MY BIRD.

E'ER last year's moon had left the sky,
A birdling sought my Indian nest,
And folded, O, so lovingly!

Her tiny wings upon my breast.

From morn till evening's purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies;
Two rose leaves, with a silken fringe,
Shut softly on her starry eyes.

There's not in Ind a lovelier bird;
Broad earth owns not a happier nest;
O God, thou hast a fountain stirred,
Whose waters never more shall rest!

This beautiful, mysterious thing,
This seeming visitant from heaven,
This bird with the immortal wing,
To me, to me, thy hand has given.

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,

The blood its crimson hue, from mine This life, which I have dared invoke, Henceforth is parallel with thine.

:

Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise;

Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer:

Room for my bird in Paradise,

And give her angel plumage there!

TO MRS. JUDSON.

66

SUGGESTED BY HER POEM MY BIRD."

AND does thy bird, so loved, so fair,
Still with its presence bless thy home?
Then thou indeed, most happy there,
For earthly joys need'st never roam.

But ah! a bird as fair as thine

And fairer earth hath never known
I once could call, with fondness, mine;
But now, alas! that bird hath flown.

O long, full long, mayst thou be spared The anguish that my heart doth know, And with glad songs may thy sweet bird Cheer thee wherever thou shalt go.

And as it learns, when thou art lone,

To charm thee with its sweetest lays, Then thou canst teach that infant voice To soar to heaven in grateful praise.

And O, did not old "ocean roll"
Between thy happy home and mine,
I'd hasten to thy Indian cot,

And share thy joys—yes, even thine!

I'd woo that little bird to me,

And fold it to my throbbing breast, And there in safety might it lie,

Where late my own was all so blest.

Say, when at night thy "birdling" fair
Doth fold its tiny wings to rest,
Wilt thou not crave, in secret prayer,
Blessings on this deserted nest?

MRS. JUDSON'S BURIAL AT ST. HELENA.

MOURNFULLY, tenderly,

Bear onward the dead,

Where the warrior has lain,
Let the Christian be laid;

No place more befitting,
O Rock of the sea!
Never such treasure
Was hidden in thee.

Mournfully, tenderly,
Solemn and slow,-

Tears are bedewing

The path as ye go;

Kindred and strangers
Are mourners to-day;

Gently

so, gently,

O, bear her away.

EARLY PIETY.

Ecclesiastes, xii. 1.

O, COME, pluck sweet flowers

In life's earliest hours,

Entwine a bright wreath for thy brow; That their fragrance may last

When thy skies are o'ercast,

Their perfume around thy path throw.

When thy young eye is bright,

When thy spirits are light,

Go, gather the sweet flowers of love;

Let meekness and truth

Be the flowers of thy youth,

And that kindness which comes from above.

Let wisdom direct

Thy young hand to select

Those flowerets which never decay;

Let faith and hope bind

A bouquet for the mind,

Fading not in life's wintry day.

Let the pages of truth

Fill thy memory, in youth,

With their precepts and lessons sublime;

With a peace-loving mind,

With good will to mankind,

Those jewels untarnished by time.