WEET warblers of the sunny hours,

Forever on the wing,

I love them, as I love the flowers,
The sunlight, and the spring.
They come like pleasant memories,
In summer's joyous time,
And sing their gushing melodies
As I would sing a rhyme.

In the green and quiet places

Where the golden sunlight falls,

We sit with smiling faces

To list their silver calls;
And when their holy anthems
Come pealing through the air,
Our hearts leap forth to meet them,
With a blessing and a prayer.

For never can my soul forget
The loved of other years;
Their memories fill my spirit yet,
I've kept them green with tears;

And their singing greets my heart at times,
As in the days of yore,

Though their music, and their loveliness
Are o'er, forever o'er.

And often, when the mournful night
Comes with a low, sweet tune,
And sets a star on every height,

And one beside the moon,
When not a sound of wind or wave

The holy stillness mars,

I look above, and strive to trace
Their dwellings in the stars.

Amid the morning's fragrant dew,
Amid the mists of even,

They warble on as if they drew

Their music down from heaven. How sweetly sounds each mellow note, Beneath the moon's pale ray, When dying zephyrs rise and float, Like lovers' sighs, away!

Like shadowy spirits seen at eve,

Among the tombs they glide;

The birds! the birds of summer hours! They bring a gush of glee

To the child among the fragrant flowers,
To the sailor on the sea.

We hear their thrilling voices
In their swift and airy flight,
And the inmost heart rejoices
With a calm and pure delight.

In the stillness of the starlight hours,
When I am with the dead,

Lie sleeping side by side.

They break with song the solemn hush

Where peace reclines her head,

That blossom o'er my head,

And pour their songs of gladness forth

In one melodious strain,

That cluster round the dead.

Shall never sing again. AMELIA B. WELBY

THE BOBOLINK.
OBOLINK! that in the meadow,
Or beneath the orchard's shadow,

Keepest up a constant rattle
Joyous as my children's prattle,
Welcome to the north again!
Welcome to mine ear thy strain,
Welcome to mine eye the sight
Of thy buff, thy black and white.
Brighter plumes may greet the sun
By the banks of Amazon;
Sweeter tones may weave the spell,
Of enchanting Philomel;
But the tropic bird would fail,
And the English nightingale,
If we should compare their worth
With thine endless, gushing mirth.

When the ides of May are past,
June and Summer nearing fast,

While from depths of blue above
Comes the mighty breath of love,
Calling out each bud and flower
With resistless, secret power,—
Waking hope and fond desire,
Kindling the erotic fire,-
Filling youths' and maidens' dreams
With mysterious pleasing themes;
Then, amid the sunlight clear
Floating in the fragrant air,

Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure
By thy glad ecstatic measure.

A single note, so sweet and low,
Like a full heart's overflow,
Forms the prelude; but the strain
Gives no such tone again,
For the wild and saucy song
Leaps and skips the notes among,
With such quick and sportive play,
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay.

Gayest songster of the Spring!
Thy melodies before me bring
Visions of some dream-built land,
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned,
I might walk the livelong day,
Embosomed in perpetual May.
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows;
For thee a tempest never blows;

But when our northern Summer's o'er,
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore
The wild rice lifts its airy head,
And royal feasts for thee are spread.
And when the Winter threatens there,
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear,
But bear thee to more southern coasts,
Far beyond the reach of frosts.

Bobolink! still may thy gladness
Take from me all taints of sadness;
Fill my soul with trust unshaken
In that Being who has taken
Care for every living thing,
In Summer, Winter, Fall and Spring.
THOMAS HILL.

SONG OF THE RIVER. NLEAR and cool, clear and cool, By laughing shallow and dreaming pool; Cool and clear, cool and clear, By shining shingle and foaming weir; Under the crag where the ouzel sings,