The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 17, No. 476, February 12, 1831

As if this universal blossoming
Too soon would fade away, or instantly take wing.

What beauty in the swelling upland green,
On which the fleecy flock in sportive play,
And mirth, and gambol innocent, are seen.
What pleasure through the scented copse to stray,
And hear the stock dove coo its am'rous lay,
Or climb the steep hill's side, beneath whose height
Dashing afar, like drifted snow, their spray;
The waves of ocean with an angry might,
Flash in the purple dawn, majestically bright.

Yet 'midst this union of benignant tones,
How fares it with the reasonable part
Of God's created glories? Man disowns
Not to give thanks; but skilled by human art
To screen the passions of a grateful heart;
He walks encircled by philosophy, whose creed
Allows no outward semblance, to impart
One trace of joyousness that may exceed
Those coldly rigid rules on which it loves to feed.

And therefore balmy spring, with all its joys,
Its pomp of early leaves, and thrilling lays,
And ceaseless chime of song (that never cloys,
Altho' the winds be redolent of praise.)
Wakes not in man that stupor of amaze,
Bird, beast, and plant, in universal choir,
Pay to Almighty in a thousand ways,
That sterner reason's votaries would flout,
Giving their tardy homage in mistrust and doubt.

Not so with me. I never feel the spring
Come on in beauty, but my swelling soul
Seems ready in its gush of joy, to fling
All trammels off, that would in aught control
Its wild pulsation. O'er it feelings roll
Too mighty for expression; and each sense
Appears to be commingled in one whole;
Whose sum of ecstacy is so intense,
It finds no home to garner it, but in omnipotence.

J.H.H

POLISH PATRIOT'S APPEAL

(For the Mirror.)

Rise fellow men! our country yet remains
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,
And swear with her to live—for her to die.

    CAMPBELL.
Have we not proved our country's worth—the country of the free?
Have we not raised the tyrant's foot—and struck for liberty—
The giant foot that on us fell, in war's tremendous fall—
The mighty weight that bore us down and held our arms in thrall?

Have we not risked our homes, our all, at Freedom's glorious shrine,
And dared the vengeance of the Russ, whose sway is yclept divine?
And have we not appealed to arms—our last and dearest right!
And is not ours a sacred cause, a just and holy fight?

Yes, on Sarmatia's bleeding form Oppression's fetters rang,
And Liberty's last dying dirge the Northern trumpet sang:
Our hopes were buried in the grave where Kosciusko lies;
There came not friendship then from earth—nor mercy from the skies!

But Heaven has roused the Polish slave and bid him rend his chains,
And now we rank among the free—"Our country yet remains:"
Again we seek our native rights by God and Nature given—
A people's right unto their soil from us unjustly riven.

We call upon the honoured brave—the free of every land—
For succour from the powerful—for aid from every strand:
We ask for every good man's prayer—we call for help on high;
Ye shades of Poland's slaughtered sons, look on propitiously.

We fight the fight of nations—bear witness field and storm
To our desert hereafter? Now we are but braggarts warm—
But by our honest cause, we swear, ere they our land retake,
Each town shall he a charnel tomb—each field a gory lake!

CYMBELINE

THE NATURALIST

ANECDOTES OF PARROTS

(For the Mirror.)

"Who taught the Parrot human notes to try?
'Twas witty want, fierce hunger to appease."

    DRYDEN.
A parrot belonging to the sister of the Comte de Buffon (says Bingley,) "would frequently speak to himself, and seem to fancy that some one addressed him. He often asked for his paw, and answered by holding it up. Though he liked to hear the voice of children, he seemed to have an antipathy to them; he pursued them, and bit them till he drew blood. He had also his objects of attachment; and though his choice was not very nice, it was constant. He was excessively fond of the cook-maid; followed her everywhere, sought for, and seldom missed finding her. If she had been some time out of his sight, the bird climbed with his bill and claws to her shoulders, and lavished on her caresses. His fondness had all the marks of close and warm friendship. The girl happened to have a very sore finger, which was tedious in healing, and so painful as to make her scream. While she uttered her moans the parrot never left her chamber. The first thing he did every day, was to pay her a visit; and this tender condolence lasted the whole time of the cure, when he again returned to his former calm and settled attachment. Yet this strong predilection for the girl seems to have been more directed to her office in the kitchen, than to her person; for, when another cook-maid succeeded her, the parrot showed the same degree of fondness[3 - Pot or kitchen love.] to the new comer, the very first day."

Bingley also says, "Willoughby tells us of a parrot, which when a person said to it, 'laugh, Poll, laugh,' laughed accordingly, and the instant after screamed out, 'What a fool to make me laugh.' Another which had grown old with its master, shared with him the infirmities of age. Being accustomed to hear scarcely anything but the words, 'I am sick;' when a person asked it, 'How do you do, Poll? how d'ye do?'—'I am sick,' it replied, in a doleful tone, stretching itself along, 'I am sick.'"