THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD. Thou hast not, to adorn thee, girl, My arch and playful little creature, He marshals minds to Beauty's feast- Who proves, by heavenly forms on earth, The only things that could be given Back, and alive-unchanged-to Heaven. 363 THE PARROT. A DOMESTIC ANECDOTE. THE following incident, so strongly illustrating the power of memory and association in the lower animals, is not a fiction. I heard it many years ago in the Island of Mull, from the family to whom the bird belonged. THE deep affections of the breast, A parrot, from the Spanish Main, Full young, and early caged, came o’er With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mulla's shore. To spicy groves where he had won He bade adieu. For these he changed the smoke of turf, His golden eye. But, petted, in our climate cold He lived and chatter'd many a day: Until with age, from green and gold His wings grew gray. At last, when blind and seeming dumb, He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech, SONG OF THE COLONISTS DEPARTING FOR NEW ZEALAND. STEER, helmsman, till you steer our way, By stars beyond the line; We go to found a realm, one day, Like England's self to shine. CHORUS. Cheer up-cheer up our course we'll keep, With dauntless heart and hand; And when we've plough'd the stormy deep, We'll plough a smiling land:— A land, where beauties importune The Briton to its bowers, To sow but plenteous seeds, and prune Luxuriant fruits and flowers. Chorus.-Cheer up-cheer up, &c. There, tracts uncheer'd by human words, Seclusion's wildest holds, Shall hear the lowing of our herds, And tinkling of our folds. Chorus. Cheer up-cheer up, &c. Like rubies set in gold, shall blush Chorus-Cheer up-cheer up, &c. Britannia's pride is in our hearts, Her blood is in our veins- CHORUS. Cheer up-cheer up-our course we'll keep, With dauntless heart and hand; And when we've plough'd the stormy deep, We'll plough a smiling land. MOONLIGHT. THE kiss that would make a maid's cheek flush Wroth, as if kissing were a sin Amidst the Argus eyes and din And tell-tale glare of noon, Brings but a murmur and a blush, Beneath the modest moon. Ye days, gone-never to come back, 'Twas moonlight, when my earliest love First on my bosom dropt her head; A moment then concentrated The bliss of years, as if the spheres Their course had faster driven, And carried, Enoch-like above, A living man to Heaven. |