CLXV.THE YELLOW-HAMMER.
I
A yellow-hammer in the rain!
And that on this Carinthian plain,
So far, so far from home!
It fills me with old childish years:
And then these happy, happy tears,
Do what I will they come!
II
Behold him now: he never stops,
Among the pattering raindrops
A blithe distrubance making,
Beating for ever on one key,
Pleased with his own monotony,
And his wet feathers shaking.
III
What tender memories are bound
To this familiar hedge-row sound!
The creature's homely glee
Associates me with the hours,
When, so pure childhood willed, all showers
Were sunshine showers to me.
IV
Away he goes, and hammers still
Without a rule but his free will,
A little gaudy Elf!
And there he is within the rain,
And beats and beats his tune again,
Quite happy in himself.
V
Within the heart of this great shower
He sits, as in a secret bower,
With curtains drawn about him:
And, part in duty, part in mirth,
He beats, as if upon the earth
Rain could not fall without him.
VI
Ah homely bird! thou canst not know
How far into my heart doth go
That melancholy key,
How from thy little straining throat
Each separate, successive note
Beats like a pulse in me.
VII
Through blinding tears meek fancy weaves
Far other fields, far other leaves,
Than those by Drava's side;
For now the looks of long lost faces,
And the calm features of old places,
Like magic, round me glide.
VIII
Thou art a power of other days,
A voice from old deserted ways
Obscured by trackless flowers,
An echo of the childish past,
Thus touchingly and strangely cast
Into these foreign bowers.
IX
O it was right and well with me
When I could love a single tree
As a green sanctuary,
When I could in the meadow lie
And look into the silky sky
For hours, and not be weary!
X
Now over sea and over earth
I pass with hollow, heated mirth
Which doth but gender sadness,
And with uneasy heart I range
Through all the pageantry of change
To gather moods of gladness.
XI
Time flies, and life; and manly thought,
Into unsunny currents wrought,
Is in hoarse eddies wheeling:
I am a man of growing wants,
And I have many wayward haunts,
Haunts both of thought and feeling.
XII
When joys were simple, days were long,
All woven into one bright throng,
Like golden bees at play,
One with another softly blending,
As though they could not have an ending,
And all were but one day.
XIII
I thank thee, gentle bird! for this;
Thou hast awakened childish bliss,
A sweet monition given;
And willing tears for youthful sin
Are fragrant rituals, that may win
The old light back from Heaven.
XIV
And sure I am that summer day
Ne'er shone on a more grand array
Or gorgeous pomp of mountains;
And o'er the plain in shining rings
The Drave with blithest murmurings
Comes from his Alpine fountains:
XV
And seen through this bright, dazzling rain
How fair is yon Carinthian plain,
A richly wooded park,
Where groups of birch with silver stems
Rise up, like sceptres of white gems,
Among the fir-clumps dark.
XVI
Yet am I cast upon lost years;
The Present is dissolved in tears;
So is this bird empowered;
An oracle upon the bough
He sits, through him the Present now
Is by the Past deflowered.
