 | The British Months |  |
Singing birds generally silent in August. Late singers; Yellow Hammer, Goldfinch. Freshwater or sea birds. Sandpiper or Summer Snipe. Ring Dotterel or Sand Lark. Curlew
Mute now the voice of tuneful song!
The swelling throat, the quivering tongue,
Their sounds of joyousness forbear:
Though countless pinions brush the air,
And ceaseless thread the leafy tree,
Mute is the wonted minstrelsy;
And wrapt alike of old and young
In silence that promiscuous throng:
Too youthful these to pour the note
Of rapture from the feeble throat;
Those all unmindful of the power,
Which in the spring's inspiring hour
Thrill'd the brisk veins with love or glee,
And tun'd the voice to ecstasy.
Save that the bird, his golden crown
Who marks with arched streaks of brown,
Will tell at times his amorous tale
With hurried trill and plaintive wail:
Or the gay Finch of golden wing
Attune his little pipe, to sing
Perch'd on the thistle's downy head,
That waving shades his consort's bed,
His spritely madrigal of love:
Most late the nestling cares to prove;
Among the last his feather'd brood
To usher from their trim abode,
Among the latest to prolong
In August's ear his lively song.
The swelling throat, the quivering tongue,
313
Though countless pinions brush the air,
And ceaseless thread the leafy tree,
Mute is the wonted minstrelsy;
And wrapt alike of old and young
In silence that promiscuous throng:
Too youthful these to pour the note
Of rapture from the feeble throat;
Those all unmindful of the power,
Which in the spring's inspiring hour
Thrill'd the brisk veins with love or glee,
And tun'd the voice to ecstasy.
Save that the bird, his golden crown
Who marks with arched streaks of brown,
Will tell at times his amorous tale
With hurried trill and plaintive wail:
Or the gay Finch of golden wing
Attune his little pipe, to sing
Perch'd on the thistle's downy head,
That waving shades his consort's bed,
His spritely madrigal of love:
Most late the nestling cares to prove;
Among the last his feather'd brood
To usher from their trim abode,
Among the latest to prolong
In August's ear his lively song.
Nor is the air from musick free
Of such as by the briny sea,
In sound or creek their pastime take,
River or pebble-margin'd lake.
Here hurrying by, on foot and wing,
With his barr'd tail's elastick spring,
From snowy breast the plaintive pipe
Sounds clearly of the Summer-snipe.
There with white throat and gorget dark,
Bird of the shore, the Dottrel Lark
With sharp brisk cry and whistle shrill
From his half-black, half-orange bill,
Skims skirtingly the porous sand,
For what of food the barren strand
Has from the depths of ocean won:—
There in short flights they flit or run,
And, as the tide with curling waves
Laves their quick feet, or well-nigh laves,
Pick from the edge the crawling prey,
And twittering shun the whelming spray.
Nor wants there oft more shrill and loud,
Where o'er yon beach that living cloud
Hovering alights on dappled wings,
Or upward from the banquet springs
Piping their gathering cry anew,
The watchnote of the dark Curlew.
Of such as by the briny sea,
In sound or creek their pastime take,
River or pebble-margin'd lake.
Here hurrying by, on foot and wing,
With his barr'd tail's elastick spring,
314
Sounds clearly of the Summer-snipe.
There with white throat and gorget dark,
Bird of the shore, the Dottrel Lark
With sharp brisk cry and whistle shrill
From his half-black, half-orange bill,
Skims skirtingly the porous sand,
For what of food the barren strand
Has from the depths of ocean won:—
There in short flights they flit or run,
And, as the tide with curling waves
Laves their quick feet, or well-nigh laves,
Pick from the edge the crawling prey,
And twittering shun the whelming spray.
Nor wants there oft more shrill and loud,
Where o'er yon beach that living cloud
Hovering alights on dappled wings,
Or upward from the banquet springs
Piping their gathering cry anew,
The watchnote of the dark Curlew.
| The British Months | |