III.

A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill
Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound:
Then - all at once the air was still,.
And showers of hailstones pattered round.
Where leafless Oaks towered high above,
I sat within an undergrove

Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floor
With withered leaves is covered o'er,
And all the year the bower is green.
But see! where'er the hailstones drop,
The withered leaves all skip and hop,
There's not a breeze no breath of air
Yet here, and there, and every where

Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,
The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if with pipes and music rare

Some Robin Good-fellow were there,
And all those leaves, in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy.

IV.

THE GREEN LINNET.

BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,

In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my Orchard-seat!

And Birds and Flowers once more to greet,
My last year's Friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest Guest

In all this covert of the blest:

Hail to Thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion, Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,

Presiding Spirit here to-day,

Dost lead the revels of the May,

And this is thy dominion.

While Birds, and Butterflies, and Flowers Make all one Band of Paramours,

Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment;

A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair,
Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,

Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,

That cover him all over.

My sight he dazzles, half deceives,
A Bird so like the dancing Leaves;
Then flits, and from the Cottage eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;

As if by that exulting strain

He mocked and treated with disdain

The voiceless Form he chose to feign,

While fluttering in the bushes.

V.

THE CONTRAST.

WITHIN her gilded cage confined,

I saw a dazzling Belle,

A Parrot of that famous kind
Whose name is NON-PAREIL.

Like beads of glossy jet her eyes; And, smoothed by Nature's skill, With pearl or gleaming agate vies

Her finely-curved bill.

Her plumy Mantle's living hues

In mass opposed to mass,

Outshine the splendour that imbues

The robes of pictured glass.

And, sooth to say, an apter Mate

Did never tempt the choice

Of feathered Thing most delicate
In figure and in voice.