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BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
And guideth their caravan's trackless way
By the star at night and the cloud by day.
The Indian fig, with its arching screen,
Welcomes them in to its vistas green,—
And the breathing buds of the spicy tree,
Thrill at the burst of their melody;
And the bulbul starts, and his carol clear,
Such a rushing of stranger-wings to hear.
O wild-wood wanderers! though far away
From your summer homes in our vales ye stray,
Yet when they awake at the call of spring,
We shall see you again with your glancing wing,
Your nest mid yon waving trees to raise,
And teach our spirits their Maker's praise.
