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MY BROTHER'S CHILDREN.

YOUNG wanderers by the mountain-streams,
Whose days are all like sunny dreams,
To you, from woodlands far away,

I come, with legend and with lay:
Songs of many a tuneful bird,

Amid your own green vallies heard;
Warblers whose strains are full of glee,
Blythe as your own blythe songs can be;
And tale, and sketch, and song I bring,
Of birds who wave the glossy wing,
And sing their tiny broods to rest,
In the deep forests of the west.

Of other songsters too I tell,
Who in fair eastern gardens dwell,
Sipping the dews from Indian flowers,
And nestling in the spicy bowers.

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TO MY BROTHER'S CHILDREN.

Young dwellers in Glamorgan's vale,
Who listen to my woodland tale,
For you, where'er your footsteps rove,
O'er moor or mountain, mead or grove,
May some sweet wild bird hovering near,
Your course with gentle music cheer!
Nor listen ye with thankless heart,
But in their raptures bear a part;
And when the skylark's early song
Is heard your pleasant fields among,
Out-pouring on the morning sky
His rapture-breathing melody,

Gaze on him, as afar he flies,

And let your thoughts to heaven arise;
Reminded, by his joyous lays,

What fervent prayer, what ardent praise,
Are hourly due to Him, whose voice

Calls on all nature to rejoice.

Sustained by His almighty power,
And crown'd with blessings ev'ry hour;
Unworthy of the least of these,

Like the good patriarch, on our knees,
Let us, with humbled hearts, confess
His love and our unworthiness.
Unnumber'd mercies from his hand,
Our daily, hourly praise demand.

When morning dawns with radiant light,
Chasing the shadows of the night,
Waking to life each warbling bird,
Then let our cheerful hymns be heard;
When evening comes with soften'd beam,
Let praise be still our grateful theme.

In yon bright world, th' angelic throng
Sing, day and night, their heavenly song;
From earth let feebler notes arise,

To join the chorus of the skies.

WYARDS, November, 1831.