Chapter X: Part III: Poems of Nature (6)

So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, O who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread; The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]

GOD'S CREATURES

ONCE ON A TIME

Once on a time I used to dream Strange spirits moved about my way, And I might catch a vagrant gleam, A glint of pixy or of fay; Their lives were mingled with my own, So far they roamed, so near they drew; And when I from a child had grown, I woke--and found my dream was true.

For one is clad in coat of fur, And one is decked with feathers gay; Another, wiser, will prefer A sober suit of Quaker gray: This one's your servant from his birth, And that a Princess you must please, And this one loves to wake your mirth, And that one likes to share your ease.

O gracious creatures, tiny souls! You seem so near, so far away, Yet while the cloudland round us rolls, We love you better every day.

Margaret Benson [18--

TO A MOUSE On Turning Up Her Nest With The Plow, November, 1785

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa' sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive, And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' faggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell,-- Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain:-- The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us naught but grief an' pain, For promised joy!

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear! An' forward, though I canna see, I guess an' fear!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

THE GRASSHOPPER

Happy insect, what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee; All the summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plow, Farmer he, and landlord thou! Thou dost innocently enjoy; Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year! Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire Phoebus is himself thy sire. To thee, of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth. Happy insect! happy thou, Dost neither age nor winter know; But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal!) Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest.

After Anacreon, by Abraham Cowley [1618-1667]

ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET

The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead: That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead In summer luxury,--he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half-lost, The Grasshopper's among the grassy hills.

John Keats [1795-1821]

TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June; Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When even the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth To sing in thoughtful ears their natural song-- In-doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

Leigh Hunt [1784-1859]

THE CRICKET

Little inmate, full of mirth, Chirping on my kitchen hearth, Wheresoe'er be thine abode Always harbinger of good, Pay me for thy warm retreat With a song more soft and sweet; In return thou shalt receive Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be expressed, Inoffensive, welcome guest! While the rat is on the scout, And the mouse with curious snout, With what vermin else infest Every dish, and spoil the best; Frisking thus before the fire, Thou hast all thy heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they be Formed as if akin to thee, Thou surpassest, happier far, Happiest grasshoppers that are; Theirs is but a summer's song, Thine endures the winter long, Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, Melody throughout the year.

Neither night nor dawn of day Puts a period to thy play: Sing then--and extend thy span Far beyond the date of man; Wretched man, whose years are spent In repining discontent, Lives not, aged though he be, Half a span, compared with thee.

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, by William Cowper [1731-1800]

TO A CRICKET

Voice of summer, keen and shrill, Chirping round my winter fire, Of thy song I never tire, Weary others as they will, For thy song with summer's filled-- Filled with sunshine, filled with June; Firelight echo of that noon Heard in fields when all is stilled In the golden light of May, Bringing scents of new-mown hay, Bees, and birds, and flowers away, Prithee, haunt my fireside still, Voice of summer, keen and shrill.

William Cox Bennett [1820-1895]

TO AN INSECT

I love to hear thine earnest voice, Wherever thou art hid, Thou testy little dogmatist, Thou pretty Katydid! Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,-- Old gentlefolks are they,-- Thou say'st an undisputed thing In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid! I know it by the trill That quivers through thy piercing notes, So petulant and shrill; I think there is a knot of you Beneath the hollow tree,-- A knot of spinster Katydids,-- Do Katydids drink tea?

Oh, tell me where did Katy live, And what did Katy do? And was she very fair and young, And yet so wicked, too? Did Katy love a naughty man, Or kiss more cheeks than one? I warrant Katy did no more Than many a Kate has done.

Dear me! I'll tell you all about My fuss with little Jane, And Ann, with whom I used to walk So often down the lane, And all that tore their locks of black, Or wet their eyes of blue,-- Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, What did poor Katy do?

Ah no! the living oak shall crash, That stood for ages still, The rock shall rend its mossy base And thunder down the hill, Before the little Katydid Shall add one word, to tell The mystic story of the maid Whose name she knows so well.

Peace to the ever-murmuring race! And when the latest one Shall fold in death her feeble wings Beneath the autumn sun, Then shall she raise her fainting voice, And lift her drooping lid, And then the child of future years Shall hear what Katy did.

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]

THE SNAIL

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, As if he grew there, house and all Together.

Within that house secure he hides, When danger imminent betides, Of storm, or other harm besides Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch, His self-collecting power is such, He shrinks into his house with much Displeasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, Except himself, has chattels none, Well satisfied to be his own Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, Nor partner of his banquet needs, And if he meets one, only feeds The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind (He and his house are so combined), If, finding it, he fails to find Its master.

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, by William Cowper [1731-1800]

THE HOUSEKEEPER

The frugal snail, with forecast of repose, Carries his house with him where'er he goes; Peeps out,--and if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile amain. Touch but a tip of him, a horn,--'tis well,-- He curls up in his sanctuary shell. He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. Himself he boards and lodges; both invites And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o' nights. He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure Chattels; himself is his own furniture, And his sole riches. Whereso'er he roam,-- Knock when you will,--he's sure to be at home.

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, by Charles Lamb [1775-1834]

THE HUMBLE-BEE

Burly, dozing humble-bee, Where thou art is clime for me. Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek; I will follow thee alone, Thou animated torrid-zone! Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines.

Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion! Sailor of the atmosphere; Swimmer through the waves of air; Voyager of light and noon; Epicurean of June; Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum,-- All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall, And with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With a color of romance, And infusing subtle heats, Turns the sod to violets, Thou, in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace With thy mellow, breezy bass.

Hot midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers; Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer, and birdlike pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean Hath my insect never seen; But violets and bilberry bells, Maple-sap and daffodels, Grass with green flag half-mast high, Succory to match the sky, Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony, Clover, catchfly, adder's tongue And brier-roses, dwelt among; All beside was unknown waste, All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher! Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep; Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

TO A BUTTERFLY

I've watched you now a full half-hour, Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little Butterfly! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Has found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we are young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

ODE TO A BUTTERFLY

Thou spark of life that wavest wings of gold, Thou songless wanderer mid the songful birds, With Nature's secrets in thy tints unrolled Through gorgeous cipher, past the reach of words, Yet dear to every child In glad pursuit beguiled, Living his unspoiled days mid flowers and flocks and herds!

Thou winged blossom, liberated thing, What secret tie binds thee to other flowers, Still held within the garden's fostering? Will they too soar with the completed hours, Take flight, and be like thee Irrevocably free, Hovering at will o'er their parental bowers?

Or is thy luster drawn from heavenly hues,-- A sumptuous drifting fragment of the sky, Caught when the sunset its last glance imbues With sudden splendor, and the tree-tops high Grasp that swift blazonry, Then lend those tints to thee, On thee to float a few short hours, and die?

Birds have their nests; they rear their eager young, And flit on errands all the livelong day; Each fieldmouse keeps the homestead whence it sprung; But thou art Nature's freeman,--free to stray Unfettered through the wood, Seeking thine airy food, The sweetness spiced on every blossomed spray.

The garden one wide banquet spreads for thee, O daintiest reveller of the joyous earth! One drop of honey gives satiety; A second draught would drug thee past all mirth. Thy feast no orgy shows; Thy calm eyes never close, Thou soberest sprite to which the sun gives birth.

And yet the soul of man upon thy wings Forever soars in aspiration; thou His emblem of the new career that springs When death's arrest bids all his spirit bow. He seeks his hope in thee Of immortality. Symbol of life, me with such faith endow!

Thomas Wentworth Higginson [1823-1911]

THE BUTTERFLY

I hold you at last in my hand, Exquisite child of the air. Can I ever understand How you grew to be so fair?

You came to my linden tree To taste its delicious sweet, I sitting here in the shadow and shine Playing around its feet.

Now I hold you fast in my hand, You marvelous butterfly, Till you help me to understand The eternal mystery.

From that creeping thing in the dust To this shining bliss in the blue! God give me courage to trust I can break my chrysalis too!

Alice Freeman Palmer [1855-1902]

FIREFLIES

I saw, one sultry night above a swamp, The darkness throbbing with their golden pomp! And long my dazzled sight did they entrance With the weird chaos of their dizzy dance! Quicker than yellow leaves, when gales despoil, Quivered the brilliance of their mute turmoil, Within whose light was intricately blent Perpetual rise, perpetual descent. As though their scintillant flickerings had met In the vague meshes of some airy net! And now mysteriously I seemed to guess, While watching their tumultuous loveliness, What fervor of deep passion strangely thrives In the warm richness of these tropic lives, Whose wings can never tremble but they show These hearts of living fire that beat below!

Edgar Fawcett [1847-1904]

THE BLOOD HORSE

Gamarra is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within! His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light.

Look,--how 'round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float! Sinewy strength is in his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins; Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire,-- Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself!

He, who hath no peer, was born, Here, upon a red March morn; But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, And the last of that great line Trod like one of a race divine! And yet,--he was but friend to one Who fed him at the set of sun, By some lone fountain fringed with green: With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived, (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day), And died untamed upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands.

Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]

BIRDS

Sure maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush Whistlin' bould in March, Before there's a primrose peepin' out, Or a wee red cone on the larch; Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud, An' the wind to come over the sea, But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud, He's never the bird for me.

Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush After an April rain Slip from in-undher the drippin' leaves, Wishful to sing again; An' low wi' love when he's near the nest, An' loud from the top o' the tree, But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast, He's never the bird for me.

Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo Callin' his mate in May, When one sweet thought is the whole of his life, An' he tells it the one sweet way. But my heart is sore at the cushadoo Filled wid his own soft glee, Over an' over his "me an' you!" He's never the bird for me.

Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast Singin' his lone on a thorn, Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost, Brave wid his heart forlorn. The time is in dark November, An' no spring hopes has he: "Remember," he sings, "remember!" Ay, thon's the wee bird for me.

Moira O'Neill [18--

BIRDS

Birds are singing round my window, Tunes the sweetest ever heard, And I hang my cage there daily, But I never catch a bird.

So with thoughts my brain is peopled, And they sing there all day long: But they will not fold their pinions In the little cage of Song!

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

SEA-BIRDS

O lonesome sea-gull, floating far Over the ocean's icy waste, Aimless and wide thy wanderings are, Forever vainly seeking rest:-- Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

'Twixt wintry sea and wintry sky, Cleaving the keen air with thy breast, Thou sailest slowly, solemnly; No fetter on thy wing is pressed:-- Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

O restless, homeless human soul, Following for aye thy nameless quest, The gulls float, and the billows roll; Thou watchest still, and questionest:-- Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice!

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea; Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us. Thy wail,-- What doth it bring to me?

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, Restless, and sad; as if, in strange accord With the motion and the roar Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge-- The Mystery--the Word.

Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall, Old Ocean! A requiem o'er the dead, From out thy gloomy cells, A tale of mourning tells,-- Tells of man's woe and fall, His sinless glory fled.

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit nevermore. Come, quit with me the shore, For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing.

Richard Henry Dana [1787-1879]

THE BLACKBIRD

How sweet the harmonies of afternoon: The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon; Rich breath of hayfields streams through whispering trees; And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, And listen fondly--while the Blackbird sings.

How soft the lovelight of the West reposes On this green valley's cheery solitude, On the trim cottage with its screen of roses, On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings Its bubbling freshness--while the Blackbird sings.

The very dial on the village church Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest; The scribbled benches underneath the porch Bask in the kindly welcome of the West; But the broad casements of the old Three Kings Blaze like a furnace--while the Blackbird sings.

And there beneath the immemorial elm Three rosy revellers round a table sit, And through gray clouds give laws unto the realm, Curse good and great, but worship their own wit. And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings, Corn, colts, and curs--the while the Blackbird sings.

Before her home, in her accustomed seat, The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid; To her low chair a little maiden clings, And spells in silence--while the Blackbird sings.

Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green. While the far fields with sunlight overflowed Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen; Again, the sunshine on the shadow springs, And fires the thicket where the Blackbird sings.

The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manorhouse, With its peach-covered walls, and rookery loud, The trim, quaint garden alleys, screened with boughs. The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud, The mossy fountain with its murmurings, Lie in warm sunshine--while the Blackbird sings.

The ring of silver voices, and the sheen Of festal garments--and my Lady streams With her gay court across the garden green; Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love-dreams; And one calls for a little page; he strings Her lute beside her--while the Blackbird sings.

A little while--and lo! the charm is heard, A youth, whose life has been all Summer, steals Forth from the noisy guests around the board, Creeps by her softly; at her footstool kneels; And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things Into her fond ear--while the Blackbird sings.

The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher, And dizzy things of eve begin to float Upon the light; the breeze begins to tire; Half way to sunset with a drowsy note The ancient clock from out the valley swings; The Grandam nods--and still the Blackbird sings.

Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal, Where the great stack is piling in the sun; Through narrow gates o'erladen wagons reel, And barking curs into the tumult run; While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings The merry tempest--and the Blackbird sings.

On the high wold the last look of the sun Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream; The shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fun; The Grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dream; Only a hammer on an anvil rings; The day is dying--still the Blackbird sings.

Now the good Vicar passes from his gate Serene, with long white hair; and in his eye Burns the clear spirit that hath conquered Fate, And felt the wings of immortality; His heart is thronged with great imaginings, And tender mercies--while the Blackbird sings.

Down by the brook he bends his steps, and through A lowly wicket; and at last he stands Awful beside the bed of one who grew From boyhood with him--who, with lifted hands And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings, And sweeter music than the Blackbird sings.

Two golden stars, like tokens from the Blest, Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun; His sinking hands seem pointing to the West; He smiles as though he said--"Thy will be done": His eyes, they see not those illuminings; His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings.

Frederick Tennyson [1807-1898]

THE BLACKBIRD

When smoke stood up from Ludlow And mist blew off from Teme, And blithe afield to ploughing Against the morning beam I strode beside my team,

The blackbird in the coppice Looked out to see me stride, And hearkened as I whistled The trampling team beside, And fluted and replied:

"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman; What use to rise and rise? Rise man a thousand mornings Yet down at last he lies, And then the man is wise."

I heard the tune he sang me, And spied his yellow bill; I picked a stone and aimed it And threw it with a will: Then the bird was still.

Then my soul within me Took up the blackbird's strain, And still beside the horses Along the dewy lane It sang the song again:

"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman; The sun moves always west; The road one treads to labor Will lead one home to rest, And that will be the best."

Alfred Edward Housman [1859-1936]

THE BLACKBIRD

The nightingale has a lyre of gold; The lark's is a clarion call, And the blackbird plays but a box-wood flute, But I love him best of all.

For his song is all of the joy of life, And we in the mad, spring weather, We too have listened till he sang Our hearts and lips together.

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

THE BLACKBIRD

Ov all the birds upon the wing Between the zunny showers o' spring,- Vor all the lark, a-swingen high, Mid zing below a cloudless sky, An' sparrows, clust'ren roun' the bough, Mid chatter to the men at plough,-- The blackbird, whisslen in among The boughs, do zing the gayest zong.

Vor we do hear the blackbird zing His sweetest ditties in the spring, When nippen win's noo mwore do blow Vrom northern skies, wi' sleet or snow, But dreve light doust along between The leane-zide hedges, thick an' green; An' zoo the blackbird in among The boughs do zing the gayest zong.

'Tis blithe, wi' newly-opened eyes, To zee the mornen's ruddy skies; Or, out a-haulen frith or lops Vrom new-pleshed hedge or new-velled copse, To rest at noon in primrwose beds Below the white-barked woak-trees' heads; But there's noo time, the whole day long, Lik' evenen wi' the blackbird's zong.

Vor when my work is all a-done Avore the zetten o' the zun, Then blushen Jeane do walk along The hedge to meet me in the drong, An' stay till all is dim an' dark Bezides the ashen tree's white bark; An' all bezides the blackbird's shrill An' runnen evenen-whissle's still.

An' there in bwoyhood I did rove Wi' pryen eyes along the drove To vind the nest the blackbird meade O' grass-stalks in the high bough's sheade; Or climb aloft, wi' clingen knees, Vor crows' aggs up in swayen trees, While frightened blackbirds down below Did chatter o' their little foe. An' zoo there's noo pleace lik' the drong, Where I do hear the blackbird's zong.

William Barnes [1801-1886]

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

Merrily swinging on brier and weed Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest. Hear him call in his merry note: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can! Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid. Half forgotten that merry air: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee.

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]

THE O'LINCON FAMILY

A flock of merry singing-birds were sporting in the grove; Some were warbling cheerily, and some were making love: There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, Conquedle,-- A livelier set was never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle,-- Crying, "Phew, shew, Waldolincon, see, see, Bobolincon, Down among the tickletops, hiding in the buttercups! I know a saucy chap, I see his shining cap Bobbing in the clover there--see, see, see!"

Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree, Startled by his rival's song, quickened by his raillery, Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curveting in the air, And merrily he turns about, and warns him to beware! "'Tis you that would a-wooing go, down among the rushes O! But wait a week, till flowers are cheery,--wait a week, and, ere you marry, Be sure of a house wherein to tarry! Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait!"

Every one's a funny fellow; every one's a little mellow; Follow, follow, follow, follow, o'er the hill and in the hollow! Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise and now they fly; They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in the middle and wheel about,-- With a "Phew, shew, Wadolincon! listen to me, Bobolincon!-- Happy's the wooing that's speedily doing, that's speedily doing, That's merry and over with the bloom of the clover! Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, follow, follow me!"

Wilson Flagg [1805-1884]

THE BOBOLINK

Bobolink! that in the meadow, Or beneath the orchard's shadow, Keepest up a constant rattle Joyous as my children's prattle, Welcome to the north again! Welcome to mine ear thy strain, Welcome to mine eye the sight Of thy buff, thy black and white.

Brighter plumes may greet the sun By the banks of Amazon; Sweeter tones may weave the spell Of enchanting Philomel; But the tropic bird would fail, And the English nightingale, If we should compare their worth With thine endless, gushing mirth.

When the ides of May are past, June and Summer nearing fast, While from depths of blue above Comes the mighty breath of love. Calling out each bud and flower With resistless, secret power, Waking hope and fond desire, Kindling the erotic fire, Filling youths' and maidens' dreams With mysterious, pleasing themes; Then, amid the sunlight clear Floating in the fragrant air, Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure By thy glad ecstatic measure.

A single note, so sweet and low, Like a full heart's overflow, Forms the prelude; but the strain Gives no such tone again, For the wild and saucy song Leaps and skips the notes among, With such quick and sportive play, Ne'er was madder, merrier lay.

Gayest songster of the Spring! Thy melodies before me bring Visions of some dream-built land, Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, I might walk the livelong day, Embosomed in perpetual May. Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows; For thee a tempest never blows; But when our northern Summer's o'er, By Delaware's or Schuylkil's shore The wild rice lifts its airy head, And royal feasts for thee are spread. And when the Winter threatens there, Thy tireless wings yet own no fear. But bear thee to more southern coasts, Far beyond the reach of frosts.

Bobolink! still may thy gladness Take from me all taint of sadness; Fill my soul with trust unshaken In that Being who has taken Care for every living thing, In Summer, Winter, Fall, and Spring.

Thomas Hill [1818-1891]

MY CATBIRD A Capriccio

Nightingale I never heard, Nor skylark, poet's bird; But there is an aether-winger So surpasses every singer, (Though unknown to lyric fame,) That at morning, or at nooning, When I hear his pipe a-tuning, Down I fling Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth,-- What are all their songs of birds worth? All their soaring Souls' outpouring? When my Mimus Carolinensis, (That's his Latin name,) When my warbler wild commences Song's hilarious rhapsody, Just to please himself and me! Primo Cantante! Scherzo! Andante! Piano, pianissimo! Presto, prestissimo! Hark! are there nine birds or ninety and nine? And now a miraculous gurgling gushes Like nectar from Hebe's Olympian bottle, The laughter of tune from a rapturous throttle! Such melody must be a hermit-thrush's! But that other caroler, nearer, Outrivaling rivalry with clearer Sweetness incredibly fine! Is it oriole, redbird, or bluebird, Or some strange, un-Auduboned new bird? All one, sir, both this bird and that bird, The whole flight are all the same catbird! The whole visible and invisible choir you see On one lithe twig of yon green tree. Flitting, feathery Blondel! Listen to his rondel! To his lay romantical! To his sacred canticle! Hear him lilting, See him tilting His saucy head and tail, and fluttering While uttering All the difficult operas under the sun Just for fun; Or in tipsy revelry, Or at love devilry, Or, disdaining his divine gift and art, Like an inimitable poet Who captivates the world's heart And don't know it. Hear him lilt! See him tilt! Then suddenly he stops, Peers about, flirts, hops, As if looking where he might gather up The wasted ecstasy just spilt From the quivering cup Of his bliss overrun. Then, as in mockery of all The tuneful spells that e'er did fall From vocal pipe, or evermore shall rise, He snarls, and mews, and flies.

William Henry Venable [1836-1920]

THE HERALD CRANE

Oh! say you so, bold sailor In the sun-lit deeps of sky! Dost thou so soon the seed-time tell In thy imperial cry, As circling in yon shoreless sea Thine unseen form goes drifting by?

I cannot trace in the noon-day glare Thy regal flight, O crane! From the leaping might of the fiery light Mine eyes recoil in pain, But on mine ear, thine echoing cry Falls like a bugle strain.

The mellow soil glows beneath my feet, Where lies the buried grain; The warm light floods the length and breadth Of the vast, dim, shimmering plain, Throbbing with heat and the nameless thrill Of the birth-time's restless pain.

On weary wing, plebeian geese Push on their arrowy line Straight into the north, or snowy brant In dazzling sunshine, gloom and shine; But thou, O crane, save for thy sovereign cry, At thy majestic height On proud, extended wings sweep'st on In lonely, easeful flight.

Then cry, thou martial-throated herald! Cry to the sun, and sweep And swing along thy mateless, tireless course Above the clouds that sleep Afloat on lazy air--cry on! Send down Thy trumpet note--it seems The voice of hope and dauntless will, And breaks the spell of dreams.

Hamlin Garland [1860-

THE CROW

With rakish eye and plenished crop, Oblivious of the farmer's gun, Upon the naked ash-tree top The Crow sits basking in the sun.

An old ungodly rogue, I wot! For, perched in black against the blue, His feathers, torn with beak and shot, Let woeful glints of April through.

The year's new grass, and, golden-eyed, The daisies sparkle underneath, And chestnut-trees on either side Have opened every ruddy sheath.

But doubtful still of frost and snow, The ash alone stands stark and bare, And on its topmost twig the Crow Takes the glad morning's sun and air.

William Canton [1845-

TO THE CUCKOO

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome ring.

What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear: Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fli'st thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No Winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the Spring.

John Logan [1748-1788]

THE CUCKOO

We heard it calling, clear and low, That tender April morn; we stood And listened in the quiet wood, We heard it, ay, long years ago.

It came, and with a strange, sweet cry, A friend, but from a far-off land; We stood and listened, hand in hand, And heart to heart, my Love and I.

In dreamland then we found our joy, And so it seemed as 'twere the Bird That Helen in old times had heard At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.

O time far off, and yet so near! It came to her in that hushed grove, It warbled while the wooing throve, It sang the song she loved to hear.

And now I hear its voice again, And still its message is of peace, It sings of love that will not cease-- For me it never sings in vain.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]

TO THE CUCKOO

O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways, In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

THE EAGLE A Fragment

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

THE HAWKBIT

How sweetly on the autumn scene, When haws are red amid the green, The hawkbit shines with face of cheer, The favorite of the faltering year!

When days grow short and nights grow cold, How fairly gleams its eye of gold On pastured field and grassy hill, Along the roadside and the rill!

It seems the spirit of a flower, This offspring of the autumn hour, Wandering back to earth to bring Some kindly afterthought of spring.

A dandelion's ghost might so Amid Elysian meadows blow, Become more fragile and more fine Breathing the atmosphere divine.

Charles G. D. Roberts [1860-

THE HERON

O melancholy bird, a winter's day Thou standest by the margin of the pool, And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school To Patience, which all evil can allay. God has appointed thee the Fish thy prey; And given thyself a lesson to the Fool Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. There need not schools, nor the Professor's chair, Though these be good, true wisdom to impart; He, who has not enough for these to spare Of time, or gold, may yet amend his heart, And teach his soul, by brooks and rivers fair: Nature is always wise in every part.

Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829]

THE JACKDAW

There is a bird, who by his coat, And by the hoarseness of his note, Might be supposed a crow; A great frequenter of the church, Where bishop-like he finds a perch, And dormitory too.

Above the steeple shines a plate, That turns and turns, to indicate From what point blows the weather; Look up--your brains begin to swim, 'Tis in the clouds--that pleases him, He chooses it the rather.

Fond of the speculative height, Thither he wings his airy flight, And thence securely sees The bustle and the raree-show, That occupy mankind below, Secure and at his ease.

You think, no doubt, he sits and muses On future broken bones and bruises, If he should chance to fall. No: not a single thought like that Employs his philosophic pate, Or troubles it at all.

He sees that this great roundabout, The world, with all its medley rout, Church, army, physic, law, Its customs, and its businesses Is no concern at all of his, And says--what says he?--"Caw."

Thrice happy bird! I too have seen Much of the vanities of men; And, sick of having seen 'em, Would cheerfully these limbs resign For such a pair of wings as thine, And such a head between 'em.

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, by William Cowper [1731-1800]

THE GREEN LINNET

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of Spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And flowers and birds once more to greet, My last year's friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest: Hail to Thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! Thou, Linnet! in thy green array Presiding Spirit here to-day Dost lead the revels of the May, And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment; A Life, a Presence like the air, Scattering thy gladness without care, Too blest with any one to pair, Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Behold him perched in ecstasies, Yet seeming still to hover; There! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings, That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives-- A Brother of the dancing leaves; Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves Pours forth his song in gushes, As if by that exulting strain He mocked and treated with disdain The voiceless Form he chose to feign While fluttering in the bushes.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO THE MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD

Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm, Waking renewed on thy prodigious pinions, (Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascended'st, And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee,) Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating, As to the light emerging here on deck I watch thee, (Myself a speck, a point on the world's floating vast.)

Far, far at sea, After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks, With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene, The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun, The limpid spread of air cerulean, Thou also re-appearest.

Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,) To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane, Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails, Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating, At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn America, That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud, In them, in thy experiences, hadst thou my soul, What joys! what joys were thine!

Walt Whitman [1819-1892]

THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT

When May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream, I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, "Witchery--witchery--witchery."

An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene: There's magic in that small bird's note-- See, there he flits--the Yellow-throat; A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that shines and sings "Witchery--witchery--witchery."

You prophet with a pleasant name, If out of Mary-land you came, You know the way that thither goes Where Mary's lovely garden grows: Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, And try, to call her down this way, "Witchery--witchery--witchery!"

Tell her to leave her cockle-shells, And all her little silver bells That blossom into melody, And all her maids less fair than she. She does not need these pretty things, For everywhere she comes, she brings "Witchery--witchery--witchery!"

The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed; The waters babble as they run-- One thing is lacking, only one: If Mary were but here to-day, I would believe your charming lay, "Witchery--witchery--witchery!"

Along the shady road I look-- Who's coming now across the brook? A woodland maid, all robed in white-- The leaves dance round her with delight, The stream laughs out beneath her feet-- Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete, "Witchery--witchery--witchery!"

Henry Van Dyke [1852-1933]

LAMENT OF A MOCKING-BIRD

Silence instead of thy sweet song, my bird, Which through the darkness of my winter days Warbling of summer sunshine still was heard; Mute is thy song, and vacant is thy place.

The spring comes back again, the fields rejoice, Carols of gladness ring from every tree; But I shall hear thy wild triumphant voice No more: my summer song has died with thee.

What didst thou sing of, O my summer bird? The broad, bright, brimming river, whose swift sweep And whirling eddies by the home are heard, Rushing, resistless, to the calling deep.

What didst thou sing of, thou melodious sprite? Pine forests, with smooth russet carpets spread, Where e'en at noonday dimly falls the light, Through gloomy blue-green branches overhead.

What didst thou sing of, O thou jubilant soul? Ever-fresh flowers and never-leafless trees, Bending great ivory cups to the control Of the soft swaying, orange scented breeze.

What didst thou sing of, thou embodied glee? The wide wild marshes with their clashing reeds And topaz-tinted channels, where the sea Daily its tides of briny freshness leads.

What didst thou sing of, O thou winged voice? Dark, bronze-leaved oaks, with silver mosses crowned, Where thy free kindred live, love, and rejoice, With wreaths of golden jasmine curtained round.

These didst thou sing of, spirit of delight! From thy own radiant sky, thou quivering spark! These thy sweet southern dreams of warmth and light, Through the grim northern winter drear and dark.

Frances Anne Kemble [1809-1893]

"O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART"

O nightingale! thou surely art A creature of a "fiery heart":-- These notes of thine--they pierce and pierce; Tumultuous harmony and fierce! Thou sing'st as if the God of wine Had helped thee to a Valentine; A song in mockery and despite Of shades, and dews, and silent night; And steady bliss, and all the loves Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say His homely tale, this very day; His voice was buried among trees, Yet to be come at by the breeze: He did not cease, but cooed--and cooed; And somewhat pensively he wooed: He sang of love, with quiet blending, Slow to begin, and never ending; Of serious faith, and inward glee; That was the Song--the Song for me!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

PHILOMEL

As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan Save the Nightingale alone: She, poor bird, as all forlorn Leaned her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the doleful'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry; Tereu, Tereu! by and by; That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own. Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee: King Pandion he is dead, All thy friends are lapped in lead; All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing: Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me.

Richard Barnfield [1574-1627]

PHILOMELA

Hark! ah, the nightingale-- The tawny-throated! Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst! What triumph! hark!--what pain!

O wanderer from a Grecian shore, Still, after many years, in distant lands, Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain-- Say, will it never heal? And can this fragrant lawn With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, And moonshine, and the dew, To thy racked heart and brain Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold, Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? Dost thou again peruse With hot cheeks and seared eyes The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame? Dost thou once more assay Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make resound With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? Listen, Eugenia-- How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! Again--thou hearest? Eternal passion! Eternal pain!

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

ON A NIGHTINGALE IN APRIL

The yellow moon is a dancing phantom Down secret ways of the flowing shade; And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper Where the alders wave.