Bird of the broad and sweeping wing,
Thy home is high in heaven,
Where wide the storms their banners fling. 
And the tempest clouds are driven.
To the Eagle.  J.G.  PERCIVAL.

                               Where, the hawk,
  High in the beetling cliff, his aery builds.
The Seasons:  Spring.  J. THOMSON.

And the, humming-bird that hung
Like a jewel up among
The tilted honeysuckle horns
They mesmerized and swung
In the palpitating air,
Drowsed with odors strange and rare,
And, with whispered laughter, slipped away
And left him hanging there.
The South Wind and the Sun.  J.W.  RILEY.

    “Most musical, most melancholy” bird! 
  A melancholy bird!  Oh! idle thought! 
    In nature there is nothing melancholy.
The Nightingale.  S.T.  COLERIDGE.

  Then from the neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers,
  Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o’er the water,
  Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,
  That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.
Evangeline, Pt.  II.  H.W.  LONGFELLOW.

Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed. The Village Curate.  J. HURDIS.

  The merry lark he soars on high,
    No worldly thought o’ertakes him. 
  He sings aloud to the clear blue sky,
    And the daylight that awakes him.
Song.  H. COLERIDGE.

  What bird so sings, yet so does wail? 
  O, ’tis the ravished nightingale—­
  Jug, jug, jug, jug—­tereu—­she cries,
  And still her woes at midnight rise. 
  Brave prick-song! who is’t now we hear? 
  None but the lark so shrill and clear,
  Now at heaven’s gate she claps her wings,
  The morn not waking till she sings. 
  Hark, hark! but what a pretty note,
  Poor Robin-redbreast tunes his throat;
  Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing
  “Cuckoo!” to welcome in the spring.
Alexander and Campaspe, Act v.  Sc. 1.  JOHN LYLY.

  O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
    Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still;
    Thou with fresh hope the lover’s heart dost fill
  While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. 
  Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day,

* * * * *

Portend success in love.
To the Nightingale.  MILTON.

  O honey-throated warbler of the grove! 
  That in the glooming woodland art so proud
  Of answering thy sweet mates in soft or loud,
  Thou dost not own a note we do not love.
To the Nightingale.  C.T.  TURNER.

  Lend me your song, ye Nightingales!  O, pour
  The mazy-running soul of melody
  Into my varied verse.
The Seasons:  Spring.  J. THOMSON.