Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,

Wearing a bright black wedding coat;
White are his shoulders and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

Look, what a nice new coat is mine,
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she,

One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man ; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seed for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;

This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made

Sober with work, and silent with care;

Off is his holiday garment laid,

Half forgotten that merry air,

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

PERSEVERANCE.

A SWALLOW in the spring

Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring Wet earth and straw and leaves.

Day after day she toiled

With patient art, but ere her work was crowned, Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,

And dashed it to the ground.

She found the ruin wrought,

But not cast down, forth from the place she flew, And with her mate fresh earth and grasses brought And built her nest anew.

But scarcely had she placed The last soft feather on its ample floor, When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste And wrought the ruin o'er.

But still her heart she kept, And toiled again, - and last night, hearing calls, I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept Within the earth-made walls.

What truth is here, O man! Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn? Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, trust, or plan? Have faith, and struggle on!

R. S. S. ANDROS.

THE SWALLOW.

THE gorse is yellow on the heath,

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding; and beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath of May.

THE rain-drops plash, and the dead leaves fall, On spire and cornice and mould;

The swallows gather, and twitter and call, "We must follow the summer, come one, come all For the winter is now so cold."

Just listen awhile to the wordy war,

As to whither the way shall tend, Says one, "I know the skies are fair And myriad insects float in air

Where the ruins of Athens stand.

"And every year when the brown leaves fall,
In a niche of the Parthenon

I build my nest on the corniced wall,
In the trough of a devastating ball
From the Turk's besieging gun."

Says another, "My cosey home I fit
On a Smyrna grande café,
Where over the threshold Hadjii sit,
And smoke their pipes and their coffee sip,
Dreaming the hours away."

Another says, "I prefer the nave

Of a temple of Baalbec;

There my little ones lie when the palm-trees wave,

And, perching near on the architrave,

I fill each open beak."

"Ah!" says the last, "I build my nest
Far up on the Nile's green shore,
Where Memnon raises his stony crest,
And turns to the sun as he leaves his rest,
But greets him with song no more.

"In his ample neck is a niche so wide,
And withal so deep and free,

A thousand swallows their nests can hide,
And a thousand little ones rear beside,
Then come to the Nile with me."

They go, they go, to the river and plain, To ruined city and town,

They leave me alone with the cold again, Beside the tomb where my joys are lain, With hope like the swallows flown.

GAUTIER (French).

A DOUBTING HEART.

WHERE are the swallows fled?

Frozen and dead

Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.

O doubting heart!

Far over purple seas

They wait, in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze

To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Why must the flowers die?

Prisoned they lie

In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

O doubting heart!

They only sleep below

The soft white ermine snow

While winter winds shall blow,

To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays

These many days;

Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
O doubting heart!

The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same sunny sky

That soon, for spring is nigh,

Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night;

What sound can break the silence of despair? O doubting heart!

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe.

The fairest fruit her hand hath culled,

"T is for her lover all :

Thither, - yes! thither will I go,

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain,
She has placed the lemons pale :
Thither, yes! thither will I go,
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

GIL VICENTE (Portuguese). Translation
of JOHN BOWRING.