TO THE MEADOW LARK.

Up from dewy grass, while yet ’tis dark— On trembling pinions, soars the meadow lark; His brilliant vest like ruddy orange glows; From slender throat, the liquid music flows. Dear flute-like warbler of the wood and field, Before him all his rivals bow and yield! The ambient air, with fluttering wing he beats; With song ecstatic, early morn he greets. High, high he rises; and his peans float,— While listening Nature revels in his note. —J. Mayne Baltimore.