THE BIRDS.

Whither, 'midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of dayFar through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and restAnd scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bendSome o'er thy sheltered nest.Thou'rt gone—the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form—yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He, who from zone to zoneGuides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread aloneWill lead my steps aright.

Whither, 'midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of dayFar through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and restAnd scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bendSome o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone—the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form—yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zoneGuides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread aloneWill lead my steps aright.

W. C. Bryant.

Through my north window, in the wintry weather,—My airy oriel on the river shore,—I watch the sea-fowl as they flock togetherWhere late the boatman flashed his dripping oar.I see the solemn gulls in council sittingOn some broad ice-floe, pondering long and late,While overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting,And leave the tardy conclave in debate,Those weighty questions in their breasts revolving,Whose deeper meaning science never learns,Till at some reverend elder's look dissolving,The speechless senate silently adjourns.He knows you! "sportsman" from suburban alleys,Stretched under seaweed in the treacherous punt;Knows every lazy, shiftless lout that salliesForth to waste powder—ashesays, to "hunt."I watch you with a patient satisfaction,Well pleased to discount your predestined luck;The float that figures in your sly transactionWill carry back a goose, but not a duck.Shrewd is our bird; not easy to outwit him!Sharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes;Still, he is mortal and a shot may hit him;One cannot always miss him if he tries!O Thou who carest for the falling sparrow,Canst Thou the sinless sufferer's pang forget?Or is thy dread account-book's page so narrowIts one long column scores thy creature's debt?Poor, gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished,A world grows dark with thee in blinding death;One little gasp,—thy universe has perished,Wrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath!

Through my north window, in the wintry weather,—My airy oriel on the river shore,—I watch the sea-fowl as they flock togetherWhere late the boatman flashed his dripping oar.

I see the solemn gulls in council sittingOn some broad ice-floe, pondering long and late,While overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting,And leave the tardy conclave in debate,

Those weighty questions in their breasts revolving,Whose deeper meaning science never learns,Till at some reverend elder's look dissolving,The speechless senate silently adjourns.

He knows you! "sportsman" from suburban alleys,Stretched under seaweed in the treacherous punt;Knows every lazy, shiftless lout that salliesForth to waste powder—ashesays, to "hunt."

I watch you with a patient satisfaction,Well pleased to discount your predestined luck;The float that figures in your sly transactionWill carry back a goose, but not a duck.

Shrewd is our bird; not easy to outwit him!Sharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes;Still, he is mortal and a shot may hit him;One cannot always miss him if he tries!

O Thou who carest for the falling sparrow,Canst Thou the sinless sufferer's pang forget?Or is thy dread account-book's page so narrowIts one long column scores thy creature's debt?

Poor, gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished,A world grows dark with thee in blinding death;One little gasp,—thy universe has perished,Wrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath!

From "My Aviary," byO. W. Holmes.

Across the narrow beach we flit,One little sandpiper and I,And fast I gather, bit by bit,The scattered driftwood bleached and dry.The wild waves reach their hands for it,The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,As up and down the beach we flit,—One little sandpiper and I.Above our heads the sullen cloudsScud black and swift across the sky;Like silent ghosts in misty shroudsStand out the white lighthouses high.Almost as far as eye can reach,I see the close-reefed vessels fly,As fast we flit along the beach,—One little sandpiper and I.I watch him as he skims along,Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.He starts not at my fitful song,Or flash of fluttering drapery.He has no thought of any wrong;He scans me with a fearless eye.Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong,The little sandpiper and I.Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,When the loosed storm breaks furiously?My driftwood fire will burn so bright!To what warm shelter canst thou fly?I do not fear for thee, though wrothThe tempest rushes through the sky:For are we not God's children both,Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

Above our heads the sullen cloudsScud black and swift across the sky;Like silent ghosts in misty shroudsStand out the white lighthouses high.Almost as far as eye can reach,I see the close-reefed vessels fly,As fast we flit along the beach,—One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.He starts not at my fitful song,Or flash of fluttering drapery.He has no thought of any wrong;He scans me with a fearless eye.Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong,The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,When the loosed storm breaks furiously?My driftwood fire will burn so bright!To what warm shelter canst thou fly?I do not fear for thee, though wrothThe tempest rushes through the sky:For are we not God's children both,Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

Celia Thaxter.

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud,Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee;The sparrows chirped as if they still were proudTheir race in Holy Writ should mentioned be;And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd,Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly,Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said:"Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!"Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth,In fabulous days, some hundred years ago;And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth,Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow,That mingled with the universal mirth,Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe;They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful wordsTo swift destruction the whole race of birds.And a town-meeting was convened straightwayTo set a price upon the guilty headsOf these marauders, who, in lieu of pay,Levied black-mail upon the garden bedsAnd cornfields, and beheld without dismayThe awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds;The skeleton that waited at their feast,Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased.Rose the Preceptor,...To speak out what was in him, clear and strong."Plato, anticipating the Reviewers,From his Republic banished without pityThe Poets; in this little town of yours,You put to death, by means of a Committee,The ballad-singers and the troubadours,The street-musicians of the heavenly city,The birds who make sweet music for us allIn our dark hours, as David did for Saul.THEIR SONGS."The thrush that carols at the dawn of dayFrom the green steeples of the piny wood;The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay,Jargoning like a foreigner at his food;The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray,Flooding with melody the neighborhood;Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throngThat dwell in nests, and have the gift of song."You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gainOf a scant handful more or less of wheat,Or rye, or barley, or some other grain,Scratched up at random by industrious feet,Searching for worm or weevil after rain!Or a few cherries, that are not so sweetAs are the songs these uninvited guestsSing at their feast with comfortable breasts."Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taughtThe dialect they speak, where melodiesAlone are the interpreters of thought?Whose household words are songs in many keys,Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!Whose habitations in the tree-tops evenAre half-way houses on the road to heaven!"Think, every morning when the sun peeps throughThe dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove,How jubilant the happy birds renewTheir old melodious madrigals of love!And when you think of this, remember too'Tis always morning somewhere, and aboveThe awakening continents, from shore to shore,Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.THEIR SERVICE TO MAN."Think of your woods and orchards without birds!Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beamsAs in an idiot's brain remembered wordsHang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herdsMake up for the lost music, when your teamsDrag home the stingy harvest, and no moreThe feathered gleaners follow to your door?"What! would you rather see the incessant stirOf insects in the windrows of the hay,And hear the locust and the grasshopperTheir melancholy hurdy-gurdies play?Is this more pleasant to you than the whirOf meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay,Or twitter of little field-fares, as you takeYour nooning in the shade of bush and brake?"You call them thieves and pillagers; but know,They are the winged wardens of your farms,Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe,And from your harvest keep a hundred harms.Even the blackest of them all, the crow,Renders good service as your man-at-arms,Crushing the beetle in his coat-of-mail,And crying havoc on the slug and snail.THE CLAIMS OF GENTLENESS AND REVERENCE."How can I teach your children gentleness,And mercy to the weak, and reverenceFor Life, which, in its weakness or excess,Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence,Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no lessThe selfsame light, although averted hence,When by your laws, your actions, and your speech,You contradict the very things I teach?"The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows,A bounty offered for the heads of crows.THE RESULT OF THEIR DESTRUCTION.Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town,Because, like Herod, it had ruthlesslySlaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun downThe canker-worms upon the passers-by,Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown,Who shook them off with just a little cry;They were the terror of each favorite walk,The endless theme of all the village talk.The farmers grew impatient, but a fewConfessed their error, and would not complain,For after all, the best thing one can doWhen it is raining, is to let it rain.Then they repealed the law, although they knewIt would not call the dead to life again;As school-boys, finding their mistake too late,Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate.That year in Killingworth the Autumn cameWithout the light of his majestic look,The wonder of the falling tongues of flame,The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book.A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame,And drowned themselves despairing in the brook,While the wild wind went moaning everywhere,Lamenting the dead children of the air!THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen,A sight that never yet by bard was sung,As great a wonder as it would have beenIf some dumb animal had found a tongue!A wagon, overarched with evergreen,Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung,All full of singing birds, came down the street,Filling the air with music wild and sweet.From all the country round these birds were brought,By order of the town, with anxious quest,And, loosened from their wicker prisons, soughtIn woods and fields the places they loved best,Singing loud canticles, which many thoughtWere satires to the authorities addressed,While others, listening in green lanes, averredSuch lovely music never had been heard!

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth,In fabulous days, some hundred years ago;And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth,Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow,That mingled with the universal mirth,Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe;They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful wordsTo swift destruction the whole race of birds.

And a town-meeting was convened straightwayTo set a price upon the guilty headsOf these marauders, who, in lieu of pay,Levied black-mail upon the garden bedsAnd cornfields, and beheld without dismayThe awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds;The skeleton that waited at their feast,Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased.

Rose the Preceptor,...To speak out what was in him, clear and strong.

"Plato, anticipating the Reviewers,From his Republic banished without pityThe Poets; in this little town of yours,You put to death, by means of a Committee,The ballad-singers and the troubadours,The street-musicians of the heavenly city,The birds who make sweet music for us allIn our dark hours, as David did for Saul.

THEIR SONGS.

"The thrush that carols at the dawn of dayFrom the green steeples of the piny wood;The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay,Jargoning like a foreigner at his food;The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray,Flooding with melody the neighborhood;Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throngThat dwell in nests, and have the gift of song.

"You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gainOf a scant handful more or less of wheat,Or rye, or barley, or some other grain,Scratched up at random by industrious feet,Searching for worm or weevil after rain!Or a few cherries, that are not so sweetAs are the songs these uninvited guestsSing at their feast with comfortable breasts.

"Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taughtThe dialect they speak, where melodiesAlone are the interpreters of thought?Whose household words are songs in many keys,Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!Whose habitations in the tree-tops evenAre half-way houses on the road to heaven!

"Think, every morning when the sun peeps throughThe dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove,How jubilant the happy birds renewTheir old melodious madrigals of love!And when you think of this, remember too'Tis always morning somewhere, and aboveThe awakening continents, from shore to shore,Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

THEIR SERVICE TO MAN.

"Think of your woods and orchards without birds!Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beamsAs in an idiot's brain remembered wordsHang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herdsMake up for the lost music, when your teamsDrag home the stingy harvest, and no moreThe feathered gleaners follow to your door?

"What! would you rather see the incessant stirOf insects in the windrows of the hay,And hear the locust and the grasshopperTheir melancholy hurdy-gurdies play?Is this more pleasant to you than the whirOf meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay,Or twitter of little field-fares, as you takeYour nooning in the shade of bush and brake?

"You call them thieves and pillagers; but know,They are the winged wardens of your farms,Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe,And from your harvest keep a hundred harms.Even the blackest of them all, the crow,Renders good service as your man-at-arms,Crushing the beetle in his coat-of-mail,And crying havoc on the slug and snail.

THE CLAIMS OF GENTLENESS AND REVERENCE.

"How can I teach your children gentleness,And mercy to the weak, and reverenceFor Life, which, in its weakness or excess,Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence,Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no lessThe selfsame light, although averted hence,When by your laws, your actions, and your speech,You contradict the very things I teach?"

The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows,A bounty offered for the heads of crows.

THE RESULT OF THEIR DESTRUCTION.

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town,Because, like Herod, it had ruthlesslySlaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun downThe canker-worms upon the passers-by,Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown,Who shook them off with just a little cry;They were the terror of each favorite walk,The endless theme of all the village talk.

The farmers grew impatient, but a fewConfessed their error, and would not complain,For after all, the best thing one can doWhen it is raining, is to let it rain.Then they repealed the law, although they knewIt would not call the dead to life again;As school-boys, finding their mistake too late,Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate.

That year in Killingworth the Autumn cameWithout the light of his majestic look,The wonder of the falling tongues of flame,The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book.A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame,And drowned themselves despairing in the brook,While the wild wind went moaning everywhere,Lamenting the dead children of the air!

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen,A sight that never yet by bard was sung,As great a wonder as it would have beenIf some dumb animal had found a tongue!A wagon, overarched with evergreen,Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung,All full of singing birds, came down the street,Filling the air with music wild and sweet.

From all the country round these birds were brought,By order of the town, with anxious quest,And, loosened from their wicker prisons, soughtIn woods and fields the places they loved best,Singing loud canticles, which many thoughtWere satires to the authorities addressed,While others, listening in green lanes, averredSuch lovely music never had been heard!

H. W. Longfellow.

"Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justiceTriumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat itWhen his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them."Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of JusticeStood in the public square, upholding the scales in his left hand,And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presidedOver the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.But in course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mightyRuled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palaceThat a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicionFell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunderSmote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left handDown on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."

H. W. Longfellow, inEvangeline.

Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers,Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madnessSeemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-topsShakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.

H. W. Longfellow, inEvangeline.

To hear the lark begin his flight,And singing startle the dull nightFrom his watch-tower in the skiesTill the dappled dawn doth rise;Then to come, in spite of sorrow,And at my window bid good-morrowThrough the sweet-briar, or the vine,Or the twisted eglantine;While the cock with lively dinScatters the rear of darkness thin;And to the stack, or the barn door,Stoutly struts his dames before;Oft listening how the hounds and hornCheerly rouse the slumbering mornFrom the side of some hoar hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill.

John Milton.

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,Singing at dawn on the alder bough;I brought him home, in his nest, at even,He sings the song, but it pleases not now,For I did not bring home the river and sky;He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye.

R. W. Emerson.

Nor crush a worm, whose useful lightMight serve, however small,To show a stumbling-stone by night,And save man from a fall.

Cowper.

Up soared the lark into the air,A shaft of song, a wingèd prayer,As if a soul, released from pain,Were flying back to heaven again.St. Francis heard; it was to himAn emblem of the Seraphim;The upward motion of the fire,The light, the heat, the heart's desire.Around Assisi's convent gateThe birds, God's poor who cannot wait,From moor and mere and darksome woodCame flocking for their dole of food."O brother birds," St. Francis said,"Ye come to me and ask for bread,But not with bread alone to-dayShall ye be fed and sent away."Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds,With manna of celestial words;Not mine, though mine they seem to be,Not mine, though they be spoken through me."Oh, doubly are ye bound to praiseThe great Creator in your lays;He giveth you your plumes of down,Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown."He giveth you your wings to flyAnd breathe a purer air on high,And careth for you everywhere,Who for yourselves so little care!"With flutter of swift wings and songsTogether rose the feathered throngs,And singing scattered far apart;Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart.He knew not if the brotherhoodHis homily had understood;He only knew that to one earThe meaning of his words was clear.

Up soared the lark into the air,A shaft of song, a wingèd prayer,As if a soul, released from pain,Were flying back to heaven again.

St. Francis heard; it was to himAn emblem of the Seraphim;The upward motion of the fire,The light, the heat, the heart's desire.

Around Assisi's convent gateThe birds, God's poor who cannot wait,From moor and mere and darksome woodCame flocking for their dole of food.

"O brother birds," St. Francis said,"Ye come to me and ask for bread,But not with bread alone to-dayShall ye be fed and sent away.

"Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds,With manna of celestial words;Not mine, though mine they seem to be,Not mine, though they be spoken through me.

"Oh, doubly are ye bound to praiseThe great Creator in your lays;He giveth you your plumes of down,Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.

"He giveth you your wings to flyAnd breathe a purer air on high,And careth for you everywhere,Who for yourselves so little care!"

With flutter of swift wings and songsTogether rose the feathered throngs,And singing scattered far apart;Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart.

He knew not if the brotherhoodHis homily had understood;He only knew that to one earThe meaning of his words was clear.

H. W. Longfellow.

Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eyeBoth with thy nest upon the dewy ground?Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,Those quivering wings composed, that music still!To the last point of vision, and beyond,Mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain,('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to singAll independent of the leafy spring.Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;A privacy of glorious light is thine;Whence thou dost pour upon the world a floodOf harmony, with instinct more divine;Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;True to the kindred points of heaven and home!

To the last point of vision, and beyond,Mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain,('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to singAll independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;A privacy of glorious light is thine;Whence thou dost pour upon the world a floodOf harmony, with instinct more divine;Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;True to the kindred points of heaven and home!

Wordsworth.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near it,Pourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire,The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chantMatched with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flowThe world should listen then, as I am listening now!

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near it,Pourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire,The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chantMatched with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt—A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flowThe world should listen then, as I am listening now!

P. B. Shelley.

Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place,—Oh to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is the day and loudFar in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.O'er fell and mountain sheen,O'er moor and mountain green,O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow's rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather bloomsSweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place,Oh to abide in the desert with thee!

James Hogg.

A skylark wounded on the wingDoth make a cherub cease to sing.He who shall hurt a little wrenShall never be beloved by men.

A skylark wounded on the wingDoth make a cherub cease to sing.

He who shall hurt a little wrenShall never be beloved by men.

W. Blake.

Lord, should we oft forget to singA thankful evening hymn of praise,This duty, they to mind might bring,Who chirp among the bushy sprays.For in their perches they retire,When first the twilight waxeth dim;And every night the sweet-voiced quireShuts up the daylight with a hymn.Ten thousand fold more cause have weTo close each day with praiseful voice,To offer thankful hearts to Thee,And in thy mercies to rejoice.

Lord, should we oft forget to singA thankful evening hymn of praise,This duty, they to mind might bring,Who chirp among the bushy sprays.

For in their perches they retire,When first the twilight waxeth dim;And every night the sweet-voiced quireShuts up the daylight with a hymn.

Ten thousand fold more cause have weTo close each day with praiseful voice,To offer thankful hearts to Thee,And in thy mercies to rejoice.

George Wither, 1628.

A cruel deedIt is, sweet bird, to cage thee upPrisoner for life, with just a cupAnd a box of seed,And sod to move on barely one foot square,Hung o'er dark street, midst foul and murky air.From freedom brought,And robbed of every chance of wing,Thou couldst have had no heart to sing,One would have thought.But though thy song is sung, men little knowThe yearning source from which those sweet notes flow.Poor little bird!As often as I think of thee,And how thou longest to be free,My heart is stirred,And, were my strength but equal to my rage,Methinks thy cager would be in his cage.The selfish man!To take thee from thy broader sphere,Where thousands heard thy music clear,On Nature's plan;And where the listening landscape far and wideHad joy, and thou thy liberty beside.A singing slaveMade now; with no return but food;No mate to love, nor little broodTo feed and save;No cool and leafy haunts; the cruel wiresChafe thy young life and check thy just desires.Brave little bird!Still striving with thy sweetest songTo melt the hearts that do thee wrong,I give my wordTo stand with those who for thy freedom fight,Who claim for thee that freedom as thy right.

A cruel deedIt is, sweet bird, to cage thee upPrisoner for life, with just a cupAnd a box of seed,And sod to move on barely one foot square,Hung o'er dark street, midst foul and murky air.

From freedom brought,And robbed of every chance of wing,Thou couldst have had no heart to sing,One would have thought.But though thy song is sung, men little knowThe yearning source from which those sweet notes flow.

Poor little bird!As often as I think of thee,And how thou longest to be free,My heart is stirred,And, were my strength but equal to my rage,Methinks thy cager would be in his cage.

The selfish man!To take thee from thy broader sphere,Where thousands heard thy music clear,On Nature's plan;And where the listening landscape far and wideHad joy, and thou thy liberty beside.

A singing slaveMade now; with no return but food;No mate to love, nor little broodTo feed and save;No cool and leafy haunts; the cruel wiresChafe thy young life and check thy just desires.

Brave little bird!Still striving with thy sweetest songTo melt the hearts that do thee wrong,I give my wordTo stand with those who for thy freedom fight,Who claim for thee that freedom as thy right.

Chambers's Journal.

I have a friend across the street,We never yet exchanged a word,Yet dear to me his accents sweet—I am a woman, he a bird.And here we twain in exile dwell,Far from our native woods and skies,And dewy lawns with healthful smell,Where daisies lift their laughing eyes.Never again from moss-built nestShall the caged woodlark blithely soar;Never again the heath be pressedBy foot of mine for evermore!Yet from that feathered, quivering throatA blessing wings across to me;No thrall can hold that mellow note,Or quench its flame in slavery.When morning dawns in holy calm,And each true heart to worship calls,Mine is the prayer, but his the psalm,That floats about our prison walls.And as behind the thwarting wiresThe captive creature throbs and sings,With him my mounting soul aspiresOn Music's strong and cleaving wings.My chains fall off, the prison gatesFly open, as with magic key;And far from life's perplexing straits,My spirit wanders, swift and free.Back to the heather, breathing deepThe fragrance of the mountain breeze,I hear the wind's melodious sweepThrough tossing boughs of ancient trees.Beneath a porch where roses climbI stand as I was used to stand,Where cattle-bells with drowsy chimeMake music in the quiet land.Fast fades the dream in distance dim,Tears rouse me with a sudden shock;Lo! at my door, erect and trim,The postman gives his double knock.And a great city's lumbering noiseArises with confusing hum,And whistling shrill of butchers' boys;My day begins, my bird is dumb.

I have a friend across the street,We never yet exchanged a word,Yet dear to me his accents sweet—I am a woman, he a bird.

And here we twain in exile dwell,Far from our native woods and skies,And dewy lawns with healthful smell,Where daisies lift their laughing eyes.

Never again from moss-built nestShall the caged woodlark blithely soar;Never again the heath be pressedBy foot of mine for evermore!

Yet from that feathered, quivering throatA blessing wings across to me;No thrall can hold that mellow note,Or quench its flame in slavery.

When morning dawns in holy calm,And each true heart to worship calls,Mine is the prayer, but his the psalm,That floats about our prison walls.

And as behind the thwarting wiresThe captive creature throbs and sings,With him my mounting soul aspiresOn Music's strong and cleaving wings.

My chains fall off, the prison gatesFly open, as with magic key;And far from life's perplexing straits,My spirit wanders, swift and free.

Back to the heather, breathing deepThe fragrance of the mountain breeze,I hear the wind's melodious sweepThrough tossing boughs of ancient trees.

Beneath a porch where roses climbI stand as I was used to stand,Where cattle-bells with drowsy chimeMake music in the quiet land.

Fast fades the dream in distance dim,Tears rouse me with a sudden shock;Lo! at my door, erect and trim,The postman gives his double knock.

And a great city's lumbering noiseArises with confusing hum,And whistling shrill of butchers' boys;My day begins, my bird is dumb.

Temple Bar.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down:The voice I heard this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that ofttimes hathCharmed magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is famed to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hill-side: and now 'tis buried deepIn the next valley-gladesWas it a vision, or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?

Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is famed to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hill-side: and now 'tis buried deepIn the next valley-gladesWas it a vision, or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?

J. Keats.

Color and form may be conveyed by words,But words are weak to tell the heavenly strainsThat from the throats of these celestial birdsRang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains;There was the meadow-lark with voice as sweet,But robed in richer raiment than our own;And as the moon smiled on his green retreat,The painted nightingale sang out alone.Words cannot echo music's wingèd note,One voice alone exhausts their utmost power;'Tis that strange bird, whose many-voicèd throatMocks all his brethren of the woodlawn bower,To whom, indeed, the gift of tongues is given,The musical, rich tongues that fill the grove;Now, like the lark, dropping his notes from heaven,Now cooing the soft notes of the dove.Oft have I seen him, scorning all control,Winging his arrowy flight, rapid and strong,As if in search of his evanished soul,Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song;And as I wandered on and upward gazed,Half lost in admiration, half in fear,I left the brothers wondering and amazed,Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near.

Words cannot echo music's wingèd note,One voice alone exhausts their utmost power;'Tis that strange bird, whose many-voicèd throatMocks all his brethren of the woodlawn bower,To whom, indeed, the gift of tongues is given,The musical, rich tongues that fill the grove;Now, like the lark, dropping his notes from heaven,Now cooing the soft notes of the dove.

Oft have I seen him, scorning all control,Winging his arrowy flight, rapid and strong,As if in search of his evanished soul,Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song;And as I wandered on and upward gazed,Half lost in admiration, half in fear,I left the brothers wondering and amazed,Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near.

Denis Florence Maccarthy.

Meanwhile the tepid caves, and fens, and shores,Their brood as numerous hatch from the egg that soonBursting with kindly rupture, forth disclosedTheir callow young; but feathered soon and fledgeThey summed their pens; and, soaring the air sublime,With clang despised the ground, under a cloudIn prospect: there the eagle and the storkOn cliffs and cedar-tops their eyries build;Part loosely wing the region; part, more wise,In common ranged in figure, wedge their way,Intelligent of seasons, and set forthTheir aery caravan, high over seasFlying, and over lands, with mutual wingEasing their flight; so steers the prudent craneHer annual voyage, borne on winds; the airFloats as they pass, fanned with unnumbered plumes:From branch to branch the smaller birds with songSolaced the woods, and spread their painted wingsTill even; nor then the solemn nightingaleCeased warbling, but all night tuned her soft lays:Others, on silver lakes and rivers, bathedTheir downy breasts; the swan with archèd neckBetween her white wings, mantling proudly, rowsHer state with oary feet; yet oft they quitThe dank, and, rising on stiff pennons, towerThe mid aerial sky: others on groundWalked firm; the crested cock, whose clarion soundsThe silent hours; and the other, whose gay trainAdorns him, colored with the florid hueOf rainbows and starry eyes.

Milton:Paradise Lost, book 7.

I would I were a noteFrom a sweet bird's throat!I'd float on forever,And melt away never!I would I were a noteFrom a sweet bird's throat!But I am what I am!As content as a lamb.No new state I'll covet;For how long should I love it?No, I'll be what I am,—As content as a lamb!

I would I were a noteFrom a sweet bird's throat!I'd float on forever,And melt away never!I would I were a noteFrom a sweet bird's throat!

But I am what I am!As content as a lamb.No new state I'll covet;For how long should I love it?No, I'll be what I am,—As content as a lamb!

Poetry for Children.

Emerald-plumèd, ruby-throated,Flashing like a fair starWhere the humid, dew-becoated,Sun-illumined blossoms are—See the fleet humming-bird!Hark to his humming, heardLoud as the whirr of a fairy king's car!Sightliest, sprightliest, lightest, and brightest one,Child of the summer sun,Shining afar!Brave little humming-bird!Every eye blesses thee;Sunlight caresses thee,Forest and field are the fairer for thee.Blooms, at thy coming stirred,Bend on each brittle stem,Nod to the little gem,Bow to the humming-bird, frolic and free.Now around the woodbine hovering,Now the morning-glory covering,Now the honeysuckle sipping,Now the sweet clematis tipping,Now into the bluebell dipping;Hither, thither, flashing, bright'ning,Like a streak of emerald lightning:Round the box, with milk-white plox;Round the fragrant four-o'-clocks;O'er the crimson quamoclit,Lightly dost thou wheel and flit;Into each tubèd throatDives little Ruby-throat.Bright-glowing airy thing,Light-going fairy thing,Not the grand lyre-birdRivals thee, splendid one!—Fairy-attended one,Green-coated fire-bird!Shiniest fragile one,Tiniest agile one,Falcon and eagle tremble before thee!Dim is the regal peacock and lory,And the pheasant, iridescent,Pales before the gleam and gloryOf the jewel-change incessant,When the sun is streaming o'er thee!Hear thy soft humming,Like a sylph's drumming!

Brave little humming-bird!Every eye blesses thee;Sunlight caresses thee,Forest and field are the fairer for thee.Blooms, at thy coming stirred,Bend on each brittle stem,Nod to the little gem,Bow to the humming-bird, frolic and free.Now around the woodbine hovering,Now the morning-glory covering,Now the honeysuckle sipping,Now the sweet clematis tipping,Now into the bluebell dipping;Hither, thither, flashing, bright'ning,Like a streak of emerald lightning:Round the box, with milk-white plox;Round the fragrant four-o'-clocks;O'er the crimson quamoclit,Lightly dost thou wheel and flit;Into each tubèd throatDives little Ruby-throat.

Bright-glowing airy thing,Light-going fairy thing,Not the grand lyre-birdRivals thee, splendid one!—Fairy-attended one,Green-coated fire-bird!Shiniest fragile one,Tiniest agile one,Falcon and eagle tremble before thee!Dim is the regal peacock and lory,And the pheasant, iridescent,Pales before the gleam and gloryOf the jewel-change incessant,When the sun is streaming o'er thee!

Hear thy soft humming,Like a sylph's drumming!

Californian.

Back to Index Next