The heavens declare thy glory, Lord;
    In every star thy wisdom shines;
  But when our eyes behold thy word,
    We read thy name in fairer lines.
God’s Word and Works.  DR. I. WATTS.

Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true. Truth.  W. COWPER.

  A glory gilds the sacred page,
    Majestic like the sun,
  It gives a light to every age,
    It gives, but borrows none.
Olney Hymns.  W. COWPER.

  Starres are poore books, and oftentimes do misse;
    This book starres lights to eternal blisse.
The Church:  The Holy Scriptures, Pt.  II.  G. HERBERT.

BIRDS.

  Do you ne’er think what wondrous beings these? 
  Do you ne’er think who made them, and who taught
  The dialect they speak, where melodies
    Alone are the interpreters of thought? 
  Whose household words are songs in many keys,
    Sweeter than instrument of man e’er caught!
Tales of a Wayside Inn:  The Poet’s Tale.  H.W.  LONGFELLOW.

  I shall not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau
  If birds confabulate or no. 
  ’T is clear that they were always able
  To hold discourse—­at least in fable.
Pairing Time Anticipated.  W. COWPER.

  The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake;
  The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove: 
  Nor are the linnets, o’er the flowering furze
  Poured out profusely, silent.  Joined to these,
  Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade
  Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix
  Mellifluous.  The jay, the rook, the daw,
  And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,
  Aid the full concert:  while the stock-dove breathes
  A melancholy murmur through the whole.
The Seasons:  Spring.  J. THOMSON.

Whither away, Bluebird,
Whither away? 
The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky
Thou still canst find the color of thy wing,
The hue of May. 
Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why,
Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring? 
Whither away?
Flight of Birds.  E.C.  STEDMAN.

The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate,
Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight.
Spring.  O.W.  HOLMES.

One day in the bluest of summer weather,
Sketching under a whispering oak,
I heard five bobolinks laughing together,
Over some ornithological joke.
Bird Language.  C.P.  CRANCH.

  Sing away, ay, sing away,
      Merry little bird. 
    Always gayest of the gay,
    Though a woodland roundelay
      You ne’er sung nor heard;
  Though your life from youth to age
  Passes in a narrow cage.
The Canary in his Cage.  D.M.  MULOCK CRAIK.

  The cook, that is the trumpet to the morn. 
  Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
  A wake the god of day.
Hamlet.  Act i. Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE.