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SELECT POETRY

A moment and the quarry’s! ta’en,

The falconer’s cry sounds forth amain,

The true hawk soars and soars again, ©
Nor once the game is missed

And thus the jocund day is spent,

In joyous sport and merriment;

And baron bold were well content,

To fell his wood, and pawn his rent,
For the hawk upon his wrist .

Oh, falcon proud, and goshawk gay,
Your pride of place has passed away,
The lone wood is your home by day,
Your resting perch by night,
The craggy rock your castle-tower,
The gay green wood your “ ladies’ bower,”
Your own wild will, the master power
That can control your flight !
Yet, noble bird, old fame is thine,
Still livest thou in the minstrel’s line ;
Still in old pictures art the sign
Of high and pure degree ;
And still, with kindling hearts we read,
How barons came to Runnymead,
Falcon on wrist, to do the deed
That made all England free !
Mary Howitt.

UNKIND REFLECTIONS.
On! never let us lightly fling
A barb? of woe to wound another ;

} Quarry—prey.
? Barb—an arrow.