families under the guidance of the old birds, whose patriarchal care extends over all, to warn them by a plaintive call of the approach of danger, and instruct them by example how to avoid it. They roost somewhat in the same manner as partridges, in a close ring or circle, keeping each other warm, and abiding with indifference the frost and the storm. They migrate only when driven by want of food; this appears to consist of small round compressed black seeds, oats, buckwheat, &c., with a large proportion of gravel. Shore Lark and Sky Lark are the names by which they are usually known. They are said to sing well, rising in the air and warbling as they ascend, after the manner of the sky-lark of Europe.
TRIUMPHS OF PEACE.
BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.
From palace, cot and cave
Streamed forth a nation, in the olden time,
To crown with flowers the brave,
Flushed with the conquest of some far-off clime,
And, louder than the roar of meeting seas,
Applauding thunder rolled upon the breeze.
Memorial columns rose
Decked with the spoils of conquered foes,
And bards of high renown their stormy pæans sung,
While Sculpture touched the marble white,
And, woke by his transforming might,
To life the statue sprung.
The vassal to his task was chained—
The coffers of the state were drained
In rearing arches, bright with wasted gold,
That after generations might be told
A thing of dust once reigned.
Tombs, hallowed by long years of toil,
Were built to shrine heroic clay,
Too proud to rest in vulgar soil,
And moulder silently way;
Though treasure lavished on the dead
The wretched might have clothed and fed—
Dragged merit from obscuring shade,
And debts of gratitude have paid;
From want relieved neglected sage,
Or veteran in battle tried;
Smoothed the rough path of weary age,
And the sad tears of orphanage have dried.
Though green the laurel round the brow
Of wasting and triumphant War,
Peace, with her sacred olive bough,
Can boast of conquests nobler far:
Beneath her gentle sway
Earth blossoms like a rose—
The wide old woods recede away,
Through realms, unknown but yesterday,
The tide of Empire flows.
Woke by her voice rise battlement and tower,
Art builds a home, and Learning finds a bower—
Triumphant Labor for the conflict girds,
Speaks in great works instead of empty words;
Bends stubborn matter to his iron will,
Drains the foul marsh, and rends in twain the hill—
A hanging bridge across the torrent flings,
And gives the car of fire resistless wings.
Light kindles up the forest to its heart,
And happy thousands throng the new-born mart;
Fleet ships of steam, deriding tide and blast,
On the blue bounding waters hurry past;
Adventure, eager for the task, explores
Primeval wilds, and lone, sequestered shores—
Braves every peril, and a beacon lights
To guide the nations on untrodden heights.
