130 SELECT POETRY

When every hedge as with “good-morrow” rings,

And, heard from wood to wood, the blackbird sings ?

Oh! who would keep a little bird confined

In his cold wiry prison ?—Let him fly,

And hear him sing, “ How sweet is liberty :”
WL. Bowles.

 

THE STREAMLET.

I saw a little streamlet flow
Along a peaceful vale,

A thread of silver, soft and slow,
It wandered down the dale ;

Just to do good it seemed to move,

Directed by the hand of Love.

The valley smiled in living green ;
A tree, which near it gave
From noon-tide heat a friendly screen,
Drank from its limpid! wave.
The swallow brushed it with her wing,
And followed its meandering.’

But not alone to plant and bird
That little stream was known,
Its gentle murmur far was heard —~

A friend’s familiar tone !
It glided by the cotter’s$ door,
It blessed: the labour of the poor.

And would that I could thus be found,
While travelling life’s brief way,

' Limpid—clear. * Meandering—winding course.
3 Cotter—cottager.