POETRY.
TO A LARK SINGING IN THE BLACK COUNTRY.
0 BONNIE bird, thou surely art not wise To nestle in this poor pretence of grass, To bear aloft into our grimy skies Thy song divine ; thou who at choice mightst pass, On lightest soaring wing, To where the Spring indeed is Spring ; Where the "live murmur" may be heard Of all the woodland's quickening powers, Roused from the winter sleep by April showers; Or where, beneath blue heavens unblured By smoke, young wheatfields spread Their carpet green ; or where thro' the rich soil so red, That knows not coal, the ploughman drives his labouring team; Or where the clear, cool stream Runs by banks all primrose set ; There would I lie and dream my dream Of life without its modern fume and fret, Were I like thee, All fancy free, Thou foolish bird.
Yet churl am I to call thee fool; For thee methinks that God bath sent, So to forbid our discontent, Our dullard hearts to school, And teach that joy can live though verdure die, And hope beam bright beneath a darkened sky.
WRAY W. HUNT.
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