Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/314

310 Is your refectory, and the light leaf That shivers on the gale, and the seamed trunk, And the fresh furrow where the ploughman treads, Show to your microscopic glance a feast Ready and full. Our Father feedeth you! Ye gather not in store-house, or in barn, But seek your meat from Him. Would that we shared Your simple faith,—we who so duly ask Our daily bread, and yet distrust His hand Who feeds all creatures and upbraideth not. And when our homes below are desolate, Even like your empty nest, my winged ones, And when their eyes, who loved us here below, Shall seek and find us not, may we have risen Where melody shall know no dissonance, And love no parting flight.

The habits of the migratory birds form a fruitful subject of observation and inquiry. The unerring instinct that guides them through the trackless fields of air, avoiding the hostility of birds of prey, the comparative mystery of their residence in far distant regions, and the punctuality of their return, increase our respect for these winged friends, who from their lodgings upon the Sultan's harem, or amid the gardens of the Nile, remember their brown nest in the thorn-hedge, or the cottage-roof, and compass earth and ocean to rebuild it.