May 6.
Birds.
The bird-catchers are now peering about the fields and thickets in search of different species of song-birds, for the purpose of netting and training them for sale.
Old bird-fanciers treat the younger ones with disdain, as having corrupted the rich melodies of the birds, by battling them against each other, in singing matches, for strength of pipe.
For the Every-Day Book.
Sonnet,
Written on hearing my Blackbird,
while confined to my Bed by Illness.
Bird of the golden beak, thy pensive song
Floats visions of the country to my mind;
And sweet sounds heard the pleasant woods among,
I hear again, while on my bed reclined.
Weaken’d in frame, and harass’d by my kind,
I long for fair-green fields and shady groves,
Where dark-eyed maids their brows with wild flowers bind,
And rosy health with meditation roves.
Sing on, my bird—as in thy native tree,
Sing on—and I will close my burning eyes,
Till in my fav’rite haunts again I be,
And sweetest music on my ears arise;
And waving woods their shades around me close,
And sounds of waters lull me to repose.
April 16, 1826.
S. R. J.