Let

my

obedience then excuse

My disobedience now,

Nor some reproof yourself refuse From your aggrieved Bow-wow;

If killing birds be such a crime, (Which I can hardly see,)

What think you, sir, of killing Time With verse address'd to me?

THE FAITHFUL BIRD

WILLIAM COWPER

HE Greenhouse is my summer seat;

THE

My shrubs, displaced from that retreat, Enjoyed the open air;

Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.

They sang as blithe as finches sing
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never miss'd.

But nature works in every breast,
With force not easily suppress'd;
And Dick felt some desires,
That after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at last to gain

A pass between the wires.

The opened windows seem'd to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;
But Tom was still confin'd;

And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere
To leave his friend behind.

So, settling on his cage, by play,
And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say,
You must not live alone -

Nor would he quit that chosen stand,
Till I, with slow and cautious hand,
Return'd him to his own.

THE FIRST SWALLOW

CHARLOTTE SMITH

HE gorse is yellow on the heath,

THE

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,

The oaks are budding, and, beneath,

The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,
The silver wreath, of May.

The welcome guest of settled Spring,
The swallow, too, has come at last;
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,
And hail'd her as she past.

Come, summer visitant, attach

To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch At the gray dawn of day.

A

THE USEFUL PLOUGH

ANONYMOUS

COUNTRY life is sweet!

In moderate cold and heat,

To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair, In every field of wheat,

The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, And every meadow's brow;

So that I say, no courtier may

Compare with them who clothe in gray,

And follow the useful plough.

They rise with the morning lark,

And labour till almost dark;

Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep,

While every pleasant park

Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing,

On each green, tender bough.

With what content and merriment

Their days are spent, whose minds are bent

To follow the useful plough.