Ii

This Moss-Lined shed, green, soft, and dry, Harbours a self-contented Wren, Not shunning man's abode, though shy, Almost as thought itself, of human ken.

Strange places, coverts unendeared, She never tried; the very nest In which this Child of Spring was reared, Is warmed, thro' winter, by her feathery breast.

To the bleak winds she sometimes gives A slender unexpected strain; Proof that the hermitess still lives, Though she appear not, and be sought in vain.

Say, Dora! tell me, by yon placid moon, If called to choose between the favoured pair, Which would you be,--the bird of the saloon, By lady-fingers tended with nice care, Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed, Or Nature's DARKLING of this mossy shed?

The "moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry," still remains at Rydal Mount, as it was in the poet's time.--ED.