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 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 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 blooms
Sweet 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 wing
Doth make a cherub cease to sing.
He who shall hurt a little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.
W. BLAKE.
* * * * *
THE SWEET-VOICED QUIRE.
Lord, should we oft forget to sing
A 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 quire
Shuts up the daylight with a hymn.
Ten thousand fold more cause have we
To close each day with praiseful voice,
To offer thankful hearts to Thee,
And in thy mercies to rejoice.
GEORGE WITHER, 1628.
* * * * *
A CAGED LARK.
A cruel deed
It is, sweet bird, to cage thee up
Prisoner for life, with just a cup
And 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 know
The 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 wide
Had joy, and thou thy liberty beside.
A singing slave
Made now; with no return but food;
No mate to love, nor little brood
To feed and save;
No cool and leafy haunts; the cruel wires
Chafe thy young life and check thy just desires.
Brave little bird!
Still striving with thy sweetest song
To melt the hearts that do thee wrong,
I give my word
To stand with those who for thy freedom fight,
Who claim for thee that freedom as thy right.
_Chambers's Journal._
* * * * *
THE WOODLARK.
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 nest
Shall the caged woodlark blithely soar;
Never again the heath be pressed
By foot of mine for evermore!
Yet from that feathered, quivering throat
A 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 wires
The captive creature throbs and sings,
With him my mounting soul aspires
On Music's strong and cleaving wings.
My chains fall off, the prison gates
Fly open, as with magic key;
And far from life's perplexing straits,
My spirit wanders, swift and free.
Back to the heather, breathing deep
The fragrance of the mountain breeze,
I hear the wind's melodious sweep
Through tossing boughs of ancient trees.
Beneath a porch where roses climb
I stand as I was used to stand,
Where cattle-bells with drowsy chime
Make 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 noise
Arises with confusing hum,
And whistling shrill of butchers' boys;
My day begins, my bird is dumb.
_Temple Bar._
* * * * *
KEATS'S NIGHTINGALE.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down:
The voice I heard this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side: and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
J. KEATS.
* * * * *
LARK AND NIGHTINGALE.
Color and form may be conveyed by words,
But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains
That from the throats of these celestial birds
Rang 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 throat
Mocks 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.
* * * * *
FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS.
Meanwhile the tepid caves, and fens, and shores,
Their brood as numerous hatch from the egg that soon
Bursting with kindly rupture, forth disclosed
Their callow young; but feathered soon and fledge
They summed their pens; and, soaring the air sublime,
With clang despised the ground, under a cloud
In prospect: there the eagle and the stork
On 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 forth
Their aery caravan, high over seas
Flying, and over lands, with mutual wing
Easing their flight; so steers the prudent crane
Her annual voyage, borne on winds; the air
Floats as they pass, fanned with unnumbered plumes:
From branch to branch the smaller birds with song
Solaced the woods, and spread their painted wings
Till even; nor then the solemn nightingale
Ceased warbling, but all night tuned her soft lays:
Others, on silver lakes and rivers, bathed
Their downy breasts; the swan with archèd neck
Between her white wings, mantling proudly, rows
Her state with oary feet; yet oft they quit
The dank, and, rising on stiff pennons, tower
The mid aerial sky: others on ground
Walked firm; the crested cock, whose clarion sounds
The silent hours; and the other, whose gay train
Adorns him, colored with the florid hue
Of rainbows and starry eyes.
MILTON: _Paradise Lost_, book 7.
* * * * *
A CHILD'S WISH.
I would I were a note
From a sweet bird's throat!
I'd float on forever,
And melt away never!
I would I were a note
From 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._
* * * * *
THE HUMMING-BIRD.
Emerald-plumèd, ruby-throated,
Flashing like a fair star
Where the humid, dew-becoated,
Sun-illumined blossoms are--
See the fleet humming-bird!
Hark to his humming, heard
Loud 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 throat
Dives little Ruby-throat.
Bright-glowing airy thing,
Light-going fairy thing,
Not the grand lyre-bird
Rivals 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 glory
Of the jewel-change incessant,
When the sun is streaming o'er thee!
Hear thy soft humming,
Like a sylph's drumming!
_Californian._
* * * * *
THE HUMMING-BIRD'S WEDDING
A little brown mother-bird sat in her nest,
With four sleepy birdlings tucked under her breast,
And her querulous chirrup fell ceaseless and low,
While the wind rocked the lilac-tree nest to and fro.
"Lie still, little nestlings! lie still while I tell,
For a lullaby story, a thing that befell
Your plain little mother one midsummer morn,
A month ago, birdies--before you were born.
"I'd been dozing and dreaming the long summer night,
Till the dawn flushed its pink through the waning moonlight;
When--I wish you could hear it once!--faintly there fell
All around me the silvery sound of a bell.
"Then a chorus of bells! So, with just half an eye,
I peeped from the nest, and those lilies close by,
With threads of a cobweb, were swung to and fro
By three little rollicking midgets below.
"Then the air was astir as with humming-birds' wings!
And a cloud of the tiniest, daintiest things
That ever one dreamed of, came fluttering where
A cluster of trumpet-flowers swayed in the air.
"As I sat all a-tremble, my heart in my bill--
'I will stay by the nest,' thought I, 'happen what will;'
So I saw with these eyes by that trumpet-vine fair,
A whole fairy bridal train poised in the air.
"Such a bit of a bride! Such a marvel of grace!
In a shimmer of rainbows and gossamer lace;
No wonder the groom dropped his diamond-dust ring,
Which a little elf-usher just caught with his wing.
"Then into a trumpet-flower glided the train,
And I thought (for a dimness crept over my brain,
And I tucked my head under my wing), 'Deary me!
What a sight for a plain little mother like me!'"
MARY A. LATHBURY.
* * * * *
THE HEN AND THE HONEY-BEE.
A lazy hen, the story goes,
Loquacious, pert, and self-conceited,
Espied a bee upon a rose,
And thus the busy insect greeted:
"I've marked you well for many a day,
In garden blooms and meadow clover;
Now here, now there, in wanton play,
From morn till night an idle rover.
"While I discreetly bide at home,
A faithful wife, the best of mothers,
About the fields you idly roam,
Without the least regard for others.
"While I lay eggs and hatch them out,
You seek the flowers most sweet and fragrant;
And, sipping honey, stroll about,
At best a good for nothing vagrant."
"Nay," said the bee, "you do me wrong:
I'm useful, too,--perhaps you doubt it:
Because, though toiling all day long,
I scorn to make a fuss about it.
"Come now with me and see my hive,
And note how folks may work in quiet;
To useful arts much more alive
Than you with all your cackling riot!"
JOHN G. SAXE.
* * * * *
SONG OF THE ROBIN.
When the willows gleam along the brooks,
And the grass grows green in sunny nooks,
In the sunshine and the rain
I hear the robin in the lane
Singing "Cheerily,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Cheerily, cheerily,
Cheer up."
But the snow is still
Along the walls and on the hill.
The days are cold, the nights forlorn,
For one is here and one is gone.
"Tut, tut. Cheerily,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Cheerily, cheerily,
Cheer up."
When spring hopes seem to wane,
I hear the joyful strain--
A song at night, a song at morn,
A lesson deep to me is borne,
Hearing, "Cheerily,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Cheerily, cheerily,
Cheer up."
_Masque of Poets._
* * * * *
SIR ROBIN.
Rollicking Robin is here again.
What does he care for the April rain?
Care for it? Glad of it. Doesn't he know
That the April rain carries off the snow,
And coaxes out leaves to shadow his nest,
And washes his pretty red Easter vest,
And makes the juice of the cherry sweet,
For his hungry little robins to eat?
"Ha! ha! ha!" hear the jolly bird laugh.
"That isn't the best of the story, by half!"
Gentleman Robin, he walks up and down,
Dressed in orange-tawney and black and brown.
Though his eye is so proud and his step so firm,
He can always stoop to pick up a worm.
With a twist of his head, and a strut and a hop,
To his Robin-wife, in the peach-tree top,
Chirping her heart out, he calls: "My dear
You don't earn your living! Come here! Come here!
Ha! ha! ha! Life is lovely and sweet;
But what would it be if we'd nothing to eat?"
Robin, Sir Robin, gay, red-vested knight,
Now you have come to us, summer's in sight.
You never dream of the wonders you bring,--
Visions that follow the flash of your wing.
How all the beautiful By-and-by
Around you and after you seems to fly!
Sing on, or eat on, as pleases your mind!
Well have you earned every morsel you find.
"Aye! Ha! ha! ha!" whistles robin. "My dear,
Let us all take our own choice of good cheer!"
LUCY LARCOM.
* * * * *
THE DEAR OLD ROBINS.
There's a call upon the housetop, an answer from the plain,
There's a warble in the sunshine, a twitter in the rain.
And through my heart, at sound of these,
There comes a nameless thrill,
As sweet as odor to the rose,
Or verdure to the hill;
And all the joyous mornings
My heart pours forth this strain:
"God bless the dear old robins
Who have come back again."
For they bring a thought of summer, of dreamy, precious days,
Of king-cups in the summer, making a golden haze;
A longing for the clover blooms,
For roses all aglow,
For fragrant blossoms where the bees
With droning murmurs go;
I dream of all the beauties
Of summer's golden reign,
And sing: "God keep the robins
Who have come back again."
ANON.
* * * * *
ROBINS QUIT THE NEST.
"Now, robins, my darlings, I think it is best,"
Said old mother bird, "that you all quit the nest.
You've grown very plump, and the nest is so small
That really there isn't quite room for you all.
"The day is so fair and the sun is so bright,
I think I can teach you to fly before night:
And, when you have learned, you can go where you please,
As high as the gable,--yes! high as the trees.
"Come, Dickey, hop out, and stand up here by me;
The rest of you stand on the branch of the tree;
Don't be frightened, my dears; there's no danger at all,
For mother will not let her dear birdies fall.
"Now all spread your wings. Ah! but that is too high;
Just see how _I_ do it. Now, all again try!
Ah! that is much better. Now try it once more.
Bravo! much better than ever before!
"Now flutter about, up and down, here and there:
My dears, you'll be flying before you're aware.
Now carefully drop from the tree to the ground;
There's nothing to fear, for there's grass all around.
"All starting but Robbie. 'Afraid you shall fall?'
Ah! don't be a craven, be bravest of all.
Now up and now down, now away to yon spire:
Go on: don't be frightened: fly higher and higher."
* * * * *
"I've waited one hour, right here on the tree:
Not one of my robins has come back to me.
How soon they forget all the trouble they bring!
Never mind: I'll fly up on the tree-top and sing."
MRS. C. F. BERRY.
* * * * *
LOST--THREE LITTLE ROBIN'S.
Oh, where is the boy, dressed in jacket of gray,
Who climbed up a tree in the orchard to-day,
And carried my three little birdies away?
They hardly were dressed,
When he took from the nest
My three little robins, and left me bereft.
O wrens! have you seen, in your travels to-day,
A very small boy, dressed in jacket of gray,
Who carried my three little robins away?
He had light-colored hair,
And his feet were both bare.
Ah me! he was cruel and mean, I declare.
O butterfly! stop just one moment, I pray:
Have you seen a boy dressed in jacket of gray,
Who carried my three little birdies away?
He had pretty blue eyes,
And was small of his size.
Ah! he must be wicked, and not very wise.
O bees! with your bags of sweet nectarine, stay;
Have you seen a boy dressed in jacket of gray,
And carrying three little birdies away?
Did he go through the town,
Or go sneaking aroun'
Through hedges and byways, with head hanging down?
O boy with blue eyes, dressed in jacket of gray!
If you will bring back my three robins to-day,
With sweetest of music the gift I'll repay;
I'll sing all day long
My merriest song,
And I will forgive you this terrible wrong.
Bobolinks! did you see my birdies and me--
How happy we were on the old apple-tree?
Until I was robbed of my young, as you see?
Oh, how can I sing,
Unless he will bring
My three robins back, to sleep under my wing?
MRS. C. F. BERRY: _Songs for Our Darlings_.
* * * * *
THE TERRIBLE SCARECROW AND ROBINS.
The farmer looked at his cherry-tree,
With thick buds clustered on every bough.
"I wish I could cheat the robins," said he.
"If somebody only would show me how!
"I'll make a terrible scarecrow grim,
With threatening arms and with bristling head;
And up in the tree I'll fasten him,
To frighten them half to death," he said.
He fashioned a scarecrow all tattered and torn,--
Oh, 'twas a horrible thing to see!
And very early, one summer morn,
He set it up in his cherry-tree.
The blossoms were white as the light sea-foam,
The beautiful tree was a lovely sight;
But the scarecrow stood there so much at home
That the birds flew screaming away in fright.
But the robins, watching him day after day,
With heads on one side and eyes so bright,
Surveying the monster, began to say,
"Why should this fellow our prospects blight?
"He never moves round for the roughest weather,
He's a harmless, comical, tough old fellow.
Let's all go into the tree together,
For he won't budge till the fruit is mellow!"
So up they flew; and the sauciest pair
'Mid the shady branches peered and perked,
Selected a spot with the utmost care,
And all day merrily sang and worked.
And where do you think they built their nest?
In the scarecrow's pocket, if you please,
That, half-concealed on his ragged breast,
Made a charming covert of safety and ease!
By the time the cherries were ruby-red,
A thriving family hungry and brisk,
The whole long day on the ripe food fed.
'Twas so convenient! they saw no risk!
Until the children were ready to fly,
All undisturbed they lived in the tree;
For nobody thought to look at the guy
For a robin's flourishing family!
CELIA THAXTER.
* * * * *
THE SONG SPARROW.
A little gray bird with a speckled breast,
Under my window has built his nest;
He sits on at twig and singeth clear
A song that overfloweth with cheer:
"Love! Love! Love!
Let us be happy, my love.
Sing of cheer."
Sweet and true are the notes of his song;
Sweet--and yet always full and strong,
True--and yet they are never sad,
Serene with that peace that maketh glad:
"Life! Life! Life!
Oh, what a blessing is life;
Life is glad!"
Of all the birds, I love thee best,
Dear Sparrow, singing of joy and rest;
Rest--but life and hope increase,
Joy--whose spring is deepest peace:
"Joy! Life! Love!
Oh, to love and live is joy,--
Joy and peace."
MISS HARRIET E. PAINE: _Bird Songs of New England._
* * * * *
THE FIELD SPARROW.
A bubble of music floats
The slope of the hillside over--
A little wandering sparrow's notes--
On the bloom of yarrow and clover.
And the smell of sweet-fern and the bayberry-leaf
On his ripple of song are stealing;
For he is a chartered thief,
The wealth of the fields revealing.
One syllable, clear and soft
As a raindrop's silvery patter,
Or a tinkling fairy-bell, heard aloft,
In the midst of the merry chatter
Of robin and linnet and wren and jay,
One syllable, oft-repeated:
He has but a word to say,
And of that he will not be cheated.
The singer I have not seen;
But the song I arise and follow
The brown hills over, the pastures green,
And into the sunlit hollow.
With the joy of a lowly heart's content
I can feel my glad eyes glisten,
Though he hides in his happy tent,
While I stand outside and listen.
This way would I also sing,
My dear little hillside neighbor!
A tender carol of peace to bring
To the sunburnt fields of labor,
Is better than making a loud ado.
Trill on, amid clover and yarrow:
There's a heart-beat echoing you,
And blessing you, blithe little sparrow!
LUCY LARCOM.
* * * * *
THE SPARROW.
Glad to see you, little bird;
'Twas your little chirp I heard:
What did you intend to say?
"Give me something this cold day?"
That I will, and plenty too;
All the crumbs I saved for you.
Don't be frightened: here's a treat.
I will wait and see you eat.
Shocking tales I hear of you;
Chirp, and tell me, are they true?
Robbing all the summer long;
Don't you think it very wrong?
Thomas says you steal his wheat;
John complains his plums you eat,
Choose the ripest for your share,
Never asking whose they are?
But I will not try to know
What you did so long ago:
There's your breakfast; eat away;
Come and see me every day.
_Child's Book of Poetry._
* * * * *
PICCOLA AND SPARROW.
Poor, sweet Piccola! Did you hear
What happened to Piccola, children dear?
'Tis seldom Fortune such favor grants
As fell to this little maid of France.
'Twas Christmas-time, and her parents poor
Could hardly drive the wolf from the door,
Striving with poverty's patient pain
Only to live till summer again.
No gifts for Piccola! Sad were they
When dawned the morning of Christmas Day;
Their little darling no joy might stir,
St. Nicholas nothing would bring to her!
But Piccola never doubted at all
That something beautiful must befall
Every child upon Christmas Day,
And so she slept till the dawn was gray.
And, full of faith, when at last she woke,
She stole to her shoe as the morning broke;
Such sounds of gladness tilled all the air,
'Twas plain St. Nicholas had been there!
In rushed Piccola sweet, half wild:
Never was seen such a joyful child.
"See what the good saint brought!" she cried,
And mother and father must peep inside.
Now such a story who ever heard?
There was a little shivering bird!
A sparrow, that in at the window flew,
Had crept into Piccola's tiny shoe!
"How good Piccola must have been!"
She cried as happy as any queen,
While the starving sparrow she fed and warmed,
And danced with rapture, she was so charmed.
Children, this story I tell to you,
Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true.
In the far-off land of France, they say,
Still do they live to this very day.
CELIA THAXTER.
* * * * *
LITTLE SPARROW.
Touch not the little sparrow who doth build
His home so near us. He doth follow us,
From spot to spot, amidst the turbulent town,
And ne'er deserts us. To all other birds
The woods suffice, the rivers, the sweet fields,
And Nature in her aspect mute and fair;
But he doth herd with men. Blithe servant! live,
Feed, and grow cheerful! on my window's ledge
I'll leave thee every morning some fit food
In payment for thy service.
BARRY CORNWALL.
* * * * *
THE SWALLOW.
A swallow in the spring
Came to our granary, and beneath 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,
Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,
And dashed it to the ground.
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 hands, on 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.
What truth is here, O man!
Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn?
Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, truth, or plan?
Have faith, and struggle on!
R. S. ANDROS.
* * * * *
THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST.
Once the Emperor Charles of Spain,
With his swarthy, grave commanders,
I forget in what campaign,
Long besieged, in mud and rain,
Some old frontier town of Flanders.
Up and down the dreary camp,
In great boots of Spanish leather,
Striding with a measured tramp,
These Hidalgos, dull and damp,
Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather.