 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
263
BIRD-NOTES.
INSCRIBED TO MY ESTEEMED FRIEND, HON. THOMAS A. JOHNSON.
PRELUDE.
Yea, the stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and the turtle and the crane and the swallow observe the time of their coming.
Jer. VIII. 7.
The stork in heaven knoweth
Her own appointed time,
And like an arrow goeth
Back to our colder clime;
The turtle, crane, and swallow
Come, on unerring wing,
When northern hill and hollow
Bask in the light of spring.
Her own appointed time,
And like an arrow goeth
Back to our colder clime;
The turtle, crane, and swallow
Come, on unerring wing,
When northern hill and hollow
Bask in the light of spring.
But we, endowed with reason,
Cannot foreknow the hour—
The sweet, appointed season
For bursting of Hope's flower;
When near the glad fruition
Of toil that worked annoy—
When sorrow's drear condition
Gives place to heart-felt joy.
Cannot foreknow the hour—
The sweet, appointed season
For bursting of Hope's flower;
When near the glad fruition
Of toil that worked annoy—
When sorrow's drear condition
Gives place to heart-felt joy.
Lo! blighting frost encroaches
On Autumn's sad domain,
And Winter wild approaches
To end his feeble reign:
The birds of passage gather
And fly across the wave,
Their guide a Heavenly Father,
Omnipotent to save.
On Autumn's sad domain,
And Winter wild approaches
To end his feeble reign:
The birds of passage gather
And fly across the wave,
Their guide a Heavenly Father,
Omnipotent to save.
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But man, with reason gifted,
Cannot the hour foreknow
When Hope's bright curtain lifted
Reveals a waste of woe;
When clouds send lightning flashes
Our idols to consume,
And dreams, resolved to ashes,
Are scattered on his tomb.
Cannot the hour foreknow
When Hope's bright curtain lifted
Reveals a waste of woe;
When clouds send lightning flashes
Our idols to consume,
And dreams, resolved to ashes,
Are scattered on his tomb.
265
WINTER BIRDS.
“Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing,
That in the merry months of spring
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes of thee?
Where wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,
And close thy e'e?”
Burns.
That in the merry months of spring
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes of thee?
Where wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,
And close thy e'e?”
Burns.
When the last red leaves have disappeared,
And icicles hang from December's beard,
Through the naked woods I love to stroll,
While the leaden clouds above me roll.
And icicles hang from December's beard,
Through the naked woods I love to stroll,
While the leaden clouds above me roll.
Though the landscape wears a frosty dress
I feel not a sense of loneliness,
For chirping voices on the breeze,
Come from the mossy bolls of trees.
I feel not a sense of loneliness,
For chirping voices on the breeze,
Come from the mossy bolls of trees.
The titmouse, restless little bird!
Tapping the mouldering bark, is heard;
His nimble figure ill-descried
On the beechen trunk's opposing side.
Tapping the mouldering bark, is heard;
His nimble figure ill-descried
On the beechen trunk's opposing side.
And “Picus minor” plies his trade,
Hunting for dens by insects made;
Knocking off flakes of dropping wood
To pound with his hammer their loathsome brood.
Hunting for dens by insects made;
Knocking off flakes of dropping wood
To pound with his hammer their loathsome brood.
Snow on the blast is whirling by,
But “chink! chink!” is his cheerful cry;
What cares he for the blinding storm?
Both have their mission to perform.
But “chink! chink!” is his cheerful cry;
What cares he for the blinding storm?
Both have their mission to perform.
The farmer, lacking wisdom, hears
Thy shrilly note with idle fears;
Growling, while sounds each measured rap,
“Death to the robber that bores for sap!”
Thy shrilly note with idle fears;
Growling, while sounds each measured rap,
“Death to the robber that bores for sap!”
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Toward thee he should be kind of heart,
For a guardian of his trees thou art;
Thou leavest not a grub alive,
And after thy visits they better thrive.
For a guardian of his trees thou art;
Thou leavest not a grub alive,
And after thy visits they better thrive.
The gray elm, shorn of his leafy crown,
Finds a loyal friend in the Creeper brown,
Hunting for vermin in crevices dark,
That health may return to the wounded bark.
Finds a loyal friend in the Creeper brown,
Hunting for vermin in crevices dark,
That health may return to the wounded bark.
“Quank! quank!” the Nuthatch sings,
As his horny bill on the white-oak rings;
Ill will the bug and spider fare,
For a spear-like tongue explores their lair.
As his horny bill on the white-oak rings;
Ill will the bug and spider fare,
For a spear-like tongue explores their lair.
The rain that freezes as it falls,
Drives not him from the forest-halls;
Though stem and twig are with ice encased,
His note still rings through the wintry waste.
Drives not him from the forest-halls;
Though stem and twig are with ice encased,
His note still rings through the wintry waste.
From the larger boughs I have seen him launch
To the swaying tip of the lightest branch,
Then round it track his spiral way,
Probing the spots of old decay.
To the swaying tip of the lightest branch,
Then round it track his spiral way,
Probing the spots of old decay.
Blithe little birds of winter wild!
I loved ye when a happy child;
Now manhood's beard is on my chin,
But draughts of delight from ye I win.
I loved ye when a happy child;
Now manhood's beard is on my chin,
But draughts of delight from ye I win.
Ye are links that bind me to the past,
That realm enchanted, dim and vast;
And my paths through the dreary, drifting snow,
Ye cheered in the winters of long ago.
That realm enchanted, dim and vast;
And my paths through the dreary, drifting snow,
Ye cheered in the winters of long ago.
May ill befall the man or boy,
Who one of your number would destroy!
Ye are never false to your native bowers—
Ye are doers of good in this world of ours.
Who one of your number would destroy!
Ye are never false to your native bowers—
Ye are doers of good in this world of ours.
267
THE SNOW-BIRD.
“Call the creatures,
Whose naked natures live in all the spite
Of wreakful Heaven.”
Whose naked natures live in all the spite
Of wreakful Heaven.”
A mystic thing is the gray snow-bird
That cometh when winds are cold;
When an angry roar in the wood is heard,
And the flocks are in the fold.
Though bare the trees, and a gloomy frown
Is worn by the wintry sky,
On the frosted rail he settles down,
And utters a cheering cry:
Why should a note so glad be heard?
A mystic thing is the gray snow-bird.
That cometh when winds are cold;
When an angry roar in the wood is heard,
And the flocks are in the fold.
Though bare the trees, and a gloomy frown
Is worn by the wintry sky,
On the frosted rail he settles down,
And utters a cheering cry:
Why should a note so glad be heard?
A mystic thing is the gray snow-bird.
In sullen pauses of the storm
He warbles out his lay,
Though wing he has to waft his form
From the chill north far away.
Why wandereth not the feathered sprite
Through heaven's airy halls,
To a land where the blossom knows no blight,
And the snow-flake never falls:
Why linger where the blast is heard?
A mystic thing is the gray snow-bird.
He warbles out his lay,
Though wing he has to waft his form
From the chill north far away.
Why wandereth not the feathered sprite
Through heaven's airy halls,
To a land where the blossom knows no blight,
And the snow-flake never falls:
Why linger where the blast is heard?
A mystic thing is the gray snow-bird.
Sweet offices of love belong
To the smaller tribes of earth,
From the mead-lark piping forth his song,
To the cricket on the hearth;
And the mystic bird of winter wild
His blithest note outpours
When the bleak snow-drift is highest piled
Upon our northern shores;
An envoy by our Father sent
To banish gloom and discontent.
To the smaller tribes of earth,
From the mead-lark piping forth his song,
To the cricket on the hearth;
And the mystic bird of winter wild
His blithest note outpours
When the bleak snow-drift is highest piled
268
An envoy by our Father sent
To banish gloom and discontent.
Oh! we are taught by his gladsome strain
That the sunshine will come back;
Though scud the clouds—a funeral train,
Arrayed in solemn black;
That the streams from slumber will awake,
The hoar-frost disappear,
And the golden wand of spring-time break
Grim Winter's icy spear:
Then let our hearts with joy be stirred,
For a herald glad is the gray snow-bird.
That the sunshine will come back;
Though scud the clouds—a funeral train,
Arrayed in solemn black;
That the streams from slumber will awake,
The hoar-frost disappear,
And the golden wand of spring-time break
Grim Winter's icy spear:
Then let our hearts with joy be stirred,
For a herald glad is the gray snow-bird.
When my perished flower on a creaking bier
To a sunless couch was borne,
Hope, like the snow-bird, came to cheer
My breast with anguish torn;
And I thought, in the winter of my grief,
Of a land of light and bloom,
Where the yew-tree never dropped a leaf
On love's untimely tomb;
Where knit anew are broken ties,
And tears stream not from mournful eyes.
To a sunless couch was borne,
Hope, like the snow-bird, came to cheer
My breast with anguish torn;
And I thought, in the winter of my grief,
Of a land of light and bloom,
Where the yew-tree never dropped a leaf
On love's untimely tomb;
Where knit anew are broken ties,
And tears stream not from mournful eyes.
269
POET AND SNOW-BIRD.
Happy bird! with plumage gay,
Whither away? whither away?
Snow is on the landscape drear—
Why with song the desert cheer?
Feathered lyres like thee beseem
Vernal bower, and running stream;
Green upon the meadows' breast,
Arching sky in azure drest.
Whither away? whither away?
Snow is on the landscape drear—
Why with song the desert cheer?
Feathered lyres like thee beseem
Vernal bower, and running stream;
Green upon the meadows' breast,
Arching sky in azure drest.
BIRD.
When the cheek of Earth is cold,
Winter's banner pale unrolled,
From my trackless home I fly,
Over which hangs mystery,
Man to tell of brighter days
Coming to delight his gaze;
With my carol, in his heart,
Wake contentment and depart.
Winter's banner pale unrolled,
From my trackless home I fly,
Over which hangs mystery,
Man to tell of brighter days
Coming to delight his gaze;
With my carol, in his heart,
Wake contentment and depart.
POET.
Bird! thou art a type of those
Prophets in our vale of woes,
Who, in thrilling tones, declare
That man's future will be fair—
That a morn, at last, will dawn
When, aside the curtain drawn,
He will mark, oh! scene sublime!
Death of woe, and fall of crime;
Human hearts of hate devoid—
Wintry selfishness destroyed;
Love, with summer brightness zoned—
Peace, a conqueror, enthroned.
Prophets in our vale of woes,
Who, in thrilling tones, declare
That man's future will be fair—
That a morn, at last, will dawn
When, aside the curtain drawn,
He will mark, oh! scene sublime!
Death of woe, and fall of crime;
Human hearts of hate devoid—
Wintry selfishness destroyed;
Love, with summer brightness zoned—
Peace, a conqueror, enthroned.
270
FIRST NOTES OF THE ROBIN
A voice of comfort to a dreary world
Is thine, red-breasted warbler. Thro' long months,
To glade, and upland ridge, and wood-path wild,
My foot-prints have been strangers: olden haunts
By tones of discord have been visited—
The loud, hoarse clarion of the trooping storm;
Hail rattling on sere leaves and frozen mould,
Like gravel on the coffins of the dead;
Wild moanings of the leafless, swaying boughs,
Like creatures racked with keen, contorting pangs,
The clink of icy spears by Winter hung,
His cold war-weapons, on the frosted trees—
These are drear sounds in places that we loved
In the gay moon of flowers, or autumn time,
When groves were gorgeous with prismatic dyes.
Is thine, red-breasted warbler. Thro' long months,
To glade, and upland ridge, and wood-path wild,
My foot-prints have been strangers: olden haunts
By tones of discord have been visited—
The loud, hoarse clarion of the trooping storm;
Hail rattling on sere leaves and frozen mould,
Like gravel on the coffins of the dead;
Wild moanings of the leafless, swaying boughs,
Like creatures racked with keen, contorting pangs,
The clink of icy spears by Winter hung,
His cold war-weapons, on the frosted trees—
These are drear sounds in places that we loved
In the gay moon of flowers, or autumn time,
When groves were gorgeous with prismatic dyes.
But thou hast come at last, melodious bird!
From orange-arbors in the southern land,
To light the dimmed horizon of my heart,
And purge my spirit of its melancholy;
For in thy strain, with joy articulate,
There is a cordial for a bosom sad—
A medicine for low, complaining moans.
And will thy prophecies of golden hours,
Green lawns, bright blossoms, and rejoicing rills
Prove, like the visions of my youth, untrue?
Oh, no! winged messenger of hope and love!
Unerring instinct prompts thy gifted tongue,
In carol clear, a truthful tale to tell.
Oh, what a lesson might the wayward bard,
Who prostitutes his dower of Genius rare,
By masking falsehood in mellifluous rhyme,
And decking sin with rosy coronal,
Forerunner of mild weather, learn from thee!
From orange-arbors in the southern land,
To light the dimmed horizon of my heart,
And purge my spirit of its melancholy;
For in thy strain, with joy articulate,
There is a cordial for a bosom sad—
A medicine for low, complaining moans.
And will thy prophecies of golden hours,
Green lawns, bright blossoms, and rejoicing rills
Prove, like the visions of my youth, untrue?
Oh, no! winged messenger of hope and love!
Unerring instinct prompts thy gifted tongue,
In carol clear, a truthful tale to tell.
Oh, what a lesson might the wayward bard,
Who prostitutes his dower of Genius rare,
271
And decking sin with rosy coronal,
Forerunner of mild weather, learn from thee!
Companioned by thee I will sit once more
Far in the shadowy depths of forest old—
In mossed, sequestered nooks of other years—
Beneath a canopy more rich than king,
Crowned and anointed, boasts—though cunning hands
To lull his soul, touch dulcet instruments:
Nor will I lack rich minstrelsy to calm
Unquiet throbbings of a fevered pulse.
There will the timorous partridge beat his drum;
Perched on dark stump in meadow near, the quail
Whistle a signal to her ambushed brood;
There insect tribes will blow their pipes so shrill;
Low, droning bugles will the bee-swarm wind;
Wreathed leaf-harps will be fingered by the winds:
There will thy chant, plumed harmonist, be heard
In the blithe, general concert of the grove,
While passing crane, with slender neck outstretched,
Of that wild band will be the trumpeter.
The water-fall will shake its silver bells,
Timed to a lively and tumultuous air;
A gurgling laugh will ring in lapsing brooks,
As if young Naiads, on their pebbly floors,
Were treading, in their mirth, a measure light.
Changes—some mournful and some glad—have passed
Around me since November drove thee forth
To find a refuge in a warmer clime.
My little daughter, then too young to mark
The mellow cadence of thine evening lay,
Or quick pulsations of thy swelling throat,
Or thy wings' rise and fall abrupt in flight,
Now makes a trial of her strength to leap
From her fond father's arms, when near my door
Thy song in honor of victorious Spring,
Knocking frost fetters from the streams, is heard
And I will teach her with enamored gaze
To look on thy round nest, contrived with skill,
And think, the while, of earth's great Architect:
And I will teach my blue-eyed one to love
Thy callow younglings, sinless as herself,
And white crumbs scatter for the mother nigh,
And with pure thoughts her budding mind inform
By frequent strolls through woods and pastures green.
Far in the shadowy depths of forest old—
In mossed, sequestered nooks of other years—
Beneath a canopy more rich than king,
Crowned and anointed, boasts—though cunning hands
To lull his soul, touch dulcet instruments:
Nor will I lack rich minstrelsy to calm
Unquiet throbbings of a fevered pulse.
There will the timorous partridge beat his drum;
Perched on dark stump in meadow near, the quail
Whistle a signal to her ambushed brood;
There insect tribes will blow their pipes so shrill;
Low, droning bugles will the bee-swarm wind;
Wreathed leaf-harps will be fingered by the winds:
There will thy chant, plumed harmonist, be heard
In the blithe, general concert of the grove,
While passing crane, with slender neck outstretched,
Of that wild band will be the trumpeter.
The water-fall will shake its silver bells,
Timed to a lively and tumultuous air;
A gurgling laugh will ring in lapsing brooks,
As if young Naiads, on their pebbly floors,
Were treading, in their mirth, a measure light.
Changes—some mournful and some glad—have passed
Around me since November drove thee forth
To find a refuge in a warmer clime.
My little daughter, then too young to mark
The mellow cadence of thine evening lay,
Or quick pulsations of thy swelling throat,
Or thy wings' rise and fall abrupt in flight,
Now makes a trial of her strength to leap
From her fond father's arms, when near my door
Thy song in honor of victorious Spring,
272
And I will teach her with enamored gaze
To look on thy round nest, contrived with skill,
And think, the while, of earth's great Architect:
And I will teach my blue-eyed one to love
Thy callow younglings, sinless as herself,
And white crumbs scatter for the mother nigh,
And with pure thoughts her budding mind inform
By frequent strolls through woods and pastures green.
Alas! a few who heard thy sad farewell
Die on the wild, autumnal blast, away
Have gone to early graves.
Will not thy strain
In the drear church-yard, white with lettered stones,
For them breathe sorrowing? As yet the clods
That roof their lowly mansions have put forth
Nor pleasant herb, nor blade of sighing grass;
But thy return gives promise to bruised hearts
That flowers ere long will grace their sepulchres
Types of eternal summer, in a land
That lies beyond death's dark and wintry caves.
Die on the wild, autumnal blast, away
Have gone to early graves.
Will not thy strain
In the drear church-yard, white with lettered stones,
For them breathe sorrowing? As yet the clods
That roof their lowly mansions have put forth
Nor pleasant herb, nor blade of sighing grass;
But thy return gives promise to bruised hearts
That flowers ere long will grace their sepulchres
Types of eternal summer, in a land
That lies beyond death's dark and wintry caves.
273
ROBIN RED-BREAST.
“Call for the robin red-breast and the wren,
Since o'ver shady groves they hover,
And with leaves of flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.”
Webster.
Since o'ver shady groves they hover,
And with leaves of flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.”
Webster.
Thy clear familiar notes recall
The inmates of my father's hall;
The mother on whose breast I lay
Ere known was one unhappy day;
My blushing sisters, in the pride
Of beauty springing side by side,
And playful brothers, fair of face,
My chubby rivals in the race.
The inmates of my father's hall;
The mother on whose breast I lay
Ere known was one unhappy day;
My blushing sisters, in the pride
Of beauty springing side by side,
And playful brothers, fair of face,
My chubby rivals in the race.
The past its portal open flings,
And memory expands her wings:
Again a rosy, laughing child,
I thread the mazes of the wild,
And mark the rounding out thy nest,
Ruffling the feathers on thy breast,
Or listen to thy mellow lay
When mourning the decline of day.
And memory expands her wings:
Again a rosy, laughing child,
I thread the mazes of the wild,
And mark the rounding out thy nest,
Ruffling the feathers on thy breast,
Or listen to thy mellow lay
When mourning the decline of day.
I hear thy softly-warbled strain,
And olden dreams come back again:
While airy shapes are drawing near,
The voices of the dead I hear;
I stand in thought beneath the shade
Of trees by my own planting made,
And, on the river's willowed shore,
Stroll with my rod and line once more
And olden dreams come back again:
While airy shapes are drawing near,
The voices of the dead I hear;
I stand in thought beneath the shade
Of trees by my own planting made,
And, on the river's willowed shore,
Stroll with my rod and line once more
274
Tradition tells a tale of thee
Forever dear to memory:
When the lost children, side by side,
In the dark wood lay down and died,
Arm locked in arm, a heavenly pair,
For earth too sweet, for life too fair,
Dropping bright leaves, their forms to cover,
Above them thou didst gently hover.
Forever dear to memory:
When the lost children, side by side,
In the dark wood lay down and died,
Arm locked in arm, a heavenly pair,
For earth too sweet, for life too fair,
Dropping bright leaves, their forms to cover,
Above them thou didst gently hover.
Bird of my choice! a boon I crave:
Go seek my little daughter's grave,
And warble on the oak that grows
Near the green couch of her repose;
When living, with delighted ear
She listened oft thy song to hear,
And clapped her tiny hands when spring
Brought thee from far on fluttering wing.
Go seek my little daughter's grave,
And warble on the oak that grows
Near the green couch of her repose;
When living, with delighted ear
She listened oft thy song to hear,
And clapped her tiny hands when spring
Brought thee from far on fluttering wing.
275
ADDRESS TO THE SWAN.
“Dulcia defoctâ modulatur carmina linguâ,
Cantatur cygnus funeris ipse sui.”
Ovid.
Cantatur cygnus funeris ipse sui.”
Ovid.
Stately bird! from lake and bay
Fled a grace and charm away,
When Improvement's thrilling call
Pierced the forest's leafy hall
From blue waters, once thine own,
Scaring thee to haunts more lone.
Fled a grace and charm away,
When Improvement's thrilling call
Pierced the forest's leafy hall
From blue waters, once thine own,
Scaring thee to haunts more lone.
Reeds and rushes fringe the shore,
But they hide thy nest no more;
Water-lilies, without stain,
Decorate thine old domain,
But thy soft and rounded breast
In a purer white was drest.
But they hide thy nest no more;
Water-lilies, without stain,
Decorate thine old domain,
But thy soft and rounded breast
In a purer white was drest.
Driven forth by winter cold
From the polar wastes of old,
Music from the sky would fall,
Louder than a battle-call,
As thy pinion, peerless swan!
Bore thee, in thy beauty, on.
From the polar wastes of old,
Music from the sky would fall,
Louder than a battle-call,
As thy pinion, peerless swan!
Bore thee, in thy beauty, on.
Never listened mortal ear
To a voice more full and clear,
Not unlike in depth of tone
Blast of conch-shell loudly blown,
Or a far-off trumpet wail
Modulated by the gale.
To a voice more full and clear,
Not unlike in depth of tone
Blast of conch-shell loudly blown,
Or a far-off trumpet wail
Modulated by the gale.
The wild red-man with delight
Heard that challenge shrill at night,
As, revealed by moonlight fair,
Sped thy form through fields of air;
Vans of silver, broad and strong,
Southward wafting thee along.
Heard that challenge shrill at night,
276
Sped thy form through fields of air;
Vans of silver, broad and strong,
Southward wafting thee along.
Prized by chief and forest king
Was the plumage of thy wing;
On the head of Indian maid
Low winds with thy feathers played,
And thy down, so rich and warm,
Edged the robe that wrapped her form.
Was the plumage of thy wing;
On the head of Indian maid
Low winds with thy feathers played,
And thy down, so rich and warm,
Edged the robe that wrapped her form.
Age, that cripples mortal power,
Wasting pile, and crumbling tower,
Sullies not thy vesture white,
Or brings darkness to thy sight,
Though a century may have fled
Since thy first wing-quill was shed.
Wasting pile, and crumbling tower,
Sullies not thy vesture white,
Or brings darkness to thy sight,
Though a century may have fled
Since thy first wing-quill was shed.
Purer type the fabling mind
Grace to picture cannot find,
And when Art on canvas drew
Venus, born of ocean blue,
Yoked to chariot of the queen
Swans, with arching neck, were seen.
Grace to picture cannot find,
And when Art on canvas drew
Venus, born of ocean blue,
Yoked to chariot of the queen
Swans, with arching neck, were seen.
Ovid, in his sweetest verse,
Loved thy praises to rehearse;
Flaccus, in his polished lay,
Tribute unto thee did pay,
And in Plato's mighty tome
Ever thou wilt find a home.
Loved thy praises to rehearse;
Flaccus, in his polished lay,
Tribute unto thee did pay,
And in Plato's mighty tome
Ever thou wilt find a home.
Still would I believer be
In the tale they tell of thee—
Breathing in the hour of death
Music with thy latest breath;
Tuning, with a failing tongue,
Strains the sweetest ever sung.
In the tale they tell of thee—
Breathing in the hour of death
Music with thy latest breath;
Tuning, with a failing tongue,
Strains the sweetest ever sung.
277
Blest may merry England be,
For her statutes guarded thee;
Those who soiled thy plume with gore
Branded mark of felon bore,
And admiring lords and dames
Viewed thee sailing on the Thames.
For her statutes guarded thee;
Those who soiled thy plume with gore
Branded mark of felon bore,
And admiring lords and dames
Viewed thee sailing on the Thames.
“Rare old Ben” could find no name
Worthy of a Shakespeare's fame
But thine own, majestic bird!
Now a consecrated word
With unmatched poetic lore
Intertwined for evermore.
Worthy of a Shakespeare's fame
But thine own, majestic bird!
Now a consecrated word
With unmatched poetic lore
Intertwined for evermore.
278
THE CROW.
“Light thickens,
And the crow makes wing to the rooky wood.”
And the crow makes wing to the rooky wood.”
Their icy drums the polar spirits beat,
And dark December with a howl awakes;
But on I wander, while beneath my feet
The brittle snow-crust breaks.
And dark December with a howl awakes;
But on I wander, while beneath my feet
The brittle snow-crust breaks.
The fleecy flock to find one juicy blade
Scrape, with their lifted hoofs, the snow away;
Ended the long, loud bleat of joy that made
So blithe the meads of May.
Scrape, with their lifted hoofs, the snow away;
Ended the long, loud bleat of joy that made
So blithe the meads of May.
With wildly mournful bellowings around
Yon fence-girt stack the hungry cattle crowd;
For the drear skies on their old pasture-ground
Have dropped a heavy shroud.
Yon fence-girt stack the hungry cattle crowd;
For the drear skies on their old pasture-ground
Have dropped a heavy shroud.
Housed in some hollow beech the squirrel lies,
Scared by the whistling winds that scourge the wold;
The hardy fox is not a-foot, too wise
To brave the bitter cold.
Scared by the whistling winds that scourge the wold;
The hardy fox is not a-foot, too wise
To brave the bitter cold.
Far in the gloomy cedar-swamp to-day
The ruffed grouse finds a shelter from the storm,
And, fearless grown, the quail-flock wend their way
To barns for cover warm.
The ruffed grouse finds a shelter from the storm,
And, fearless grown, the quail-flock wend their way
To barns for cover warm.
One bird alone, the melancholy crow
Answers the challenge of the surly north;
The forest-tops are swinging to and fro,
But boldly goes he forth.
Answers the challenge of the surly north;
The forest-tops are swinging to and fro,
But boldly goes he forth.
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His pinions flapping like a banner-sheet,
While high he mounts above the forest tall,
Shake from their iron quills the pelting sleet
With measured rise and fall.
While high he mounts above the forest tall,
Shake from their iron quills the pelting sleet
With measured rise and fall.
The sinning Court of Bards an evil name
On the poor creature long ago conferred;
It was a lying judgment, and I claim
Reversal for the bird.
On the poor creature long ago conferred;
It was a lying judgment, and I claim
Reversal for the bird.
I know that with a hoarse, insulting croak,
When planting time arrives and winds are warm,
On the dry antlers of some withered oak
He perches safe from harm.
When planting time arrives and winds are warm,
On the dry antlers of some withered oak
He perches safe from harm.
I know that he disturbs the buried maize,
And infant blades upspringing on the hills;
That man a snare to catch the robber lays,
While wrath his bosom fills.
And infant blades upspringing on the hills;
That man a snare to catch the robber lays,
While wrath his bosom fills.
But is he not of service to our race,
Performing his allotted labor well?
Although a bounty on his head we place—
The rifle-crack his knell.
Performing his allotted labor well?
Although a bounty on his head we place—
The rifle-crack his knell.
Warned is the reaper of foul weather nigh,
When the prophetic creature, in its flight,
With a changed note in its discordant cry,
Moves like a gliding kite.
When the prophetic creature, in its flight,
With a changed note in its discordant cry,
Moves like a gliding kite.
While louder grows that wild, presageful call,
Sheaves are piled high upon the harvest wain,
And the stack neatly rounded ere the fall
Of hail, and driving rain.
Sheaves are piled high upon the harvest wain,
And the stack neatly rounded ere the fall
Of hail, and driving rain.
Be just, then, farmer, and the grudge forget,
Nursed in thy bosom long against the bird;
Thy crop would have been ruined by the wet
Had not that voice been heard.
Nursed in thy bosom long against the bird;
Thy crop would have been ruined by the wet
Had not that voice been heard.
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Health-officer of nature, he will speed,
Croaking a signal to his sable band,
And dine on loathsome offals, ere they breed
Contagion in the land.
Croaking a signal to his sable band,
And dine on loathsome offals, ere they breed
Contagion in the land.
When the round nest his dusk mate deftly weaves,
He sits, a warrior in his leafy tent;
And the fierce hawk prompt punishment receives
If near, on mischief bent:—
He sits, a warrior in his leafy tent;
And the fierce hawk prompt punishment receives
If near, on mischief bent:—
Thus at the door-sill, guarding babes and wife,
The dauntless settler met his painted foe;
Love giving, in a dark, unequal strife,
Destruction to his blow.
The dauntless settler met his painted foe;
Love giving, in a dark, unequal strife,
Destruction to his blow.
He is no summer coxcomb of the air,
Forsaking ancient friends in evil hour,
To find a home where Heaven is ever fair,
And the glad Earth in flower.
Forsaking ancient friends in evil hour,
To find a home where Heaven is ever fair,
And the glad Earth in flower.
Though man and boy a warfare with him wage,
He loves the forest where he first waved wing;
Awaiting in its depths, though winter rage,
The bright return of spring.
He loves the forest where he first waved wing;
Awaiting in its depths, though winter rage,
The bright return of spring.
That love is noblest that survives the bloom
Of withered cheeks that once out-blushed the rose;
True to its fading object in the gloom
Of life's dull wintry close:—
Of withered cheeks that once out-blushed the rose;
True to its fading object in the gloom
Of life's dull wintry close:—
And the poor Crow, of that pure love a type,
Quits not the wood in which he burst the shell,
Though fall the leaves, and feathered armies pipe
To the chill North farewell!
Quits not the wood in which he burst the shell,
Though fall the leaves, and feathered armies pipe
To the chill North farewell!
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THE BLUE-BIRD.
“When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,
When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,
O, then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring,
And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.”
Wilson.
When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,
O, then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring,
And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.”
Wilson.
A bird, perched on my garden-rail,
While falls the drizzling rain,
And nature hath a voice of wail,
Outpours a cheerful strain.
Wherewith can I compare the hue
That decks its back and wings—
Old Ocean's azure, or the blue
O'er heaven that June-time flings?
While falls the drizzling rain,
And nature hath a voice of wail,
Outpours a cheerful strain.
Wherewith can I compare the hue
That decks its back and wings—
Old Ocean's azure, or the blue
O'er heaven that June-time flings?
Oh, no! the fresh deep tint they wear
That clothes the violet-flower,
When nodding in the vernal air,
And laughing in the shower.
From earth I feel my soul withdrawn,
I am a child again,
While thus flows eloquently on
The burthen of its strain:
That clothes the violet-flower,
When nodding in the vernal air,
And laughing in the shower.
From earth I feel my soul withdrawn,
I am a child again,
While thus flows eloquently on
The burthen of its strain:
“Wipe, weeping April! from thine eyes
Away the rainy tears,
A voice that tells of cloudless skies
Is ringing in mine ears:
Fair flowers, thy daughters, mourned as dead,
Will start up from the mould,
And, filled with dewy nectar, spread
Their leaflets as of old.
Away the rainy tears,
A voice that tells of cloudless skies
Is ringing in mine ears:
Fair flowers, thy daughters, mourned as dead,
Will start up from the mould,
And, filled with dewy nectar, spread
Their leaflets as of old.
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“The brotherhood of trees—the strong—
Green diadems will wear,
And sylphs of summer all day long
Braid roses in their hair;
And, harbinger of weather mild,
The swallow will dart by,
While brighter green adorns the wild,
And deeper blue the sky.
Green diadems will wear,
And sylphs of summer all day long
Braid roses in their hair;
And, harbinger of weather mild,
The swallow will dart by,
While brighter green adorns the wild,
And deeper blue the sky.
“Soon, April, will thy naked brows
With fragrant wreaths be crowned,
And low winds in the leafy boughs
Awake a slumberous sound.
Charged by a Power who made my way
Through airy deserts plain,
I come to breathe a truthful lay,
And make thee smile again.”
With fragrant wreaths be crowned,
And low winds in the leafy boughs
Awake a slumberous sound.
Charged by a Power who made my way
Through airy deserts plain,
I come to breathe a truthful lay,
And make thee smile again.”
Plumed pilgrim from a southern shore,
Thrice welcome to our land!
Telling the bard of good in store,
Of golden hours at hand.
Throbs merrily thy little breast
In reddish vesture clad;
A scene of sorrow and unrest
Thou comest, bird, to glad!
Thrice welcome to our land!
Telling the bard of good in store,
Of golden hours at hand.
Throbs merrily thy little breast
In reddish vesture clad;
A scene of sorrow and unrest
Thou comest, bird, to glad!
So through thy hall, oh, human heart!
Its inner gloom to light,
Rays of celestial sheen that dart
Herald the death of night;
Telling full sweetly of a clime
Where winter is unknown,
Of fields beyond the shore of Time,
With flowers that die not strown.
Its inner gloom to light,
Rays of celestial sheen that dart
Herald the death of night;
Telling full sweetly of a clime
Where winter is unknown,
Of fields beyond the shore of Time,
With flowers that die not strown.
283
THE KINGFISHER.
“The blue Kingfisher's eager scream,
Watching the wake of perch or bream.”
Watching the wake of perch or bream.”
Poetic haunts are thine,
Bird of the snowy ruff and saucy crest!
Plunging in streams that hurry to the brine,
And lakes of azure breast:
Bird of the snowy ruff and saucy crest!
Plunging in streams that hurry to the brine,
And lakes of azure breast:
And by the mill-pond's edge
Full oft, when strolling, I have heard thy cry,
And marked thee, over water-flag and sedge,
Speed on thine errand by.
Full oft, when strolling, I have heard thy cry,
And marked thee, over water-flag and sedge,
Speed on thine errand by.
Supported in mid-air,
Above the river by thy humming wings,
How flames thy glance while trout its bosom fair
Break into widening rings!
Above the river by thy humming wings,
How flames thy glance while trout its bosom fair
Break into widening rings!
Amid bright scenes like these,
The days of thy wild life begin and end,
Seldom a wanderer from the dry old trees
That o'er the waters bend.
The days of thy wild life begin and end,
Seldom a wanderer from the dry old trees
That o'er the waters bend.
Did not thy belt of blue
Catch from the sky-reflecting wave a stain,
And the white gorget round thy neck its hue
From foam-bells woke by rain?
Catch from the sky-reflecting wave a stain,
And the white gorget round thy neck its hue
From foam-bells woke by rain?
Thy voice is like in sound
The twirling of a watchman's rattle loud,
When grisly danger meets him on his round,
Beneath night's leaden cloud.
The twirling of a watchman's rattle loud,
When grisly danger meets him on his round,
Beneath night's leaden cloud.
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Could not the brook and rill,
Ever thy loved companions, tune thy throat
To softer utterance—teaching thee to still
That harsh alarum-note?
Ever thy loved companions, tune thy throat
To softer utterance—teaching thee to still
That harsh alarum-note?
Thy favorite fishing-ground
Is where dead trees make desolate the strand,
And otter-tracks are by the trapper found
Upon the yielding sand.
Is where dead trees make desolate the strand,
And otter-tracks are by the trapper found
Upon the yielding sand.
The torrent's angry roar
To thee, wild creature, is a sound of joy,
While keeping vigil nigh the rocky shore,
Some victim to destroy.
To thee, wild creature, is a sound of joy,
While keeping vigil nigh the rocky shore,
Some victim to destroy.
There with keen, restless eyes
I have beheld thee perched, half-hid in spray;
Then, with a sudden plunge, thy finny prize
Secure, and bear away.
I have beheld thee perched, half-hid in spray;
Then, with a sudden plunge, thy finny prize
Secure, and bear away.
Thine undulating flight
Mimics the billow in its rise and fall;
Mad rapids are more pleasing to thy sight
Than the grove's leafy hall.
Mimics the billow in its rise and fall;
Mad rapids are more pleasing to thy sight
Than the grove's leafy hall.
Art thou the bird of eld
That built its nest upon the cradling deep,
Owning a charm when wind and wave rebelled,
To hush them into sleep?—
That built its nest upon the cradling deep,
Owning a charm when wind and wave rebelled,
To hush them into sleep?—
The Halcyon of Song,
Whose plume was deemed a talisman to guard
The fortunate possessor from all wrong
By seer and fabling bard?
Whose plume was deemed a talisman to guard
The fortunate possessor from all wrong
By seer and fabling bard?
I know not, but the Past,
When I behold thee, bird, her face unveils,
And back on busy recollection, fast
Crowd old, romantic tales.
When I behold thee, bird, her face unveils,
And back on busy recollection, fast
Crowd old, romantic tales.
285
THE WOOD-THRUSH.
“In dark, wet and gloomy weather, when scarce a single chirp is heard from any other bird, the clear notes of the wood-thrush thrill through the dropping woods, from morning to night, and it may truly be said that the sadder the day the sweeter is his song.”—
Wilson.
A bird with spotted throat and breast,
Is singing on the tallest tree,
While day is fading in the west,
In strains that with the time agree.
I know the little minstrel well—
His favorite haunts are also mine—
The silence of the shaded dell
O'erbrowed by hills of murmuring pine.
Is singing on the tallest tree,
While day is fading in the west,
In strains that with the time agree.
I know the little minstrel well—
His favorite haunts are also mine—
The silence of the shaded dell
O'erbrowed by hills of murmuring pine.
Breathe out thy mellow vesper lay,
While shadow drapes the listening skies;
Far in the forest-depths away
How plaintively the music dies!
With sunset, to their nests have flown
Gay birds that love the golden light,
And left thee in the woods alone
To welcome melancholy night:—
While shadow drapes the listening skies;
Far in the forest-depths away
How plaintively the music dies!
With sunset, to their nests have flown
Gay birds that love the golden light,
And left thee in the woods alone
To welcome melancholy night:—
And I am glad no warbler near
Responds to thy transporting strain,
For never will a mortal ear
List to such melody again.
Let other instruments be mute,
And Silence lock them in her cave—
Even the warble of a flute
Creeping by moonlight o'er the wave.
Responds to thy transporting strain,
For never will a mortal ear
List to such melody again.
Let other instruments be mute,
And Silence lock them in her cave—
Even the warble of a flute
Creeping by moonlight o'er the wave.
In murky weather, when the sun
Is hidden by a cloudy veil,
And the plumed wanderers, one by one,
Have hushed their pipes in wood and dale—
Delighted, often I have heard
Thy symphonies so clear and loud,
And wondered that a little bird
Was with a voice so sweet endowed.
Is hidden by a cloudy veil,
And the plumed wanderers, one by one,
Have hushed their pipes in wood and dale—
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Thy symphonies so clear and loud,
And wondered that a little bird
Was with a voice so sweet endowed.
Where alders overhang the stream
Thy mate's frail nest I have espied,
Protected from the noon-day beam
With its four gems in azure dyed:
Fit place to rear a singing brood
Was the wild scene that lay around,
While mocked the gray, majestic wood
Old, solemn Ocean's bass profound.
Thy mate's frail nest I have espied,
Protected from the noon-day beam
With its four gems in azure dyed:
Fit place to rear a singing brood
Was the wild scene that lay around,
While mocked the gray, majestic wood
Old, solemn Ocean's bass profound.
Shy, unobtrusive bird! thou art
An emblem, beautiful and meet,
Of the poor poet's weary heart
That loves in solitude to beat—
A lofty heart that finds relief,
And inspiration deep and strong,
When closeted with gloom and grief,
Its chords grow tremulous with song.
An emblem, beautiful and meet,
Of the poor poet's weary heart
That loves in solitude to beat—
A lofty heart that finds relief,
And inspiration deep and strong,
When closeted with gloom and grief,
Its chords grow tremulous with song.
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THE WOOD-DUCK.
“Now stealing through its thickets deep
In which the wood-duck hides.”—
Street.
In which the wood-duck hides.”—
Street.
Far from ocean, ever flecking
His broad, shelly beach with foam,
Near untroubled, inland waters
Finds the wild wood-duck a home.
His broad, shelly beach with foam,
Near untroubled, inland waters
Finds the wild wood-duck a home.
Over seas with gull and petrel
Should he strive the storm to dare
Roaring surf and bursting billow
Landward would the creature scare.
Should he strive the storm to dare
Roaring surf and bursting billow
Landward would the creature scare.
Where the forest veils in shadow
Marshy beds of creeping streams,
Or, on lilied ponds the sunlight
Falls with interrupted beams—
Marshy beds of creeping streams,
Or, on lilied ponds the sunlight
Falls with interrupted beams—
Through tall flag and reeds that tremble
In his wake the creature swims,
Or, above the sluggish current,
Sits on overhanging limbs.
In his wake the creature swims,
Or, above the sluggish current,
Sits on overhanging limbs.
Strolling by the grassy margin,
Oft have I the creature seen—
Colors playing on its plumage
Of the richest gold and green.
Oft have I the creature seen—
Colors playing on its plumage
Of the richest gold and green.
And my gun into the hollow
Of my arm have thrown, and stood
Gazing on the lovely vision
Under cover of the wood.
Of my arm have thrown, and stood
Gazing on the lovely vision
Under cover of the wood.
Bronze and violet reflections
Flashed above its tameless eye,
And the crown it wore was royal
Of the deepest Tyrian dye.
Flashed above its tameless eye,
And the crown it wore was royal
Of the deepest Tyrian dye.
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When the timid bird espying
With her nimble brood, I think
Of old Tribes that sought yon river
From its sparkling wave to drink;
With her nimble brood, I think
Of old Tribes that sought yon river
From its sparkling wave to drink;
Voices of the past are waking
Echoes in the solemn grove
And again their cabins cluster
On the banks of pond and cove;
Echoes in the solemn grove
And again their cabins cluster
On the banks of pond and cove;
For the wood-duck furnished feathers
When a forest-king was crowned,
And another race were rulers
Of the pleasant scene around;
When a forest-king was crowned,
And another race were rulers
Of the pleasant scene around;
And a gorgeous skin, with cunning,
From the head and neck was peeled
That adorned the Pipe of Council,
And its cany stem concealed:
From the head and neck was peeled
That adorned the Pipe of Council,
And its cany stem concealed:
From his crest and glittering pinions
For the maid of doe-like glance
Furnished plumes that, 'mid her tresses,
Fluttered in the festal dance.
For the maid of doe-like glance
Furnished plumes that, 'mid her tresses,
Fluttered in the festal dance.
In the hollow trunks of ruin
Builds the summer-duck a nest,
Though a favorite of nature
In her brightest colors drest;
Builds the summer-duck a nest,
Though a favorite of nature
In her brightest colors drest;
And not strange to me it seemeth
That a bird so richly clad
Should delight in breeding places
That awake reflection sad:
That a bird so richly clad
Should delight in breeding places
That awake reflection sad:
For a lasting law the sunlight
Unto darkness hath allied,
And Decay is ever claiming
Beauty as his chosen bride.
Unto darkness hath allied,
And Decay is ever claiming
Beauty as his chosen bride.
289
THE SWALLOW.
“La Rondinella, sopra il nido allegra,
Cantando salutava il nuovo giorno.”
Cantando salutava il nuovo giorno.”
“The swallow is one of my favorite birds, and a rival of the nightingale; for he glads my sense of seeing, as the other does my sense of hearing.”—
Sir H. Davy.
Warm, cloudless days have brought a blithe new-comer,
Beloved by young and old,
That twitters out a welcome unto summer,
Arrayed in green and gold.
Beloved by young and old,
That twitters out a welcome unto summer,
Arrayed in green and gold.
With sunlight on his plume, the happy swallow
Is darting swiftly by,
As if with shaft dismissed by bright Apollo
His speed he fain would try.
Is darting swiftly by,
As if with shaft dismissed by bright Apollo
His speed he fain would try.
Now high above yon steeple wheels the rover,
In many a sportive ring;
Anon, the glassy lakelet skimming over,
He dips his dusky wing.
In many a sportive ring;
Anon, the glassy lakelet skimming over,
He dips his dusky wing.
Old nests yet hang, though marred by winter's traces,
To rafter, beam and wall,
And his fond mate, to ancient breeding-places,
Comes at his amorous call.
To rafter, beam and wall,
And his fond mate, to ancient breeding-places,
Comes at his amorous call.
Those mud-built domes were dear to me in childhood,
With feathers soft inlaid;
Dearer than nests whose builders in the wild-wood
Were birds of man afraid.
With feathers soft inlaid;
Dearer than nests whose builders in the wild-wood
Were birds of man afraid.
To seedy floors of barns in thought I wander,
When swallows glad my sight,
And play with comrades in the church-yard yonder,
Shut out from air and light.
When swallows glad my sight,
And play with comrades in the church-yard yonder,
Shut out from air and light.
The “guests of summer” in and out are flying
Their mansions to repair,
While on the fragrant hay together lying,
We bid adieu to care.
Their mansions to repair,
While on the fragrant hay together lying,
We bid adieu to care.
290
Barns that they haunt no thunder-bolt can shatter,
Full many a hind believes;
No showers that bring a blighting mildew patter
Upon the golden sheaves.
Full many a hind believes;
No showers that bring a blighting mildew patter
Upon the golden sheaves.
Taught were our fathers that a curse would follow,
Beyond expression dread,
The cruel farmer who destroyed the swallow
That builded in his shed.
Beyond expression dread,
The cruel farmer who destroyed the swallow
That builded in his shed.
Oh! how I envied, in the school-house dreary,
The swallow's freedom wild,
Cutting the wind on pinion never weary,
Cleaving the clouds up-piled.
The swallow's freedom wild,
Cutting the wind on pinion never weary,
Cleaving the clouds up-piled.
And when the bird and his blithe mate beholding
Abroad in airy race,
Their evolutions filled my soul unfolding
With images of grace.
Abroad in airy race,
Their evolutions filled my soul unfolding
With images of grace.
And, oh! what rapture, after wintry chidings,
And April's smile and tear,
Thrilled to the core my bosom at the tidings,
“The swallow, boy, is here!”
And April's smile and tear,
Thrilled to the core my bosom at the tidings,
“The swallow, boy, is here!”
Announcement of an angel on some mission
Of love without alloy,
Could not have sooner wakened a transition
From gloom to heart-felt joy.
Of love without alloy,
Could not have sooner wakened a transition
From gloom to heart-felt joy.
For summer to the dreaming youth a heaven
Of bliss and beauty seems,
And in her sunshine less of earthly leaven
Clings to our thoughts and dreams.
Of bliss and beauty seems,
And in her sunshine less of earthly leaven
Clings to our thoughts and dreams.
In honor of the bird, with vain endeavor,
Why lengthen out my lay?
By Shakespeare's art he is embalmed forever,
Enshrined in song by Gray.
Why lengthen out my lay?
By Shakespeare's art he is embalmed forever,
Enshrined in song by Gray.
291
ADDRESS TO THE ORIOLE.
Oriole, bright oriole!
Stay, and that clear note prolong
While each fibre of my soul
Throbs in concert to thy song;
Swell thy golden breast again,
Pouring from thy little bill
On the breeze a louder strain—
Linger still! linger still!
Stay, and that clear note prolong
While each fibre of my soul
Throbs in concert to thy song;
Swell thy golden breast again,
Pouring from thy little bill
On the breeze a louder strain—
Linger still! linger still!
I have tidings, bird, to tell—
Lovely shapes have turned to clay,
Happy hearts have ceased to swell,
Since thy wanderings far away;
Bosoms glad a year ago
Shouting joy no more can thrill,
Darkly wedded unto woe—
Linger still! linger still!
Lovely shapes have turned to clay,
Happy hearts have ceased to swell,
Since thy wanderings far away;
Bosoms glad a year ago
Shouting joy no more can thrill,
Darkly wedded unto woe—
Linger still! linger still!
Since thy hammock swinging yet
On you willow bough was made,
Hope has seen her day-star set,
Beauty frail her roses fade:
Lusting for a laurel crown,
Climbing glory's rugged hill,
Beat has been ambition down—
Linger still! linger still!
On you willow bough was made,
Hope has seen her day-star set,
Beauty frail her roses fade:
Lusting for a laurel crown,
Climbing glory's rugged hill,
Beat has been ambition down—
Linger still! linger still!
Love has mourned her perished flowers
By the hearth of many a home,
Since thy flight to tropic bowers
Over ocean's tossing foam;
Forms have through the door-way passed,
Never more to cross the sill,
That around a sunshine cast—
Linger still! linger still!
By the hearth of many a home,
Since thy flight to tropic bowers
Over ocean's tossing foam;
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Never more to cross the sill,
That around a sunshine cast—
Linger still! linger still!
Change has been at work with me—
In my soul's unsounded deep,
Chords that once were tuned to glee,
Time to sterner measures keep;
Friendship I have found a cheat,
Fame a bubble on the rill,
Happiness a phantom fleet—
Linger still! linger still!
In my soul's unsounded deep,
Chords that once were tuned to glee,
Time to sterner measures keep;
Friendship I have found a cheat,
Fame a bubble on the rill,
Happiness a phantom fleet—
Linger still! linger still!
Hearts have cold and sordid grown
That were generous of old;
Nature has kept faith alone,
Looking kindly as of old;
And her envoy, bird, thou art,
Heeding well her sovereign will;
Oh! to cheer my saddened heart,
Linger still! linger still!
That were generous of old;
Nature has kept faith alone,
Looking kindly as of old;
And her envoy, bird, thou art,
Heeding well her sovereign will;
Oh! to cheer my saddened heart,
Linger still! linger still!
293
THE OWL.
—“Hark!—peace!
It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bell-man
Which gives the stern'st good night.”
It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bell-man
Which gives the stern'st good night.”
What bird, by the howl of the tempest unawed,
In the gloom of a cold winter night is abroad?
He quits his dim roost in some desolate dell,
And skims like a ghost over meadow and fell.
In the gloom of a cold winter night is abroad?
He quits his dim roost in some desolate dell,
And skims like a ghost over meadow and fell.
To break his long fast the red fox is a-foot,
But pauses to hear a wild, ominous hoot,
As, muffled in feathers, the hermit glides by,
With a fiery gleam in his broad staring eye.
But pauses to hear a wild, ominous hoot,
As, muffled in feathers, the hermit glides by,
With a fiery gleam in his broad staring eye.
By hunger the robber is driven away
From haunts where in summer he hunted his prey;
He banquets no more on the robin and wren,
And the white-breasted dormouse is safe in his den.
From haunts where in summer he hunted his prey;
He banquets no more on the robin and wren,
And the white-breasted dormouse is safe in his den.
Hushed now in the farm-house are voices of mirth,
And pale ashes cover the brand on its hearth;
The windows are darkened—no longer a-glow
With lights that made ruddy the new-fallen snow.
And pale ashes cover the brand on its hearth;
The windows are darkened—no longer a-glow
With lights that made ruddy the new-fallen snow.
The barn of the farmer, wind-shaken and old,
Is a favorite haunt of the plunderer bold;
And thither, like phantom that flits in a dream,
He hurries to perch on some dust-covered beam.
Is a favorite haunt of the plunderer bold;
And thither, like phantom that flits in a dream,
He hurries to perch on some dust-covered beam.
The gloom of the place his keen vision explores,
Both granary, hay-loft, and straw-littered floors,
And merciless talons will capture and tear
The poor little mice that abandon their lair.
Both granary, hay-loft, and straw-littered floors,
And merciless talons will capture and tear
The poor little mice that abandon their lair.
294
Sometimes on his perch, till the breaking of day,
The lonely marauder of night will delay;
And his globular orbs that see well in the dark,
Sly foes on the walk are unable to mark.
The lonely marauder of night will delay;
And his globular orbs that see well in the dark,
Sly foes on the walk are unable to mark.
They spare not—for plumage discovered at morn
Nigh dove-cote and hen-house was bloody and torn;
And, victim of false accusation, is slain
The mouser that preyed on the robbers of grain.
Nigh dove-cote and hen-house was bloody and torn;
And, victim of false accusation, is slain
The mouser that preyed on the robbers of grain.
To kill I forebore, when a mischievous boy,
Though lifted on high was my club to destroy;
So bravely the creature received my attack,
Fiercely snapping his bill, and with talons drawn back.
Though lifted on high was my club to destroy;
So bravely the creature received my attack,
Fiercely snapping his bill, and with talons drawn back.
Old tales of romance on my memory crowd,
When Eve is abroad with her mantle of cloud,
And dolorous notes, in the wilderness heard,
The waking announce of night's favorite bird.
When Eve is abroad with her mantle of cloud,
And dolorous notes, in the wilderness heard,
The waking announce of night's favorite bird.
I think of old abbeys and mouldering towers,
And wrecks dimly seen through lone moon-lighted bowers,
Where beasts of the desert resort for a lair,
And howlet and bittern for shelter repair.
And wrecks dimly seen through lone moon-lighted bowers,
Where beasts of the desert resort for a lair,
And howlet and bittern for shelter repair.
The gray-feathered hermit would frighten of old
Rude hinds overtaken by night in the wold,
By hoary tradition, from infancy taught,
That his screech with a fearful foreboding was fraught.
Rude hinds overtaken by night in the wold,
By hoary tradition, from infancy taught,
That his screech with a fearful foreboding was fraught.
His image flamed out on the terrible shield
That Pallas up-bore when arrayed for the field;
An emblem that Wisdom, when others are blind,
Clear-sighted, a path through the darkness will find.
That Pallas up-bore when arrayed for the field;
An emblem that Wisdom, when others are blind,
Clear-sighted, a path through the darkness will find.
When proud Idumea was cursed by her God,
And brambles grew up where the mighty once trod;
Owls, flapping their pinions in palaces wide,
Raised a desolate scream of farewell to her pride.
And brambles grew up where the mighty once trod;
Owls, flapping their pinions in palaces wide,
Raised a desolate scream of farewell to her pride.
295
When shadows that slowly creep over the lea
Call the feathered recluse from his hollow oak tree,
That murder-scene oft to my sight is displayed
By the Wizard of Avon so grandly portrayed.
Call the feathered recluse from his hollow oak tree,
That murder-scene oft to my sight is displayed
By the Wizard of Avon so grandly portrayed.
While drear shapes of horror are gibbering round,
Guilt whispers, appalled,—“Did'st thou hear not a sound?”
Then blood-curdling tones pierce the gloom in reply,—
“I heard the owl scream, and the hearth-cricket cry!”
Guilt whispers, appalled,—“Did'st thou hear not a sound?”
Then blood-curdling tones pierce the gloom in reply,—
“I heard the owl scream, and the hearth-cricket cry!”
Oh, vex not the bird! let him rule evermore,
In a shadowy realm with antiquity hoar:
Quaint rhyme he recalls that was sung by our nurse,
And the masters of song weave his name in their verse.
In a shadowy realm with antiquity hoar:
Quaint rhyme he recalls that was sung by our nurse,
And the masters of song weave his name in their verse.
296
THE CUCKOO.
FROM THE GERMAN.
[_]
The cuckoo, among the Swiss shepherds, is supposed to pronounce its own name as many times as the individual hearing will live years.
A damsel sat, one morning bright,
On the green lap of May,
And said:—“The number of my years
Tell, warbler, in thy lay.”
An hundred times, with note the same,
Pronounced the bird its own sweet name
Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!
On the green lap of May,
And said:—“The number of my years
Tell, warbler, in thy lay.”
An hundred times, with note the same,
Pronounced the bird its own sweet name
Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!
Uprose the maid, perplexed to hear
The bird's continued cry,
And ran, directed by the sound,
With anger in her eye;
As she advanced the bird withdrew,
Still gayly singing as it flew
Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!
The bird's continued cry,
And ran, directed by the sound,
With anger in her eye;
As she advanced the bird withdrew,
Still gayly singing as it flew
Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!
Far through the wood in vain—in vain,
The lovely maiden sped;
Then, with a heated brow, began
Her footsteps to retread:—
The saucy bird, in turn, pursued—
Once more the chase that maid renewed:
Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!
The lovely maiden sped;
Then, with a heated brow, began
Her footsteps to retread:—
The saucy bird, in turn, pursued—
Once more the chase that maid renewed:
Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!
Aweary, on a fallen oak
At length a seat she found,
And cried:—“Sing on, vexatious bird!
I little heed the sound.”
Scarce uttered were the words, when sprang
From ambush her loved swain, and sang—
Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!
At length a seat she found,
And cried:—“Sing on, vexatious bird!
I little heed the sound.”
Scarce uttered were the words, when sprang
From ambush her loved swain, and sang—
Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |