Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self. The Seasons: Autumn.

In beauty, faults conspicuous grow; The smallest speck is seen on snow. Fables: Peacock, Turkey, and Goose.

J. THOMSON.

The maid who modestly conceals
Her beauties, while she hides, reveals:
Gives but a glimpse, and fancy draws
Whate'er the Grecian Venus was.

The Spider and the Bee.

J. GAY.

E. MOORE.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good;
A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly ;
A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud;
A brittle glass that 's broken presently;

A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.
The Passionate Pilgrim.
SHAKESPEARE.

BELL.

Tuned be its metal mouth alone

To things eternal and sublime.

And as the swift-winged hours speed on
May it record the flight of time!

Song of the Bell.

F. SCHILLER. Trans. E. A. BOWRING.

The bells themselves are the best of preachers,
Their brazen lips are learned teachers,

From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air,
Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw,
Shriller than trumpets under the Law,
Now a sermon and now a prayer.
Christus: The Golden Legend, Pt. III.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

And the Sabbath bell,

That over wood and wild and mountain dell
Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy
With sounds most musical, most melancholy.
Human Life.
S. ROGERS.

Sweet Sunday bells! your measured sound
Enhances the repose profound

Of all these golden fields around,

And range of mountain, sunshine-drowned.

Sunday Bells.

W. ALLINGHAM.

Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh. Hamlet, Act iii. Sc. 1.

SHAKESPEARE.

Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and Clashing, clanging to the pavement Hurl them from their windy tower! Christus: The Golden Legend. Prologue.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
Hath but a losing office, and his tongue
Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,
Remembered tolling a departing friend.

K. Henry IV., Pt. II. Act i. Sc. 1.

BIBLE.

My Book and Heart

Must never part.

SHAKESPEARE.

New England Primer.

And better had they ne'er been born, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn. The Monastery.

SIR W. SCOTT.

God, in the gospel of his Son,
Makes his eternal counsels known;
"T is here his richest mercy shines,
And truth is drawn in fairest lines.

The Glory of the Scriptures.

Holy Bible, book divine,

Precious treasure, thou art mine;
Mine to tell me whence I came,
Mine to teach me what I am.

Mine to chide me when I rove,
Mine to show a Saviour's love;
Mine art thou to guide my feet,
Mine to judge, condemn, acquit.

Holy Bible, Book Divine.

B. BEDDOME.

J. BURTON.

The heavens declare thy glory, Lord;
In every star thy wisdom shines;
But when our eyes behold thy word,
We read thy name in fairer lines.

God's Word and Works.

DR. I. WATTS.

Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true. Truth.

W. COWPER.

A glory gilds the sacred page,
Majestic like the sun,

It gives a light to every age,

Olney Hymns.

It gives, but borrows none.

W. COWPER.

Starres are poore books, and oftentimes do misse ; This book starres lights to eternal blisse.

The Church: The Holy Scriptures, Pt. II.

BIRDS.

G. HERBERT.

Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?
Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught
The dialect they speak, where melodies

Alone are the interpreters of thought?

Whose household words are songs in many keys,
Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!

Tales of a Wayside Inn:. The Poet's Tale.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

I shall not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau
If birds confabulate or no.
"T is clear that they were always able
To hold discourse-at least in fable.

W. COWPER.

Pairing Time Anticipated.
The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake;
The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove:
Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze
Poured out profusely, silent. Joined to these,
Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade
Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw,
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,
Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathes
A melancholy murmur through the whole.
The Seasons: Spring.

Whither away, Bluebird,

Whither away?

The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky
Thou still canst find the color of thy wing,

The hue of May.

J. THOMSON.

Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why, Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring?

Whither away?

Flight of Birds.

E. C. STEDMAN.

The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate, Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight. Spring.

O. W. HOLMES.

One day in the bluest of summer weather,
Sketching under a whispering oak,

I heard five bobolinks laughing together,
Over some ornithological joke.

Bird Language.

Sing away, ay, sing away,
Merry little bird,

Always gayest of the gay,
Though a woodland roundelay
You ne'er sung nor heard;

C. P. CRANCH.

Though your life from youth to age
Passes in a narrow cage.

The Canary in his Cage.

D. M. MULOCK CRAIK.

The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,

Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day.

Hamlet, Act i. Sc. 1.

SHAKESPEARE.

Bird of the broad and sweeping wing,

Thy home is high in heaven,

Where wide the storms their banners fling,
And the tempest clouds are driven.

To the Eagle.

J. G. PERCIVAL.

Where the hawk,

J. THOMSON.

High in the beetling cliff, his aëry builds.

The Seasons: Spring.

And the humming-bird that hung

Like a jewel up among

The tilted honeysuckle horns

They mesmerized and swung

In the palpitating air,

Drowsed with odors strange and rare,

And, with whispered laughter, slipped away
And left him hanging there.

The South Wind and the Sun.

"Most musical, most melancholy

J. W. RILEY.

bird!

A melancholy bird! Oh! idle thought!
In nature there is nothing melancholy.

The Nightingale.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

Then from the neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wild

est 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.

Evangeline, Pt. II.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed. The Village Curate.

Song.

The merry lark he soars on high,
No worldly thought o'ertakes him.
He sings aloud to the clear blue sky,
And the daylight that awakes him.

J. HURDIS.

H. COLERIDGE.

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O, 't is the ravished nightingale-
Jug, jug, jug, jug-tereu-she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! who is 't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear,
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark! but what a pretty note,
Poor Robin-redbreast tunes his throat;
Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing
"Cuckoo!" to welcome in the spring.
Alexander and Campaspe, Act v. Sc. 1.

JOHN LYLY.

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.
Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day,

Portend success in love.

To the Nightingale.

MILTON.

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.

To the Nightingale.

C. T. TURNER.

Lend me your song, ye Nightingales! O, pour
The mazy-running soul of melody

Into my varied verse.

The Seasons: Spring.

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think

J. THOMSON.

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 seasoned are

To their right praise and true perfection. Merchant of Venice, Act v. Sc. 1.

SHAKESPEARE.