When the sexton cheerly rings for noon, Sweet bird! I would that I could be Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. I would that in such wings of gold I could my weary heart upfold; I would I could look down unmoved (Unloving as I am unloved), And while the world throngs on beneath, And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. NATHANIEL PARKer Willis. TO THE CUCKOO. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Soon as the daisy decks the green, 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 Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE new-comer I have heard, O cucko)! shall I call thee biri, 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. Thongh babbling only to the vale Thrice welcome, darling of the spring' 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; O blessed bird the earth we pace An unsubstantial, fairy place; That is fit home for thee ' WILL LAM THE SKYLARK. BIRD of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place, O to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay and loud Far 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 fountain 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! Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Blest is thy dwelling-place, O to abide in the desert with thee ! What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? TO THE SKYLARK. What shapes of sky or plain? ETHEREAL minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky! What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye pain ? With thy clear, keen joyance Languor cannot be ; Shades of annoyance Never come near thee; Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking, or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Both 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 mightst thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy spring. Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn A privacy of glorious light is thine, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE THRUSH. Hate and pride and fear, If we were things born Not to shed a tear, SWEET bird! that sing'st away the early hours I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Well pleased with delights which present are, Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers, To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, What soul can be so sick which by thy songs wrongs, And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven! The world should listen then, as I am listening now. Sweet, artless songster! thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, Yet from out the darkness dreary Cometh still that cheerful note; Praiseful aye, and never weary, Is that little warbling throat. Thank him for his lesson's sake, Thank God's gentle minstrel there, Who, when storms make others quake, Sings of days that brighter were. HARRISON WEIR. THE HEATH-COCK. GOOD morrow to thy sable beak A maid there is in yonder tower, A fleeting moment of delight I sunned me in her cheering sight; JOANNA BAILLIE. THE BOBOLINK. BOBOLINK! that in the meadow, Filling youths' and maidens' dreams Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure A single note, so sweet and low, Gayest songster of the spring! Bobolink! still may thy gladness THOMAS HILL. ROBERT OF LINCOLN. MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding coat; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, 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! Nice good wife, that never goes out, Soon as the little ones chip the shell This new life is likely to be 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. PERSEVERANCE. A SWALLOW in the spring Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring Wet earth and straw and leaves. Day after day she toiled With patient art, but ere her work was crowned, She found the ruin wrought, But not cast down, forth from the place she flew, And with her mate fresh earth and grasses brought And built her nest anew. But scarcely had she placed The last soft feather on its ample floor, When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste And wrought the ruin o'er. But still her heart she kept, And toiled again, — and last night, hearing calls, I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept Within the earth-made walls. |