BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.
While pleasant care my yielding soil receives,
Other delights the open soul may find;
On the high bough the daring hang-bird weaves
Her cunning cradle, rocking in the wind;
The arrowy swallow builds, beneath the eves,
Her clay-walled grotto, with soft feathers lined;
The dull-red robin, under sheltering leaves,
Her bowl-like nest to sturdy limbs doth bind;
And many songsters, worth a name in song,
Plain, homely birds my boy-love sanctified,
On hedge and tree and grassy bog, prolong
Sweet loves and cares, in carols sweetly plied;
In such dear strains their simple natures gush
That through my heart at once all tear-blest memories rush.