On the Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore,
Wing The strong sun-seeker could do no more.

His wings had had no chrism of gold;
And his feathers felt withered and worn and old;
He faltered, and sank, and dropped like a stone.
And there on his nest, where he left her, alone
Sat his little wife on her little eggs,
Keeping them warm with wings and legs.

Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing!
Full in her face was shining the king.
"Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired," said he;
"Up is not always the best way to me.

While you have been singing so high and away,
I've been shining to your little wife all day.”

He had set his crown all about the nest,
And out of the midst shone her little brown

breast;

And so glorious was she in russet gold,
That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold.
He popped his head under her wing, and lay
As still as a stone, till King Sun was away.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

The Skylark

How the blithe Lark runs up the golden stair That leans thro' cloudy gates from Heaven to Earth,

And all alone in the empyreal air

Fills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth;

How far he seems, how far

With the light upon his wings,

Is it a bird or star

That shines and sings?

And now he dives into a rainbow's rivers;

In streams of gold and purple he is drown'd;
Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers,
As tho' the stormy drops were turned to sound:
And now he issues thro',

He scales a cloudy tower;
Faintly, like falling dew,
His fast notes shower.

On the
Wing

FREDERICK TENNYSON.

* By courtesy of John Lane.

On the

Wing

The Skylark

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,—

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud

Far in the downy cloud,

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth!
Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

JAMES HOGG.

(The Ettrick Shepherd.)

The Bobolinks

When Nature had made all her birds,
With no more cares to think on,
She gave a rippling laugh, and out
There flew a Bobolinkon.

She laughed again; out flew a mate;
A breeze of Eden bore them
Across the fields of Paradise,

The sunrise reddening o'er them.

Incarnate sport and holiday,

They flew and sang forever;

Their souls through June were all in tune,
Their wings were weary never.

Their tribe, still drunk with air and light,
And perfume of the meadow,
Go reeling up and down the sky,
In sunshine and in shadow.

One springs from out the dew-wet grass;
Another follows after;

The morn is thrilling with their songs
And peals of fairy laughter.

From out the marshes and the brook,
They set the tall reeds swinging,

And meet and frolic in the air,

Half prattling and half singing.

On the
Wing

On the

Wing

When morning winds sweep meadow-lands
In green and russet billows,
And toss the lonely elm-tree's boughs,
And silver all the willows,

I see you buffeting the breeze,

Or with its motion swaying,

Your notes half drowned against the wind,
Or down the current playing.

When far away o'er grassy flats,

Where the thick wood commences,
The white-sleeved mowers look like specks,
Beyond the zigzag fences,

And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleam
White in the pale blue distance,

I hear the saucy minstrels still
In chattering persistence.

When eve her domes of opal fire
Piles round the blue horizon,

Or thunder rolls from hill to hill
A Kyrie Eleison,

Still merriest of the merry birds,
Your sparkle is unfading,-
Pied harlequins of June,—no end
Of song and masquerading.

Hope springs with you: I dread no more
Despondency and dulness;