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The martlet Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty. e. Merchant of Venice. Act II. Sc. 9.

This guest of Summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's

breath Smells wooingly here; no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird Hath made its pendent bed, and procreant

cradle: Where they most breed and liaunt, I have

observ'd, The air is delicate.

Macbeth. Act I. Sc. 6.

NIGHTINGALE. | Hark! ah, the nightingale

The tawny-throated!
Hark from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
What triumph! hark! -what pain!
Listen, Eugenia -
How thick the bursts come crowding through

the leaves! Again-thou hearest?-Eternal passion! Eternal pain! j. MATTHEW ARNOLD Philomela. Line 1.

As nightingales do upon glow-worms feed, So poets live upon the living light.

k. PHILIP J. BAILEY--Festus. Sc. Home. It is the hour when from the boughs

The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lov'rs' vows

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word.
1. BYRON-Parisina. St. 1.

“ Most musical, most melancholy” bird!
A melancholy bird! Oh, idle thought!
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
COLERIDGE- The Nightingale. Line 13.

'Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music!

COLERIDGE- The Nightingale. Line 43. Sweet bird that sing'st away the early hours

Of winters past or coming void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present

are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet smelling

flowers.

DRUMMOND—Sonnet. The Nightingale. Like a wedding-song all-melting Sings the nightingale, the dear one.

P. HEINE-Book of Songs. Donna Clara. The nightingale appear'd the first,

And as her melody she sang,
The apple into blossom burst,

To life the grass and violets sprang:
9.
HEINE-Book of Songs. Ver Spring.

No. 9.
The nightingales are singing
On leafy perch aloft.
HEINE-Book of Songs. Ver Spring.

No. 5. The nightingale's sweet music Fills the air and leafy bowers. HEINE-Book of Songs. New Spring.

No. 31. Adieu! Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ?

Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
t. KEATS— To a Nightingale.

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MOCKING-BIRD.

Then from the neighboring thicket the mock

ing-bird, wildest of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung

o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of

delirious music, That the whole air and the woods and the

waves seemed silent to listen.
I. LONGFELLOW-- Evangeline. Pt. II.
Living echo, bird of eve,
Hush thy wailing, cease to grieve;
Pretty warbler, wake the grove,
To notes of joy, to songs of love.

h. THOMAS MORTON Pretty Mocking-bird.

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Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool!
Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe?
Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule
Pursue thy fellows still with jest and jibe:
Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy trive,
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school;
To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe,
Arch-mocker and mad abbot of misrule!

i WILDE-Sonnet. To the Mocking-bird.

28

BIRDS—NIGHTINGALE.

BIRDS-NIGHTINGALE.

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Thou wast not born for death, immortal

Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown.

KEATS— To a Nightingale. Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth.

b. KEATS --To the Poets. To the red rising moon, and loud and deep The nightingale is singing from the steep.

LONGFELLOW- Keats.
O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are

still; Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart

dost fill While the jolly Hours lead on propitious

May. d. MILTON—Sonnet. To the Nightingale. Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical most melancholy! Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy evening-song.

MILTON-- 11 Penseroso. Line 61. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day;

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's

bill, Portend success in love; f. MILTON-Sonnet. To the Nightingale. The nightingale now wanders in the vines: Her passion is to seek roses. g.

LADY MONTAGU.
The bird that sings on highest wing,

Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing,

Sings in the shade when all things rest: In lark and nightingale we see What honor hath humility.

h. MONTGOMERY Humility. I said to the Nightingale;

“Hail, all hail ! Pierce with thy trill the dark, Like a glittering music-spark,

When the earth grows pale and dumb." i. D. M. MULOCK--A Rhyme About

Birds. Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly

flows, Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved

mate, A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throws And skies, with notes well tuned to her sad

state. j. PETRARCH -- To Laura in Death.

Sonnet XLVII. Hark! that's the nightingale,

Telling the self-same tale Her song told when this ancient earth was

young: So echoes answered when her song was sung

In the first wooded vale. k. CHRISTINA G. RossETTI -- Twilight

Calm. St. 7.

Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon,
Make haste to wake the nightingale:
Let silence set the world in tune
To harken to that wordless tale
Which warbles from the nightingale.
1. CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI - Bird

Raptures. St. 2.
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come darkness, moonrise, everything
That is so silent, sweet, and pale:
Come, so ye wake the nightingale.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI -- Bird

Raptures. St. 1. The nightingale, if she should sing by day, When every goose is cackling, would be

thought
No better a musician than the wren,
How many things by season season'd are
To their right praise, and true perfection!

Merchant of Venice. Act V. Sc. 1.
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Romeo and Juliet. Act. III. Sc. 5.
One nightingale in an interfluous wood
Satiate the hungry dark with melody.
P: SHELLEYThe Woodman and the

Vightingale.
O Nightingale,
Cease from thy enamoured tale.
9.
SHELLEY- Scenes from

Magico Prodigioso." Sc. 3. Lend me your song, ye nightingales ! O,

pour
The mazy-running soul of melody
Into my varied verse!
THOMSON -- The Seasons. Spring.

Line 573.
O honey-throated warbler of the grove !
That in the glooming woodland art so proud
Of answering thy sweet mates in soft or loud,
Thou dost not own a note we do not love.
CHARLES (TENNYSON) TURNER--
Sonnets and Fugitive Pieces.

To the Nightingale. The rose looks out in the valley, And thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe. t. GIL VICENTE-- The Nightingale. --Under the linden,

On the meadow,
Where our bed arranged was,
---There now you may find e'en

In the shadow
Broken flowers and crushed grass.
--Near the woods, down in the vale,

Tandaradi!
Sweetly sang the nightingale.

WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE-
Truns. in The Minnesinger of Ger-

many. Under the Linilen.

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OWL. The large white owl that with eye is blind, That hath sate for years in the old tree

hollow, Is carried away in a gust of wind!

E. B. BROWNING--Isobel's Child. St. 19.

When cats run home and light is come,

And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,

And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;

Alone and warming his five wits,

The white owl in the belfry sits. k. TENNYSON — Song. The Owl. The lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade, Goes, with the fashionable owls, to bed. 1. YOUNG--Love of Fame. Satire V.

Line 209.

The Roman senate, when within
The city walls an owl was seen,
Did cause their clergy, with lustrations
The round-fac'd prodigy t'avert,
From doing town or country hurt.
b. BUTLER-- Hudibras. Pt. II. Canto III.

Line 709.

BIRD OF PARADISE.

In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower,

The spectral Owl doth dwell;
Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour,

But at dusk he's abroad and well!
Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him

All mock him outright, by day;
But at night, when the woods grow still and

dim, The boldest will shrink away! Oh, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl!

BARRY CORNWALL--The Owl.

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RAVEN.

Nimbly they seized and secreted their

prey, Alive and wriggling in the elastic net, Which nature hung beneath their grasping

beaks; Till, swol’n with captures, the unwieldy bur

den Clogg'd their slow flight, as heavily to land, These mighty hunters of the deep return'd. There on the cragged cliffs they perch'd at

ease, Gorging their hapless victims one by one; Then full and weary, side by side, they slept, Till evening roused them to the chase again. b. MONTGOMERY-- The Pelican Island.

Canto IV. Line 141.

The nursery of brooding Pelicans,
The dormitory of their dead, had vanishid,
And all the minor spots of rock and verdure,
The abodes of happy millions, were no more.
MONTGOMERY-- Pelican Island.

Canto VI. Line 74.

The raven once in snowy plumes was drest,
White as the whitest dove's unsully'd breast,
Fair as the guardian of the Capitol,
Soft as the swan; a large and lovely fowl;
His tongue, his prating tongue had chang'd

him quite
To sooty blackness from the purest white.
j. ADDISON- Translations, Ovid's

Metamorphoses. Story of Coronis. The raven was screeching, the leaves fast

fell, The sun gazed cheerlessly down on the

sight. k. HEINE-Book of Songs. Lyrical

Interludes. No. 26. And the Raven, never fitting,

Still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming
Of a demon that is dreaming
And the lamplight o'er him streaming

Throws the shadow on the floor
And my soul from out that shadow
That lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted-never more. 1. PoE-The Raven. St. 18.

PHEASANT.

See, from the brake the whirring pheasant

springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings: Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the

ground. d. POPE--Windsor Forest. Line 113.

PIGEON.

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Wood-pigeons cooed there, stock-doves nes

tled there ; My trees were full of songs and flowers and

fruit, Their branches spread a city to the air. CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI -- From House

to Home. St. 7.

Did ever raven sing so like a lark,
That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise ?

Titus Andronicus. Act III. Sc. 1.

0, it comes o'er my memory, As doth the raven o'er the infectious house, Boding to all.

Othello. Act IV. Sc. 1.

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I have found out a gift for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed. of SHENSTONE--A Pastoral. Part II.

Hope. On the cross-beam under the Old South bell The nest of a pigeon is builded well. In summer and winter that bird is there, Ont and in with the morning air. 9.

WILLIS The Belfry Pigeon.

ROBIN.

'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel-
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

h. WILLIS The Belfry Pigeon.

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The Robin-red-breast till of late had rest, And children sacred held a Martin's nest. g. POPE-Second Book of Horace.

Satire II. Line 37.

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoa ry moss, and gathered flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
WILLIAM COLLINS- Odes. Dirge in

Cymbeline. There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are showers of violets found; The Redbreast loves to build and warble

there, And light footsteps lightly print the ground. b. GRAY— Elegy. Last St. (Early

Edition.) Bearing His cross, while Christ passed forth

forlorn, His God-like forehead by the mock crown

torn, A little bird took from that crown one thorn. To soothe the dear Redeemer's throbbing

head, That bird did what she could; His blood 'tis

said, Down dropping, dyed her tender bosom red. Since then no wanton boy disturbs her nest; Weasel nor wild cat will her young molest; All sacred deem the bird of ruddy breast. HOSKYNS-ABRAHALL-The Redbreast. A Briton Legend. In English

Lyrics. The sobered robin, hunger-silent now, Seeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer.

d. LOWELL- An Indian Summer Reverie.

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They'll come again to the apple tree

Robin and all the rest -
When the orchard branches are fair to see

In the snow of the blossoms dressed,
And the prettiest thing in the world will be

The building of the nest.
h. MARGARET E. SANGSTER— The Building

of the Nest.
The redbreast, sacred to the honsehold gods,
Wisely regardful of th' embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves
His shivering mates and pays to trusted

man His annual visit. i. THOMSONThe Seasons. Winter.

Line 246. Call for the robin-red-breast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. j. JOHN WEBSTER-- The White Devil; or,

Vittoria Corombona. A Dirge. Each morning, when my waking eyes first

see, Through the wreathed lattice, golden day

appear,
There sits a robin on the old elm-tree,
And with such stirring music tills my ear,
I might forget that life had pain or fear,
And feel again as I was wont to do,
When hope was young, and life itself were

new.
k. ANNA MARIA WELLS—The Old Elm

Tree.
Art thou the bird whom Man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,

Our little English robin; The bird that comes about our doors When Autumn winds are sobbing? 1. WORDSWORTH - The Redbreast Chasing

the Butterfly. Now when the primrose makes a splendid

show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one

desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!

WORDSWORTH-Poor Robin.
Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay,

And at my casement sing,
Though it should prove a farewell lay
And this our parting spring.

Poor robin, driven in by rain-storms wild
To lie submissive under household hands
With beating heart that no love understands,
And scared eye, like a child
Who only knows that he is all alone
And summer's gone.

e. D. M. MULOCK-Summer Gone. St. 2. On fair Brittannia's isle, bright bird,

A legend strange is told of thee,'Tis said thy blithesome song was hushed

While Christ toiled up Mount Calvary, Bowed 'neath the sins of all mankind;

And humbled to the very dust By the vile cross, while viler man

Mocked with a crown of thorns the Just. Pierced by our sorrows, and weighed down

By our transgressions,-faint, and weak, Crushed by an angry Judge's frown,

And agonies no word can speak,'Twas then, dear bird, the legend says

That thou, from out His crown, didst tear The thorns, to lighten the distress,

And ease the pain that he must bear, While pendant from thy tiny beak

The gory points thy bosom pressed, And crimsoned with thy Saviour's blood The sober brownness of thy breast! Since which proud hour for thee and thine,

As an especial sign of grace
God pours like sacramental wine

Red signs of favor o'er thy race!
f.
DELLE W. NORTON- To the Robin

Redbreast.

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