FANNY GREVILLE

Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,

That, like the needle true, Turns at the touch of joy or woe,

But, turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound,

'Tis pain in each degree: 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound,

Beyond is agony.

��JOHN LOGAN

476. To the Cuckoo

T T AIL, beauteous stranger of the grove !

• -* Thou messenger of Spring !

Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome ring.

What time the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear : Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant ! with thee

I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wand'ring through the wood

To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

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