My little doves have left a nestUpon an Indian tree,Whose leaves fantastic take their restOr motion from the sea;For, ever there, the sea-winds goWith sunlit paces to and fro.The tropic flowers looked up to it,The tropic stars looked down,And there my little doves did sit,With feathers softly brown,And glittering eyes that showed their rightTo general Nature's deep delight.My little doves were ta'en awayFrom that glad nest of theirs,Across an ocean rolling gray,And tempest clouded airs.My little doves,—who lately knewThe sky and wave by warmth and blue!And now, within the city prison,In mist and dullness pent,With sudden upward look they listenFor sounds of past content—For lapse of water, swell of breeze,Or nut-fruit falling from the trees.Soft falls their chant as on the nestBeneath the sunny zone;For love that stirred it in their breastHas not aweary grown,And 'neath the city's shade can keepThe well of music clear and deep.So teach ye me the wisest part,My little doves! to moveAlong the city-ways with heartAssured by holy love,And vocal with such songs as ownA fountain to the world unknown.
My little doves have left a nestUpon an Indian tree,Whose leaves fantastic take their restOr motion from the sea;For, ever there, the sea-winds goWith sunlit paces to and fro.
The tropic flowers looked up to it,The tropic stars looked down,And there my little doves did sit,With feathers softly brown,And glittering eyes that showed their rightTo general Nature's deep delight.
My little doves were ta'en awayFrom that glad nest of theirs,Across an ocean rolling gray,And tempest clouded airs.My little doves,—who lately knewThe sky and wave by warmth and blue!
And now, within the city prison,In mist and dullness pent,With sudden upward look they listenFor sounds of past content—For lapse of water, swell of breeze,Or nut-fruit falling from the trees.
Soft falls their chant as on the nestBeneath the sunny zone;For love that stirred it in their breastHas not aweary grown,And 'neath the city's shade can keepThe well of music clear and deep.
So teach ye me the wisest part,My little doves! to moveAlong the city-ways with heartAssured by holy love,And vocal with such songs as ownA fountain to the world unknown.
Mrs. Browning.
I stood in the quiet piazza,Where come rude noises never;But the feet of children, the wings of doves,Are sounding on forever.And the cooing of their soft voices,And the touch of the rippling sea,And the ringing clock of the armèd knight,Came through the noon to me.While their necks with rainbow gleaming,'Neath the dark old arches shone,And the campanile's shadow long,Moved o'er the pavement stone.And from every "coigne of vantage,"Where lay some hidden nest,They fluttered, peeped, and glistened forth,Sacred, serene, at rest.I thought of thy saint, O Venice!Who said in his tenderness,"I love thy birds, my Father dear,Our lives they cheer and bless!"For love is not for men only;To the tiniest little thingsGive room to nestle in our hearts;Give freedom to all wings!"And the lovely, still piazza,Seemed with his presence blest,And I, and the children, and the doves,Partakers of his rest.
I stood in the quiet piazza,Where come rude noises never;But the feet of children, the wings of doves,Are sounding on forever.
And the cooing of their soft voices,And the touch of the rippling sea,And the ringing clock of the armèd knight,Came through the noon to me.
While their necks with rainbow gleaming,'Neath the dark old arches shone,And the campanile's shadow long,Moved o'er the pavement stone.
And from every "coigne of vantage,"Where lay some hidden nest,They fluttered, peeped, and glistened forth,Sacred, serene, at rest.
I thought of thy saint, O Venice!Who said in his tenderness,"I love thy birds, my Father dear,Our lives they cheer and bless!
"For love is not for men only;To the tiniest little thingsGive room to nestle in our hearts;Give freedom to all wings!"
And the lovely, still piazza,Seemed with his presence blest,And I, and the children, and the doves,Partakers of his rest.
Laura Winthrop Johnson.
There sitteth a dove so white and fair,All on the lily spray,And she listeneth how, to Jesus Christ,The little children pray.Lightly she spreads her friendly wings,And to heaven's gate hath sped,And unto the Father in heaven she bearsThe prayers which the children have said.And back she comes from heaven's gate,And brings—that dove so mild—From the Father in heaven, who hears her speak,A blessing for every child.Then, children, lift up a pious prayer,It hears whatever you say,That heavenly dove, so white and fair,That sits on the lily spray.
There sitteth a dove so white and fair,All on the lily spray,And she listeneth how, to Jesus Christ,The little children pray.
Lightly she spreads her friendly wings,And to heaven's gate hath sped,And unto the Father in heaven she bearsThe prayers which the children have said.
And back she comes from heaven's gate,And brings—that dove so mild—From the Father in heaven, who hears her speak,A blessing for every child.
Then, children, lift up a pious prayer,It hears whatever you say,That heavenly dove, so white and fair,That sits on the lily spray.
Frederika Bremer.
Whistles the quail from the covert,Whistles with all his might,High and shrill, day after day,"Children, tell me, what does he say?"Ginx—(the little one, bold and bright,Sure that he understands aright)—"He says, 'Bob White! Bob White!'"Calls the quail from the cornfield,Thick with stubble set;Misty rain-clouds floating byHide the blue of the August sky."What does he call now, loud and plain?"Gold Locks—"That's a sign of rain!He calls 'More wet! more wet!'"Pipes the quail from the fence-top,Perched there full in sight,Quaint and trim, with quick, bright eye,Almost too round and plump to fly,Whistling, calling, piping clear,"What doIthink he says? My dear,He says 'Do right! do right!'"
Whistles the quail from the covert,Whistles with all his might,High and shrill, day after day,"Children, tell me, what does he say?"Ginx—(the little one, bold and bright,Sure that he understands aright)—"He says, 'Bob White! Bob White!'"
Calls the quail from the cornfield,Thick with stubble set;Misty rain-clouds floating byHide the blue of the August sky."What does he call now, loud and plain?"Gold Locks—"That's a sign of rain!He calls 'More wet! more wet!'"
Pipes the quail from the fence-top,Perched there full in sight,Quaint and trim, with quick, bright eye,Almost too round and plump to fly,Whistling, calling, piping clear,"What doIthink he says? My dear,He says 'Do right! do right!'"
Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.
The snowflakes are drifting round windows and door;The chilly winds whistle "Remember the poor;"Remember the birds, too, out on yonder tree;I hear one just singing a Chick-a-dee-dee.Throw out a few crumbs! you've enough and to spare;They need through the winter your kindness and care;And they will repay you with heartiest glee,By constantly singing a Chick-a-dee-dee.Each morning you'll see them go hopping around,Though little they find on the cold frozen ground;Yet never disheartened! on each bush and tree,They merrily carol a Chick-a-dee-dee.Oh! sweet little songster; so fearless and bold!Your little pink feet—do they never feel cold?Have you a warm shelter at night for your bed,Where under your wing you can tuck your brown head?Though cold grows the season you seem not to care,But cheerily warble though frosty the air;Though short are the days, and the nights are so long,And most of your playmates are scattered and gone.The snowflakes are drifting round window and door,And chilly winds whistle behind and before,Yet never discouraged, on each bush and tree,You'll hear the sweet carol of Chick-a-dee-dee.
The snowflakes are drifting round windows and door;The chilly winds whistle "Remember the poor;"Remember the birds, too, out on yonder tree;I hear one just singing a Chick-a-dee-dee.
Throw out a few crumbs! you've enough and to spare;They need through the winter your kindness and care;And they will repay you with heartiest glee,By constantly singing a Chick-a-dee-dee.
Each morning you'll see them go hopping around,Though little they find on the cold frozen ground;Yet never disheartened! on each bush and tree,They merrily carol a Chick-a-dee-dee.
Oh! sweet little songster; so fearless and bold!Your little pink feet—do they never feel cold?Have you a warm shelter at night for your bed,Where under your wing you can tuck your brown head?
Though cold grows the season you seem not to care,But cheerily warble though frosty the air;Though short are the days, and the nights are so long,And most of your playmates are scattered and gone.
The snowflakes are drifting round window and door,And chilly winds whistle behind and before,Yet never discouraged, on each bush and tree,You'll hear the sweet carol of Chick-a-dee-dee.
Mrs. C. F. Berry.
What is the happiest morning song?The Linnet's. He warbles, blithe and free,In the sunlit top of the old elm-tree,Joyous and fresh, and hopeful and strong.The trees are not high enough, little bird;You mount and wheel, and eddy and soar,And with every turn yet more and moreYour wonderful, ravishing music is heard.A crimson speck in the bright blue sky,Do you search for the secret of heaven's deep glow?Is not heavenwithin, when you carol so?Then why, dear bird, must you soar so high?He answers nothing, but soars and sings;He heeds no doubtful question like this.He only bubbles over with bliss,And sings, and mounts on winning wings.
What is the happiest morning song?The Linnet's. He warbles, blithe and free,In the sunlit top of the old elm-tree,Joyous and fresh, and hopeful and strong.
The trees are not high enough, little bird;You mount and wheel, and eddy and soar,And with every turn yet more and moreYour wonderful, ravishing music is heard.
A crimson speck in the bright blue sky,Do you search for the secret of heaven's deep glow?Is not heavenwithin, when you carol so?Then why, dear bird, must you soar so high?
He answers nothing, but soars and sings;He heeds no doubtful question like this.He only bubbles over with bliss,And sings, and mounts on winning wings.
Harriet E. Paine:Bird Songs of New England.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:Come, hear the woodland Linnet,How sweet his music! on my life,There's more of wisdom in it.And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings!He, too, is no mean preacher:Come forth into the light of things,Let Nature be your teacher.Sweet is the love which Nature brings:Our meddling intellectMisshapes the beauteous forms of things:We murder to dissect.Enough of Science and of Art:Close up these barren leaves:Come forth, and bring with you a heartThat watches and receives.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:Come, hear the woodland Linnet,How sweet his music! on my life,There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings!He, too, is no mean preacher:Come forth into the light of things,Let Nature be your teacher.
Sweet is the love which Nature brings:Our meddling intellectMisshapes the beauteous forms of things:We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art:Close up these barren leaves:Come forth, and bring with you a heartThat watches and receives.
W. Wordsworth.
The deep affections of the breastThat heaven to living things imparts,Are not exclusively possessedBy human hearts.A Parrot, from the Spanish main,Full young and early caged came o'er,With bright wings, to the bleak domainOf Mulla's shore.To spicy groves where he had wonHis plumage of resplendent hue,His native fruits, and skies, and sun,He bade adieu.For these he changed the smoke of turf,A heathery land and misty sky,And turned on rocks and raging surfHis golden eye.But petted in our climate cold,He lived and chattered many a day:Until with age, from green and goldHis wings grew gray.At last when blind, and seeming dumb,He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more,A Spanish stranger chanced to comeTo Mulla's shore;He hailed the bird in Spanish speech,The bird in Spanish speech replied;Flapped round the cage with joyous screech,Dropt down, and died.
The deep affections of the breastThat heaven to living things imparts,Are not exclusively possessedBy human hearts.
A Parrot, from the Spanish main,Full young and early caged came o'er,With bright wings, to the bleak domainOf Mulla's shore.
To spicy groves where he had wonHis plumage of resplendent hue,His native fruits, and skies, and sun,He bade adieu.
For these he changed the smoke of turf,A heathery land and misty sky,And turned on rocks and raging surfHis golden eye.
But petted in our climate cold,He lived and chattered many a day:Until with age, from green and goldHis wings grew gray.
At last when blind, and seeming dumb,He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more,A Spanish stranger chanced to comeTo Mulla's shore;
He hailed the bird in Spanish speech,The bird in Spanish speech replied;Flapped round the cage with joyous screech,Dropt down, and died.
T. Campbell.
Behind us at our evening mealThe gray bird ate his fill,Swung downward by a single claw,And wiped his hookèd bill.He shook his wings and crimson tail,And set his head aslant,And, in his sharp, impatient way,Asked, "What does Charlie want?""Fie, silly bird!" I answered, "tuckYour head beneath your wing,And go to sleep;"—but o'er and o'erHe asked the selfsame thing.Then, smiling, to myself I said:—Howlike are men and birds!We all are saying what he says,In actions or in words.The boy with whip and top and drum,The girl with hoop and doll,And men with lands and houses, askThe question of Poor Poll.However full, with something moreWe fain the bag would cram;We sigh above our crowded netsFor fish that never swam.No bounty of indulgent HeavenThe vague desire can stay;Self-love is still a Tartar millFor grinding prayers alway.The dear God hears and pities all;He knoweth all our wants;And what we blindly ask of HimHis love withholds or grants.And so I sometimes think our prayersMight well be merged in one;And nest and perch and hearth and churchRepeat, "Thy will be done."
Behind us at our evening mealThe gray bird ate his fill,Swung downward by a single claw,And wiped his hookèd bill.
He shook his wings and crimson tail,And set his head aslant,And, in his sharp, impatient way,Asked, "What does Charlie want?"
"Fie, silly bird!" I answered, "tuckYour head beneath your wing,And go to sleep;"—but o'er and o'erHe asked the selfsame thing.
Then, smiling, to myself I said:—Howlike are men and birds!We all are saying what he says,In actions or in words.
The boy with whip and top and drum,The girl with hoop and doll,And men with lands and houses, askThe question of Poor Poll.
However full, with something moreWe fain the bag would cram;We sigh above our crowded netsFor fish that never swam.
No bounty of indulgent HeavenThe vague desire can stay;Self-love is still a Tartar millFor grinding prayers alway.
The dear God hears and pities all;He knoweth all our wants;And what we blindly ask of HimHis love withholds or grants.
And so I sometimes think our prayersMight well be merged in one;And nest and perch and hearth and churchRepeat, "Thy will be done."
John Greenleaf Whittier.
"Why, so I will, you noisy bird,This very day I'll advertise you,Perhaps some busy ones may prize you.A fine-tongued parrot as was ever heard,I'll word it thus—set forth all charms about you,And say no family should be without you."Thus far a gentleman addressed a bird;Then to his friend: "An old procrastinator,Sir, I am: do you wonder that I hate her?Though she but seven words can say,Twenty and twenty times a dayShe interferes with all my dreams,My projects, plans, and airy schemes,Mocking my foible to my sorrow:I'll advertise this bird to-morrow."To this the bird seven words did say:"Why not do it, sir, to-day?"
"Why, so I will, you noisy bird,This very day I'll advertise you,Perhaps some busy ones may prize you.A fine-tongued parrot as was ever heard,I'll word it thus—set forth all charms about you,And say no family should be without you."
Thus far a gentleman addressed a bird;Then to his friend: "An old procrastinator,Sir, I am: do you wonder that I hate her?Though she but seven words can say,Twenty and twenty times a dayShe interferes with all my dreams,My projects, plans, and airy schemes,Mocking my foible to my sorrow:I'll advertise this bird to-morrow."
To this the bird seven words did say:"Why not do it, sir, to-day?"
Charles And Mary Lamb.
Little bird, with bosom red,Welcome to my humble shed!Courtly domes of high degreeHave no room for thee and me;Pride and pleasure's fickle throngNothing mind an idle song.Daily near my table steal,While I pick my scanty meal:—Doubt not, little though there be,But I'll cast a crumb to thee;Well rewarded, if I spyPleasure in thy glancing eye;See thee, when thou'st eat thy fill,Plume thy breast and wipe thy bill.Come, my feathered friend, again?Well thou know'st the broken pane:—Ask of me thy daily store.
Little bird, with bosom red,Welcome to my humble shed!Courtly domes of high degreeHave no room for thee and me;Pride and pleasure's fickle throngNothing mind an idle song.Daily near my table steal,While I pick my scanty meal:—Doubt not, little though there be,But I'll cast a crumb to thee;Well rewarded, if I spyPleasure in thy glancing eye;See thee, when thou'st eat thy fill,Plume thy breast and wipe thy bill.Come, my feathered friend, again?Well thou know'st the broken pane:—Ask of me thy daily store.
J. Langhorne.
Ere pales in heaven the morning star,A bird, the loneliest of its kind,Hears dawn's faint footfall from afar,While all its mates are dumb and blind.It is a wee, sad-colored thing,As shy and secret as a maid,That, ere in choir the robins ring,Pipes its own name like one afraid.It seems pain-prompted to repeatThe story of some ancient ill,But Phoebe! Phoebe! sadly sweet,Is all it says, and then is still.It calls and listens: earth and sky,Hushed by the pathos of its fate,Listen: no whisper of replyComes from the doom-dissevered mate.Phoebe! it calls and calls again,And Ovid, could he but have heard,Had hung a legendary painAbout the memory of the bird;A pain articulate so longIn penance of some mouldered crime,Whose ghost still flies the furies' thongDown the waste solitudes of time;Phoebe! is all it has to sayIn plaintive cadence o'er and o'er,Like children that have lost their wayAnd know their names, but nothing more.Is it in type, since Nature's lyreVibrates to every note in man,Of that insatiable desireMeant to be so, since life began?I, in strange lands at gray of dawn,Wakeful, have heard that fruitless plaintThrough memory's chambers deep withdrawnRenew its iterations faint.So nigh! yet from remotest yearsIt seems to draw its magic, rifeWith longings unappeased, and tearsDrawn from the very source of life.
Ere pales in heaven the morning star,A bird, the loneliest of its kind,Hears dawn's faint footfall from afar,While all its mates are dumb and blind.
It is a wee, sad-colored thing,As shy and secret as a maid,That, ere in choir the robins ring,Pipes its own name like one afraid.
It seems pain-prompted to repeatThe story of some ancient ill,But Phoebe! Phoebe! sadly sweet,Is all it says, and then is still.
It calls and listens: earth and sky,Hushed by the pathos of its fate,Listen: no whisper of replyComes from the doom-dissevered mate.
Phoebe! it calls and calls again,And Ovid, could he but have heard,Had hung a legendary painAbout the memory of the bird;
A pain articulate so longIn penance of some mouldered crime,Whose ghost still flies the furies' thongDown the waste solitudes of time;
Phoebe! is all it has to sayIn plaintive cadence o'er and o'er,Like children that have lost their wayAnd know their names, but nothing more.
Is it in type, since Nature's lyreVibrates to every note in man,Of that insatiable desireMeant to be so, since life began?
I, in strange lands at gray of dawn,Wakeful, have heard that fruitless plaintThrough memory's chambers deep withdrawnRenew its iterations faint.
So nigh! yet from remotest yearsIt seems to draw its magic, rifeWith longings unappeased, and tearsDrawn from the very source of life.
James Russell Lowell: inScribner.
Welcome, O Stork! that dost wingThy flight from the far-away!Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring,Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.Descend, O Stork! descendUpon our roof to rest;In our ash-tree, O my friend,My darling, make thy nest.To thee, O Stork, I complain,O Stork, to thee I impartThe thousand sorrows, the painAnd aching of my heart.When thou away didst go,Away from this tree of ours,The withering winds did blow,And dried up all the flowers.Dark grew the brilliant sky,Cloudy and dark and drear;They were breaking the snow on high,And winter was drawing near.From Varaca's rocky wall,From the rock of Varaca unrolled,The snow came and covered all,And the green meadow was cold.O Stork, our garden with snowWas hidden away and lost,And the rose-trees that in it growWere withered by snow and frost.
Welcome, O Stork! that dost wingThy flight from the far-away!Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring,Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.
Descend, O Stork! descendUpon our roof to rest;In our ash-tree, O my friend,My darling, make thy nest.
To thee, O Stork, I complain,O Stork, to thee I impartThe thousand sorrows, the painAnd aching of my heart.
When thou away didst go,Away from this tree of ours,The withering winds did blow,And dried up all the flowers.
Dark grew the brilliant sky,Cloudy and dark and drear;They were breaking the snow on high,And winter was drawing near.
From Varaca's rocky wall,From the rock of Varaca unrolled,The snow came and covered all,And the green meadow was cold.
O Stork, our garden with snowWas hidden away and lost,And the rose-trees that in it growWere withered by snow and frost.
H. W. Longfellow.
The tradition of the storks at Delft (Holland), is, however, still alive, and no traveller writes about the city without remembering them.
The fact occurred at the time of the great fire which ruined almost all the city. There were in Delft innumerable storks' nests. It must be understood that the stork is the favorite bird of Holland; the bird of good fortune, like the swallow; welcome to all, because it makes war upon toads and frogs; that the peasants plant poles with circular floor of wood on top to attract them to make their nests, and that in some towns they may be seen walking in the streets. At Delft they were in great numbers. When the fire broke out, which was on the 3d May, the young storks were fledged, but could not yet fly. Seeing the fire approach, the parent storks attempted to carry their young out of danger; but they were too heavy; and, after having tried all sorts of desperate efforts, the poor birds were forced to give it up.
They might have saved themselves and have abandoned the little ones to their fate, as human creatures often do under similar circumstances. But they stayed upon their nests, gathered their little ones about them, covered them with their wings, as if to retard, as long as possible, the fatal moment, and so awaited death, in that loving and noble attitude.
And who shall say if, in the horrible dismay and flight from the flames, that example of self-sacrifice, that voluntary maternal martyrdom, may not have given strength and courage to some weak soul who was about to abandon those who had need of him.
De Amicis'Holland.
See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springsAnd mounts exulting on triumphant wings.Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold!
See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springsAnd mounts exulting on triumphant wings.Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold!
Pope.
Silent are all the sounds of day;Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets,And the cry of the herons winging their wayO'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets.Call to him, herons, as slowly you passTo your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes,Sing him the song of the green morass,And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.Sing him the mystical song of the Hern,And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking;For only a sound of lament we discern,And cannot interpret the words you are speaking.Sing of the air, and the wild delightOf wings that uplift and winds that uphold you,The joy of freedom, the rapture of flightThrough the drift of the floating mists that enfold you;Of the landscape lying so far below,With its towns and rivers and desert places;And the splendor of light above, and the glowOf the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces.Ask him if songs of the Troubadours,Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter,Sound in his ears more sweet than yours,And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better.
Silent are all the sounds of day;Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets,And the cry of the herons winging their wayO'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets.
Call to him, herons, as slowly you passTo your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes,Sing him the song of the green morass,And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.
Sing him the mystical song of the Hern,And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking;For only a sound of lament we discern,And cannot interpret the words you are speaking.
Sing of the air, and the wild delightOf wings that uplift and winds that uphold you,The joy of freedom, the rapture of flightThrough the drift of the floating mists that enfold you;
Of the landscape lying so far below,With its towns and rivers and desert places;And the splendor of light above, and the glowOf the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces.
Ask him if songs of the Troubadours,Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter,Sound in his ears more sweet than yours,And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better.
H. W. Longfellow.
Vogelweid the Minnesinger,When he left this world of ours,Laid his body in the cloister,Under Würtzburg's minster towers.And he gave the monks his treasures,Gave them all with this behest:They should feed the birds at noontideDaily on his place of rest;Saying, "From these wandering minstrelsI have learned the art of song;Let me now repay the lessonsThey have taught so well and long."Thus the bard of love departed;And, fulfilling his desire,On his tomb the birds were feastedBy the children of the choir.Day by day, o'er tower and turret,In foul weather and in fair,Day by day, in vaster numbers,Flocked the poets of the air.On the tree whose heavy branchesOvershadowed all the place,On the pavement, on the tombstone,On the poet's sculptured face,On the crossbars of each window,On the lintel of each door,They renewed the War of Wartburg,Which the bard had fought before.There they sang their merry carols,Sang their lauds on every side;And the name their voices utteredWas the name of Vogelweid.Till at length the portly abbotMurmured, "Why this waste of food?Be it changed to loaves henceforwardFor our fasting brotherhood."Then in vain o'er tower and turret,From the walls and woodland nests,When the minster bells rang noontide,Gathered the unwelcome guests.Then in vain, with cries discordant,Clamorous round the Gothic spire,Screamed the feathered MinnesingersFor the children of the choir.Time has long effaced the inscriptionsOn the cloister's funeral stones,And tradition only tells usWhere repose the poet's bones.But around the vast cathedral,By sweet echoes multiplied,Still the birds repeat the legend,And the name of Vogelweid.
Vogelweid the Minnesinger,When he left this world of ours,Laid his body in the cloister,Under Würtzburg's minster towers.
And he gave the monks his treasures,Gave them all with this behest:They should feed the birds at noontideDaily on his place of rest;
Saying, "From these wandering minstrelsI have learned the art of song;Let me now repay the lessonsThey have taught so well and long."
Thus the bard of love departed;And, fulfilling his desire,On his tomb the birds were feastedBy the children of the choir.
Day by day, o'er tower and turret,In foul weather and in fair,Day by day, in vaster numbers,Flocked the poets of the air.
On the tree whose heavy branchesOvershadowed all the place,On the pavement, on the tombstone,On the poet's sculptured face,
On the crossbars of each window,On the lintel of each door,They renewed the War of Wartburg,Which the bard had fought before.
There they sang their merry carols,Sang their lauds on every side;And the name their voices utteredWas the name of Vogelweid.
Till at length the portly abbotMurmured, "Why this waste of food?Be it changed to loaves henceforwardFor our fasting brotherhood."
Then in vain o'er tower and turret,From the walls and woodland nests,When the minster bells rang noontide,Gathered the unwelcome guests.
Then in vain, with cries discordant,Clamorous round the Gothic spire,Screamed the feathered MinnesingersFor the children of the choir.
Time has long effaced the inscriptionsOn the cloister's funeral stones,And tradition only tells usWhere repose the poet's bones.
But around the vast cathedral,By sweet echoes multiplied,Still the birds repeat the legend,And the name of Vogelweid.
H. W. Longfellow.
On the cross the dying SaviourHeavenward lifts his eyelids calm,Feels, but scarcely feels, a tremblingIn his pierced and bleeding palm.And by all the world forsaken,Sees he how with zealous careAt the ruthless nail of ironA little bird is striving there.Stained with blood, and never tiring,With its beak it does not cease,From the cross 'twould free the Saviour,Its Creator's son release.And the Saviour speaks in mildness:"Blest be thou of all the good!Bear, as token of this moment,Marks of blood and holy rood!"And that bird is called the cross-bill;Covered all with blood so clear,In the groves of pine it singethSongs, like legends, strange to hear.
On the cross the dying SaviourHeavenward lifts his eyelids calm,Feels, but scarcely feels, a tremblingIn his pierced and bleeding palm.
And by all the world forsaken,Sees he how with zealous careAt the ruthless nail of ironA little bird is striving there.
Stained with blood, and never tiring,With its beak it does not cease,From the cross 'twould free the Saviour,Its Creator's son release.
And the Saviour speaks in mildness:"Blest be thou of all the good!Bear, as token of this moment,Marks of blood and holy rood!"
And that bird is called the cross-bill;Covered all with blood so clear,In the groves of pine it singethSongs, like legends, strange to hear.
H. W. Longfellow.
Among the orchards and the groves,While summer days are fair and long,You brighten every tree and bush,You fill the air with loving song.
Among the orchards and the groves,While summer days are fair and long,You brighten every tree and bush,You fill the air with loving song.
Nursery.
And what is so rare as a day in June?Then, if ever, come perfect days;Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,And over it softly her warm ear lays:Whether we look, or whether we listen,We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;Every clod feels a stir of might,An instinct within it that reaches and towers,And, groping blindly above it for light,Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;The flush of life may well be seenThrilling back over hills and valleys;The cowslip startles in meadows green,The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,And there's never a leaf nor a blade too meanTo be some happy creature's palace:The little bird sits at his door in the sun,Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,And lets his illumined being o'errunWith the deluge of summer it receives;His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
And what is so rare as a day in June?Then, if ever, come perfect days;Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,And over it softly her warm ear lays:Whether we look, or whether we listen,We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;Every clod feels a stir of might,An instinct within it that reaches and towers,And, groping blindly above it for light,Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;The flush of life may well be seenThrilling back over hills and valleys;The cowslip startles in meadows green,The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,And there's never a leaf nor a blade too meanTo be some happy creature's palace:The little bird sits at his door in the sun,Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,And lets his illumined being o'errunWith the deluge of summer it receives;His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
James Russell Lowell.
Then some one came who said, "My Prince had shotA swan, which fell among the roses here,He bids me pray you send it. Will you send?""Nay," quoth Siddârtha, "if the bird were deadTo send it to the slayer might be well,But the swan lives; my cousin hath but killedThe god-like speed which throbbed in this white wing."And Devadatta answered, "The wild thing,Living or dead, is his who fetched it down;'Twas no man's in the clouds, but fall'n 'tis mine,Give me my prize, fair Cousin." Then our LordLaid the swan's neck beside his own smooth cheekAnd gravely spake, "Say no! the bird is mine,The first of myriad things which shall be mineBy right of mercy and love's lordliness.For now I know, by what within me stirs,That I shall teach compassion unto menAnd be a speechless world's interpreter,Abating this accursèd flood of woe,Not man's alone; but, if the Prince disputes,Let him submit this matter to the wiseAnd we will wait their word." So was it done;In full divan the business had debate,And many thought this thing and many that,Till there arose an unknown priest who said,"If life be aught, the savior of a lifeOwns more the living thing than he can ownWho sought to slay—the slayer spoils and wastes,The cherisher sustains, give him the bird:"Which judgment all found just.
Then some one came who said, "My Prince had shotA swan, which fell among the roses here,He bids me pray you send it. Will you send?""Nay," quoth Siddârtha, "if the bird were deadTo send it to the slayer might be well,But the swan lives; my cousin hath but killedThe god-like speed which throbbed in this white wing."And Devadatta answered, "The wild thing,Living or dead, is his who fetched it down;'Twas no man's in the clouds, but fall'n 'tis mine,Give me my prize, fair Cousin." Then our LordLaid the swan's neck beside his own smooth cheekAnd gravely spake, "Say no! the bird is mine,The first of myriad things which shall be mineBy right of mercy and love's lordliness.For now I know, by what within me stirs,That I shall teach compassion unto menAnd be a speechless world's interpreter,Abating this accursèd flood of woe,Not man's alone; but, if the Prince disputes,Let him submit this matter to the wiseAnd we will wait their word." So was it done;In full divan the business had debate,And many thought this thing and many that,Till there arose an unknown priest who said,"If life be aught, the savior of a lifeOwns more the living thing than he can ownWho sought to slay—the slayer spoils and wastes,The cherisher sustains, give him the bird:"Which judgment all found just.
Light of Asia.
A thousand miles from land are we,Tossing about on the roaring sea—From billow to bounding billow cast,Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast.The sails are scattered abroad like weeds;The strong masts shake like quivering reeds;The mighty cables and iron chains;The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,—They strain and they crack; and hearts like stoneTheir natural, hard, proud strength disown.Up and down!—up and down!From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,And amid the flashing and feathery foam,The stormy petrel finds a home.A home, if such a place may beFor her who lives on the wide, wide sea,On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,And only seeketh her rocky lairTo warm her young, and to teach them to springAt once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!O'er the deep!—o'er the deep!Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep—Outflying the blast and the driving rain,The petrel telleth her tale—in vain;For the mariner curseth the warning birdWhich bringeth him news of the storm unheard!Ah! thus does the prophet of good or illMeet hate from the creatures he serveth still;Yet he ne'er falters—so, petrel, springOnce more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!
A thousand miles from land are we,Tossing about on the roaring sea—From billow to bounding billow cast,Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast.The sails are scattered abroad like weeds;The strong masts shake like quivering reeds;The mighty cables and iron chains;The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,—They strain and they crack; and hearts like stoneTheir natural, hard, proud strength disown.
Up and down!—up and down!From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,And amid the flashing and feathery foam,The stormy petrel finds a home.A home, if such a place may beFor her who lives on the wide, wide sea,On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,And only seeketh her rocky lairTo warm her young, and to teach them to springAt once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!
O'er the deep!—o'er the deep!Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep—Outflying the blast and the driving rain,The petrel telleth her tale—in vain;For the mariner curseth the warning birdWhich bringeth him news of the storm unheard!Ah! thus does the prophet of good or illMeet hate from the creatures he serveth still;Yet he ne'er falters—so, petrel, springOnce more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!
Barry Cornwall.
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!Thou messenger of Spring!Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,And woods thy welcome sing.What time the pea puts on the bloom,Thou fliest thy vocal vale,An annual guest in other landsAnother Spring to hail.Delightful visitant! with theeI hail the time of flowers,And hear the sound of music sweetFrom birds among the bowers.Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,Thy sky is ever clear;Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,No Winter in thy year!Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!We'd make, with joyful wing,Our annual visit o'er the globe,Attendants on the Spring.
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!Thou messenger of Spring!Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the pea puts on the bloom,Thou fliest thy vocal vale,An annual guest in other landsAnother Spring to hail.
Delightful visitant! with theeI hail the time of flowers,And hear the sound of music sweetFrom birds among the bowers.
Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,Thy sky is ever clear;Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,No Winter in thy year!
Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!We'd make, with joyful wing,Our annual visit o'er the globe,Attendants on the Spring.
John Logan.
The beautiful day is breaking,The first faint line of lightParts the shadows of the night,And a thousand birds are waking.I hear the Hairbird's slender trill,—So fine and perfect it doth fillThe whole sweet silence with its thrill.A rosy flush creeps up the sky,The birds begin their symphony.I hear the clear, triumphant voiceOf the Robin, bidding the world rejoice.The Vireos catch the theme of the song,And the Baltimore Oriole bears it along,While from Sparrow, and Thrush, and Wood Pewee,And, deep in the pine-trees, the Chickadee,There's an undercurrent of harmony.The Linnet sings like a magic flute,The Lark and Bluebird touch the lute,The Starling pipes to the shining mornWith the vibrant note of the joyous horn,The splendid JayIs the trumpeter gay,The Kingfisher, sounding his rattle,—heMay the player on the cymbals be,The Cock, saluting the sun's first ray,Is the bugler sounding a reveille."Caw! Caw!" cries the crow, and his grating toneCompletes the chord like a deep trombone.But, above them all, the Robin sings;His song is the very soul of day,And all black shadows troop awayWhile, pure and fresh, his music rings:"Light is here!Never fear!Day is near!My dear!"
The beautiful day is breaking,The first faint line of lightParts the shadows of the night,And a thousand birds are waking.I hear the Hairbird's slender trill,—So fine and perfect it doth fillThe whole sweet silence with its thrill.
A rosy flush creeps up the sky,The birds begin their symphony.I hear the clear, triumphant voiceOf the Robin, bidding the world rejoice.The Vireos catch the theme of the song,And the Baltimore Oriole bears it along,While from Sparrow, and Thrush, and Wood Pewee,And, deep in the pine-trees, the Chickadee,There's an undercurrent of harmony.
The Linnet sings like a magic flute,The Lark and Bluebird touch the lute,The Starling pipes to the shining mornWith the vibrant note of the joyous horn,The splendid JayIs the trumpeter gay,The Kingfisher, sounding his rattle,—heMay the player on the cymbals be,The Cock, saluting the sun's first ray,Is the bugler sounding a reveille."Caw! Caw!" cries the crow, and his grating toneCompletes the chord like a deep trombone.
But, above them all, the Robin sings;His song is the very soul of day,And all black shadows troop awayWhile, pure and fresh, his music rings:"Light is here!Never fear!Day is near!My dear!"
Miss Harriet E. Paine.
Gliding at sunset in my boat,I hear the Veery's bubbling note;And a Robin, flying late,Sounds the home-call to his mate.Then the sun sinks lowIn the western glow,And the birds go to rest. But hush!Far off sings the sweet Wood-Thrush.He sings—and waits—and sings again,The liquid notes of that holy strain.He ceases, and all the world is still:And then the moon climbs over the hill,And I hear the cry of the Whip-poor-will.Tranquil, I lay me down to sleep,While the summer stars a vigil keep;And I hear from the Sparrow a gentle trill,Which means,"Good Night; Peace and Good Will."
Gliding at sunset in my boat,I hear the Veery's bubbling note;And a Robin, flying late,Sounds the home-call to his mate.Then the sun sinks lowIn the western glow,And the birds go to rest. But hush!Far off sings the sweet Wood-Thrush.He sings—and waits—and sings again,The liquid notes of that holy strain.
He ceases, and all the world is still:And then the moon climbs over the hill,And I hear the cry of the Whip-poor-will.
Tranquil, I lay me down to sleep,While the summer stars a vigil keep;And I hear from the Sparrow a gentle trill,Which means,"Good Night; Peace and Good Will."
Miss Harriet E. Paine.
A little brown bird sat on a stone;The sun shone thereon, but he was alone."O pretty bird, do you not wearyOf this gay summer so long and dreary?"The little bird opened his black bright eyes,And looked at me with great surprise;Then his joyous song broke forth, to say,"Weary of what? I can sing all day."
A little brown bird sat on a stone;The sun shone thereon, but he was alone."O pretty bird, do you not wearyOf this gay summer so long and dreary?"
The little bird opened his black bright eyes,And looked at me with great surprise;Then his joyous song broke forth, to say,"Weary of what? I can sing all day."
Posies for Children.
Wouldst thou the life of souls discern,Not human wisdom nor divineHelps thee by aught beside to learn,Loveis life's only sign.
Wouldst thou the life of souls discern,Not human wisdom nor divineHelps thee by aught beside to learn,Loveis life's only sign.
Keble.
From his home in an Eastern bungalow,In sight of the everlasting snowOf the grand Himalayas, row on row,Thus wrote my friend:—"I had travelled farFrom the Afghan towers of Candahar,Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;"And once, when the daily march was o'er,As tired I sat in my tented door,Hope failed me, as never it failed before."In swarming city, at wayside fane,By the Indus' bank, on the scorching plain,I had taught,—and my teaching all seemed vain."No glimmer of light (I sighed) appears;The Moslem's Fate and the Buddhist's fearsHave gloomed their worship this thousand years."'For Christ and his truth I stand aloneIn the midst of millions: a sand-grain blownAgainst your temple of ancient stone"'As soon may level it!'" Faith forsookMy soul, as I turned on the pile to look;Then, rising, my saddened way I tookTo its lofty roof, for the cooler air:I gazed, and marvelled;—how crumbled wereThe walls I had deemed so firm and fair!For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone,Most plainly rent by its roots alone,A beautiful peepul-tree had grown:Whose gradual stress would still expandThe crevice, and topple upon the sandThe temple, while o'er its wreck should standThe tree in its living verdure!—WhoCould compass the thought?—The bird that flewHitherward, dropping a seed that grew,Did more to shiver this ancient wallThan earthquake,—war,—simoon,—or allThe centuries, in their lapse and fall!Then I knelt by the riven granite there,And my soul shook off its weight of care,As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:—"The living seeds I have dropped remainIn the cleft: Lord, quicken with dew and rain,Thentemple and mosque shall be rent in twain!"
From his home in an Eastern bungalow,In sight of the everlasting snowOf the grand Himalayas, row on row,Thus wrote my friend:—"I had travelled farFrom the Afghan towers of Candahar,Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;
"And once, when the daily march was o'er,As tired I sat in my tented door,Hope failed me, as never it failed before.
"In swarming city, at wayside fane,By the Indus' bank, on the scorching plain,I had taught,—and my teaching all seemed vain.
"No glimmer of light (I sighed) appears;The Moslem's Fate and the Buddhist's fearsHave gloomed their worship this thousand years.
"'For Christ and his truth I stand aloneIn the midst of millions: a sand-grain blownAgainst your temple of ancient stone
"'As soon may level it!'" Faith forsookMy soul, as I turned on the pile to look;Then, rising, my saddened way I took
To its lofty roof, for the cooler air:I gazed, and marvelled;—how crumbled wereThe walls I had deemed so firm and fair!
For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone,Most plainly rent by its roots alone,A beautiful peepul-tree had grown:
Whose gradual stress would still expandThe crevice, and topple upon the sandThe temple, while o'er its wreck should stand
The tree in its living verdure!—WhoCould compass the thought?—The bird that flewHitherward, dropping a seed that grew,
Did more to shiver this ancient wallThan earthquake,—war,—simoon,—or allThe centuries, in their lapse and fall!
Then I knelt by the riven granite there,And my soul shook off its weight of care,As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:—
"The living seeds I have dropped remainIn the cleft: Lord, quicken with dew and rain,Thentemple and mosque shall be rent in twain!"
Margaret J. Preston.