IF I WERE A VOICE. Charles Markay. IF I were a voice, a persuasive voice, That could travel the wide world through, And tell them to be true. In praise of the right-in blame of the wrong. If I were a voice, a consoling voice, The homes of sorrow and guilt I'd seek, I'd fly, I'd fly o'er the crowded town, If I were a voice, a convincing voice, And wherever I saw the nations torn I'd fly, I'd fly on the thunder crash, And all their evil thoughts subdued, If I were a voice, a pervading voice, I'd find them alone on their beds at night, And whisper words that should guide them right Lessons of priceless worth. I'd fly more swift than the swiftest bird, If I were a voice, an immortal voice, I'd make their error clear. DISCONTENT. On! we are querulous creatures, little less AN ITALIAN PEASANT GIRL DICTATING A LOVE LETTER TO ONE OF THE ANCIENT SCRIBES WHO PLY THEIR PROFESSION AT ROME. Craly. 'COME, thou old, unloving scribe! Take thy pen, and tell my love, I have watched, and wept, and prayed 'Listen, now! 'tis vain, 'tis vain! Secrets that the spirit keeps- Kept for night and heaven alone, 'Old man, tell him of the tale BIRDS. Eliza Cook. BIRDS-birds! ye are beautiful things, With your earth-treading feet, and your cloudcleaving wings; Where shall man wander, and where shall he dwell, Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well? Ye have nests on the mountain all rugged and stark, Ye have nests in the forest all tangled and dark: Ye build and ye brood 'neath the cottager's eaves, And ye sleep on the sod 'mid the bonnie green leaves; Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake, Ye dive in the sweet flags, that shadow the lake; Ye skim where the stream parts the orcharddecked land, Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand. Beautiful birds! ye come thickly around, When the bud's on the branch, and the snow's on the ground; Ye come, when the richest of roses flush out, And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about. Beautiful birds! how the schoolboy remembers The warblers that chorused his holiday tune, The robin that chirped in the frosty Decembers, The blackbird that whistled through flowercrowned June; That schoolboy remembers his holiday ramble, When he pulled every blossom of palm he could see; When his finger was raised as he stopped in the bramble, WithHark! there's the cuckoo; how close he must be !' |