THE SKYLARK.

Thou minstrel of the sunny air,

Thy vocal fount is rich with song,

And fragrant breezes softly bear

Its silver melody along.

I love to hear thy liquid note

When bees are humming on the rose,

And in their sapphire ocean float

The stars prophetic of repose.

Thou feel'st the sunny influence

Like Memnon's fabled lyre of old,

And wanderest in the beam intense

Which turns the liquid air to gold.

The spirit's bright imaginings

Ne'er soar'd to loftier spheres than thee,

And if I had, thy fairy wings,

Afar from earthly haunts I'd flee.

Insipid are the weekly themes

Of ——'s imbecile review,

Whose page with adulation teems,

And makes me "beautifully blue."

But cockney praise is ebbing fast,

And Sappho's lute has lost its power,

And surely my career is past

Like Summer's brightest, loveliest flower.

Arcades ambo, Moore and me

Are Delia Crusca's sweetest doves,

And ours too is the poetry

Which meditative beauty loves.

Sweet bird, farewell! and be it thine

To thrill the blue air with thy song;

But fame will wreathe this brow of mine,

If I am right, and Pope is wrong.

G.R.C.