University of Virginia Library

Thou, sitting on the hill-top bare,
Dost see the far hills disappear
In Autumn smoke, and all the air
Filled with bright leaves. Below thee spread
Are breast-high harvests, and the red
Wide fallow fields: while overhead
The jays to one another call,
And through the stilly woods there fall
Ripe nuts at intervals, where'er
The squirrel perched in upper air,
From tree-top barks at thee his fear:
His cunning eyes mistrustingly
Do spy at thee around the tree,
Then prompted by a sudden whim,
Down leaping on the quivering limb
Gains the smooth hickory, from whence
He nimbly scours along the fence
To secret haunts.

But thou, where roar
The pine woods in long corridor,
Sonorously and evermore,
When through the budding shrubs descried
Green slope the fields on every side;
When jasmines and azalias fill
The air with sweets, and down the hill
Turbid no more descends the rill,
The wonder of thy hazel eyes
Soft opening on the misty skies,
Dost smile within thyself to see
Things uncontained in, seemingly,
The open book upon thy knee:
And through the quiet woodlands hear
Sounds full of mystery to ear
Of grosser mould; bird-voices, deer
Bleets, the innumerable cries
That from the teeming world arise;
Which we, self-confidently wise,
Pass by unheeding. Thou did'st yearn
From thy weak babyhood to learn
Arcana of creation; turn
Thy eyes on things intangible
To mortals; when the earth was still,
Hear dreamy voices on the hill
In wavy woods, that sent a thrill
Of joyousness through thy young veins.
Ah, happy thou, whose seeking gains
All that thou lovest, man disdains;
A sympathy in joys and pains
With dwellers in the long green lanes,
With wings that shady groves explore,
With watchers at the torrent's roar,
And waders by the reedy shore.
For Nature, through thy purity,
Is open as a book to thee.

Croak, croak.—Who croaketh overhead
So hoarsely, with his pinion spread
Dabbled in blood and dripping red.
Croak, croak:—a RAVEN'S curse on him
The giver of this shattered limb.
Albeit young, (a hundred years,
When next the forest leaved appears!)
Will Duskywing behold this breast
Shot-riddled, or divide my nest
With wearer of so tattered vest?
I see myself with wing awry
Approaching; Duskywing will spy
My altered air, and shun my eye.
With laughter bursting, through the wood
The birds will scream;—‘she's quite too good
For thee.’ And yonder meddling Jay,
I hear him chatter all the day;
‘He's crippled,—send the thief away.’—
At every hop—‘don't let him stay!’
I'll catch thee yet, despite my wing,
For all thy fine blue plumes thou'lt sing
Another song! Is't not enough
The carrion in the swamp we snuff,
And gathering down upon the breeze,
Release the valley from disease.
If longing for more fresh a meal,
Around the tender flock we wheel,
A marksman doth some bush conceal.
This very morn I heard an ewe
Bleat in the thicket; there I flew
With lazy wing slow circling round,
Until I spied unto the ground
A lamb by tangled briers bound.
The ewe meanwhile from hillock-side
Bleat to her young—so loudly cried
She heard it not when it replied.
Ho, ho—a feast!—I 'gan to croak,
Alighting straightway on an oak;
Whence gloatingly I eyed aslant
The little trembler lie and pant:
Leaped nimbly thence upon its head;
Down its white nostril bubbled red
A gush of blood. Ere life had fled
My beak was buried in its eyes
Turned tearfully upon the skies,
Strong grew my voice and weak its cries—

No longer could'st thou sit and hear
This demon prate in open air
Deeds horrible to maiden ear.
Begone!—thou spokest. Overhead
The startled fiend his pinion spread,
And croaking maledictions, fled.
But hark:—who at some secret door
Knocks loud and knocketh evermore.
Thou seëst how around the tree,
With scarlet head for hammer, he
Probes where the haunts of insects be.
The worn in labyrinthian hole
Begins his sluggard length to roll:
But crafty Rufus spies the prey,
And with his mallet beats away
The loose bark crumbling with decay.

Then chirping loud, with wing elate
He bears the morsel to his mate.
His mate, she sitteth on her nest,
In sober feather garments dressed,
A matron underneath whose breast
Three little tender heads appear.
With bills distent from ear to ear,
Each clamors for the larger share:
And whilst they clamor, climb, and lo
Upon the margin to and fro,
Unsteady poised, one wavers slow.
Stay, stay;—the parents anguished, shriek—
Too late: For venturesome yet weak,
His frail legs falter under him,
He falls,—but from a lower limb
A moment dangles; thence again
Launched out upon the air: in vain
He spreads his little plumeless wing,
A poor blind, dizzy, helpless thing.

But thou, who all did'st see and hear,
Young, active, wast already there
And caught the flutterer, in air.
Then up the tree to topmost limb,
A vine for ladder, borest him.
Against thy cheek his little heart
Beat soft. Ah, trembler that thou art;
Thou spokest smiling; comfort thee.
With joyous cries, the parents flee
Thy presence none; confidingly
Pour out their earnest hearts to thee.
The Mockbird sees thy tenderness
Of deed; doth with melodiousness
In many tongues thy praise express.
And all the while, his dappled wings
He claps his sides with as he sings,
From perch to perch his body flings.
A poet he, to ecstasy
Wrought by the sweets his tongue doth say.

Who shouts so loud?—Hallo, hallo!
Who in the pine-top to and fro
Rocks gallantly? Ha, brother Crow,
Why cawest thou so loud, below?
Caw—caw: Last spring good Roger came
And sowed his corn: a tenth we claim.
Look you, I wear a satin hood
Blue-black and monkish, reason good
For taking tithe of all we would
According to the good old law.
Caw—caw! quoth I. ‘I'll stop your “caw”
Quoth Roger; Ever mortal saw
Such a lean, lazy lizzard thing!
No longer will I tatters bring
To fright him off, his neck I'll wring.’
Since then has Roger soon and late,
With rusty barrel lain in wait.
I'm twice as old and thrice as wise
As Roger, therefore while he lies,
I dig his corn before his eyes.
This morning Roger came once more,
And sowed a furrow as before.
Hey!—muttered I—Here's something strange;
The seasons all ha' made a change,
Unless a bad account I keep!
The fellow's certainly asleep,
He sows in Autumn, when 'ill he reap?
Off Roger goes: A feast—I cry,
A feast! From every furrow nigh
The brotherhood their pinions fly,
Now while we single grain from grain
Right busily, adown the lane
Creeps Roger stealthily again.
Look to yourselves!—our sentries shriek.
With wings grown wonderously weak
To rise into mid air we seek;
But reeling back, some lie as dead,
While others with their pinions spread
Flap in the dust. Amid the din
Of cawing, Roger runneth in:
In either hand around he slings
An anguished trunk with panting wings,
Then off the headless carcass flings.
I who had played the host, and fed
But sparingly, in season fled
To pine-top. Never farmer reaped
So cursèd crop; in spirits steeped,
His maize a hideous harvest yields,
A malediction on his fields.
No green and waving blade appears,
In place of sweet and golden ears,
Blood soppèd fruit his furrow bears.

Although a crafty profligate,
Thou heardest him his grief relate,
With sympathy. Will man abate,
(Thou saidest), nevermore his hate
To these, nor with the helpless share
That which without diviner care
Unrecompense of labor were.
Ah, let him give, but cheerfully
To them that now so fearfully
Flit up, and from his presence flee,
And he will smiling harvests see
Where indigence was wont to be.
For God loves all, and does not give
Life only, but the means to live.

Stay, stay—what small wings flutter now
Beneath yon flowering alder bough?
Therefrom a little plaintive voice,
That did at early morn rejoice,
Makes a most sad yet sweet complaint,
Saying; ‘My heart is very faint
With its unutterable wo.
What shall I do, where shall I go,
My cruel anguish to abate?
Oh, my poor desolated mate!
Dear Cherry, will our hawbush seek
Joyful, and beaming in her beak
Fresh seeds, and such like dainties won
By patient search: But they are gone
Whom she did brood and dote upon.
Oh, if there be a mortal ear
My sorrowful complaint to hear;
If manly breast is ever stirred
By wrong done to a helpless bird;
To them for quick redress I cry.’
Moved by the prayer, and drawing nigh,
On alder branch thou didst espy
How sitting lonely and forlorn,
His breast was pressed upon a thorn,
Unknowing that he leaned thereon.
Then bidding him take heart again,
Thou rannest down into the lane
To seek the doer of this wrong.
Nor under hedgerow hunted long,
When, sturdy, rude and sun-embrowned,
A child thy earnest seeking found.
To him in sweet and modest tone
Thou madest straight thy errand known;
With gentle eloquence did'st show
(Things erst he surely did not know,)
How great an evil he had done:
How, when next year the mild May sun
Renewed its warmth, this shady lane
No timid birds would haunt again;
And how around his mother's door
The robins, yearly guests before
He knew their names, would come no more.
But if his prisoners he released
Before their little bosoms ceased
To palpitate, each coming year
Would find them gladly reäppear
To sing his praises everywhere,
The sweetest, dearest songs to hear.
And afterwards, when came the term
Of ripened corn, the robber worm
Would hunt through every blade and turn,
Impatient thus his smile to earn.

At first, flushed, angrily, and proud,
He answered thee with laughter loud
And brief retort. But thou did'st speak
So mild, so earnestly did'st seek
To change his mood, in wonder first
He eyed thee, then no longer durst
Raise his bold glances to thy face;
But looking down, began to trace,
With little naked foot and hand,
Thoughtful devices in the sand.
And when at last thou did'st relate
The sad affliction of the mate
When to the well known spot she came,
He hung his head for very shame.
His penitential tears to hide,
His face averted, while he cried;
‘Here take them all, I've no more pride
In climbing up to rob a nest:
I've better feelings in my breast.’

Then thanking him with heart and eyes,
Thou tookest from his grasp the prize,
And bid the little freedmen rise.
But when thou sawest how too weak
Their pinions were, the nest did seek,
And called thy client: Down he flew
Instant, and with him Cherry too.
And flitting after, not a few
Of the minuter feathered race
Filled with their chirpings all the place:
From hedge and pendant branch and vine
Recounted still that deed of thine;
Still sang thy praises o'er and o'er
Gladly: more heartily, be sure,
Were praises never sung before.

Beholding thee, they understand
(These Minnesingers of the land)
How thou apart from all dost stand
Full of great love and tenderness
For all God's creatures: these express
Thy hazel eyes. With life instinct
All things that are, to thee are linked
By subtle ties; and none so mean,
Or loathsome, hast thou ever seen,
But wonderous in make hath been.
Compassionate, thou knowest none
Of insect tribes beneath the sun
That thou can'st set thy heel upon.
A sympathy thou hast with wings
In groves, and with all living things.
Unmindful if they walk or crawl,
The same arm shelters each and all,
The shadow of the curse and fall
Alike impends. Ah, truly great,
Who strivest earnestly and late
A single atom to abate
Of helpless wo and misery.
For very often thou dos't see
How sadly and how helplessly
A pleading face looks up to thee.
Therefore it is, thou can'st not choose
With petty tyranny to abuse
Thy higher gifts: And justly fear
The feeblest worm of earth or air
In thy heart's judgment to condemn,
Since God made thee, and God made them.