University of Virginia Library


163

MAY.

May-day, its observance in old times. A season of gaiety. The May-pole. Perhaps the occasion of evil. Harmless remnants of the Custom. May Garland

It was of old a festive day,
That usher'd in the birth of May.
Right early on the jocund morn,
When that delightful month was born,
Or ere the thrush's new-fledg'd brood
Came forth their caterpillar food
To pick upon the dewy lawn,
Scarce lighted by the flickering dawn;
Or ere from his low place of rest,
Hid in the sprouting cornfield's breast,
“The lark, the shepherd's clock ,” had sprung,
And bath'd in light etherial sung
Aloft his blithesome roundelay
Of greeting to the morning gray;
While yet the amorous nightingale
Told in still twilight's ear his tale
Of rapturous joy and love repaid,
Thick warbling through the woodland glade;
Regardless of the timely sleep,
The noble from the castled steep,
The burgher from the busy change,
From village, hamlet, lonely grange
The peasantry, a mingled throng
Lasses and lads, and old and young,
Pour'd forth promiscuously to pay
Observance to the merry May:

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With shout and song and winded horn
Alert to wake the slumbering morn;
To rove the good greenwood, and bring
Away the spoil of early spring,
With nosegays deck'd, with garlands crown'd,
And hang each smiling homestead round,
Window, and door, and porch with bowers
Of verdant boughs and blooming flowers.
And then at home the joyous scene!
The Maypole on the village green,
With ribbons, flag, and chaplets bound;
And pipe and tabor's mirthful sound;
And merry bells in concert ringing;
And merry voices blithely singing;
And merry footsteps featly glancing
With jingling bells; and morris-dancing,
'Mid clash of swords and Kendal green,
About the season's maiden Queen,
In crown and flowery mantle drest,
Gave honour to the vernal feast.
 

Shakespeare, Love's Labour's Lost.

Touch'd by the tint of mellowing years,
And view'd far off, the scene appears
One but of innocent delight.
And yet perchance a nearer sight,
As space diminish'd oft reveals
Spots that a distant view conceals,
Might open to the thoughtful eye,
Enough to raise a serious sigh,
For much of inconsiderate glee,
Intemperate rout and revelry,

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With lack of purity combin'd;
Enough to satisfy the mind,
Howe'er the fancy love to glance
On by-gone themes of old romance,
'Tis well that now is past away
The observance of those rites of May.
But who what now remains would blame
Austerely of the May-day game?
And who so grave, as when he sees,
Returning from the woods and leas,
The lads' and lasses' village troops
With garlanded and ribbon'd hoops,
All-sparkling with the morning dew,
Pale primroses, and harebells blue,
Bright goldilocks, and pansies pied,
And scented hawthorn's snow-white pride,
And all the garniture of spring;
And hears them blithely carolling,
Memorials of the elder times,
Their rude traditionary rhimes,
Gathering of doles a little store
In pilgrimage from door to door:—
Yes, who so grave, so dull of heart
To bear in others' joys a part,
As from such pastime, void of guile
And harmless, to withhold a smile
And tribute to the garland gay,
Nor wish them all a merry May?

May the month of mirth. Occasional frosts. Windy weather, its usefulness. Shedding of the fruit-blossoms, and last year's beech-leaves. The laurel's succession of leaves

May is the very month of mirth!
And if there be a time on earth,

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When things below in part may vie
For beauty with the things on high;
As some have thought earth's beauties given
For counterparts of those in heaven;
'Tis in that balmy vernal time,
When nature revels in her prime;
And all is fresh and fair and gay,
Resplendent with the smiles of May.
Not that with universal smiles,
In these our north Atlantick isles,
At once, and in her infant days,
Sweet May her blooming face arrays.
Not that no lurking lingering trace
Of winter still maintains its place
Intrusive on her early hours;
Obscures her charms with sullen showers,
Or with a keen and frosty breath
Insidious nips the flowery wreath,
And mars the kirtle green, that deck
Her shining brow and glossy neck.
Not that no harsher ruder sway
The usurper will at times display;
With touch of eastern blast consume
The blacken'd leaf, the shrivel'd bloom,
And crush with iron grasp severe
The promise of the early year.
But rarely such disastrous force
Arrests fair May's propitious course.
While o'er her minor transient harms
Arise her due reviving charms
Superior; winter's lingering frown
Displace; repair her half-nipt crown;

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And fling at length a general robe
Of verdure o'er the laughing globe.
Yet oft, amid the season fair,
The restless spirit of the air,
From his cloud-mantled citadel,
Where rain and wind and thunder dwell,
His ready agents sends abroad;
Not with austere and blighting rod
Equipt, to injure or destroy,
But give fertility and joy;
Release the long expected shoot,
Unfold the bud, the embryo fruit
Strip of the inclosing blossom bare,
And for the ripening warmth prepare.
Then will a strange fantastick form
Of things attend the transient storm.
Oft when the vernal breezes blow,
You might believe the wintry snow
Was falling fast in fleecy showers;
So thick the Cherry's blossom'd flowers,
Or branching Pear's, in flakes around
Descending clothe the whiten'd ground:
While near from party-colour'd bloom
The Apple breathes his rich perfume,
Amid the hum of murmuring bees
That hover through the fragrant trees;
And sheds from many a cluster'd head
His show'r of mingled white and red.
Oft might you think the year again
Was chang'd to autumn's withering reign,

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So thick the dark brown leaves are strew'd
In whirls amid the Beechen wood;
Save that above, the boughs are seen
Cloth'd with their new-born sprouts of green,
Which, as the winds pass over, play
And twinkle in the sunny ray.
Nor less are seen, as if in strife,
The appearances of death and life,
Where for his blotch'd and sapless leaves,
Its self-bred plague, the Laurel grieves,
Which now the loosening breezes sweep
Abroad in many a spiral heap,
Yellow, or tawny brown: but feels
Meanwhile the mounting juice, that steals
Through the green veins unseen, and shows
The untwisting shoots in spiky rows.
So closely on the falling dead
The coming ranks aspiring tread,
No unfill'd interval between,
That thus with vesture evergreen
The laurels ne'er dismantled stand:
Like that once fam'd Immortal Band,
The pride of Persia's turban'd host,
Where ever, to fulfill the post
Scarce void, an armed champion rose;
And still the band the astonish'd foes
Complete in length and depth defied,
As if their slaughter'd never died.

Fresh foliage of Firs. Scotch Firs among other trees. Variety of tints on forest-trees. Beech, Elm, Birch, Lime, Alder, Maple, Willow

Tipt with a russet film, that wraps
The tender shoot in conelike caps,

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From every branch and branchlet's end
And upright head the Fir-trees send
Their fanlike leaves of vivid die,
Mocking their elder progeny.
While on the mountain's sloping face,
'Mong hardier Pines of Scottish race,
Fresh-sprouting trees their boughs adorn
With leaves gay-smiling, as in scorn
Of those that still maintain their hue
Unchang'd of dun and dingy blue,
'Mid the bright produce of the year;
Unlike as mourners might appear,
In weeds of melancholy drest,
At natal or at nuptial feast.
For, lo! by May's light touch are seen
Colour'd with varied tints of green,
Now deep and dark, now pale and light,
Now almost fading into white,
Now heighten'd to a mellower shade
Of yellow bright or russet red,
The offsprings of the woodland realm!
The glossy Beech, the rougher Elm,
The waving Birch's silvery bark,
And pallid Lime, and Alder dark,
Maple and Willow's countless race,
Which cloth'd their forms with chequer'd grace
Of leafy garb before, have now
From stem to crown, each branch and bough,
Light twig, and open'd spray array'd
With depth and plenitude of shade.

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Trees later in foliage. Oak, Ash, Abele, Poplar, Walnut, Plane, Mulberry

And they that watch'd with cautious glance
The settled season's slow advance,
Afraid, amid the sunshine fair,
Of lurking frost's pernicious air,
No longer fail they to obey
The summons of more genial May.
The Oak, his leaves not wholly spread,
And tipt with tints of tawny red;
The Ash, with wings of leafits green
Fresh from the dark bud's sable skreen;
With leaves, their lightsome hue that steal
From Flora's realm, the white Abele;
With sickly hue of pining grief,
The Poplar's green and yellow leaf;
In verdure deep the Walnut died;
The Plane's umbrageous shelter wide;
And last its foliage to unfold,
Sure sign to rural wisdom old,
That the chill breath of mornings frore
Shall nip the tender shoot no more,
The Mulberry yields so dark and dense
'Gainst summer suns its deepening fence,
That scarce a ray can glide between
The meshes of that dark-leav'd skreen.
And many a bright and chalic'd flower
Is blooming 'mid the leafy bower
Of those tall brethren of the wood:
Tho' oft beneath the o'erarching hood
Of close-wove boughs they lurking lie,
Scarce notic'd by the careless eye.

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Fresh blossoming of forest-trees. Beech, Oak, Sycamore, Chestnut

Where o'er the languid herbage reach
The branches of the spreading Beech,
Or, yet unharm'd by woodman's stroke,
Expands the gnarl'd and knotted Oak,
The lordly trees in full-rob'd pride
The strings of pendent blossoms hide.
Not so, where'er his honey'd store
The broad and brown-leaf'd Sycamore,
In clusters of green blossoms strung,
Has from his russet branchlets hung.
Nor yet from eyes most careless hid
Is many a spiky pyramid,
Which rising from its full-form'd bed,
The massive Chestnut's rounded head,
You see with peerless pomp indue
The park or long-drawn avenue.

The Copse in leaf and flower. The Barberry; White-beam and pliant Mealy-tree; Guelder Rose, an ornament of the shrubbery. Medlar, Elder, Service, Maple, Hawthorn

Nor does its charms the coppice hide,
In friendly rivalry allied,
Each lending each a due relief,
The beauties of the “flow'r and leaf.”
See, spines and saw-like leaves among,
The Barberry's yellow bunches hung,
Whose stamens, as with life indued,
Shrink from the touch of fingers rude;
And, shrinking, on the pointal's head
The fructifying pollen shed:
Of aspect pleasing, but of scent,
Which the smell loves not, redolent:
But if within its noxious sphere
Abortive made, the wheaten ear

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Robb'd of its swelling grain decay,
The cautious Muse forbears to say.
Clad with a terminating crown
Of bloom, and leaves of cottony down,
Two rival wilding beauties see,
White-beam, and pliant Mealy-tree.
And see with peerless blossoms crown'd,
In cluster'd tufts compact and round,
Like vegetable snow-balls blows,
Queen of the copse, the Guelder Rose:
Transplanted thence, her native grace
Competes with plants of foreign race
Among the shrubbery's pride inroll'd;
Laburnum's drops of pendent gold,
Sweet Lilac's many-colour'd bloom,
Heath's crimson bells, and silver Broom;
Azalea's nectar'd flamelike rays,
And Pontick Rose-tree's purple blaze.
See too, to grace the coppice wild,
May-born, our Britain's native child,
The Medlar's broad and single eye;
And, priz'd for village pharmacy,
The Elder's crowded cups minute;
Service with hope of autumn fruit;
And Maple's spikes of florets green;
And Hawthorn, fam'd 'mid vernal scene
For gracing May's propitious hour
With prodigality of flower,
Pink-anther'd 'mid its petals pale,
And lending fragrance to the gale;
Hail'd from its fair and sweet array
The namesake of the lovely May.

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Early and late stages of Hawthorn compared. Retiring virtues amiable. More gaudy flowers, Pæony, Iris, Campion, Foxglove, Columbines, compared with more modest flowers, Yellow Pimpernel, Cistus, Woodruff, Common Speedwell, Lily of the Valley

Fair is the Hawthorn's robe of white,
One sheet of bloom, the raptur'd sight
Entrancing: fragrant is the scent
Thence to the vernal breezes lent.
And yet I know not, but the May
Does too exuberant charms display,
A conscious beauty, unretir'd,
Which seeks and claims to be admir'd.
And so the mind with more delight
Is gladden'd, as the smell and sight;
To see the pink-tipt buds that lie
Veil'd in their leafy canopy,
And unobtrusive on the gale
A fresh and chasten'd sweet exhale;
Than when with one unsparing blaze
Full-blown they strike the dazzled gaze,
And on the satiate smell o'erspent
Diffuse a languor-breathing scent.
Retiring virtues, mild and meek,
Our heart's benevolence bespeak;
Nor fail we to admit their power,
When only shadow'd in a flower.
For many a flow'r by nature wild
Is sown, of aspect meek and mild,
Which seems though faintly to express
Those virtues in their loveliness:
Thence by some union undefin'd
To our complacent feelings kind
Commended, and allow'd a share
In our benign regard to bear,

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Beyond the admiration shown
For their exterior charms alone.
And, though to some the thought may seem
A vision or fantastick dream,
Now as the hands of time unroll
Another fold in nature's scroll,
Illumin'd by the sportive Hours
With portraiture of countless flowers;
Methinks with mixture less we see
Of kind goodwill the Pæony
Undaunted to the sunbeams spread
Her flame-like rays and mantle red:
Or Iris' yellow banner flaunt
Ambitious o'er her wat'ry haunt;
Or Campion's cloven cups diffuse
On blushing fields their roseate hues;
Or Foxglove's purple bells adorn
The heath, or with their nectar'd horn
Blue Columbines the grassy leas:—
Yes, with less kindness mark we these,
Though beauteous be their form, and gay
Their tints, and gorgeous their array;
Than see within the bushy dell
Half-hid the yellow Pimpernel
Beside the moss-grown runnel peep;
Or on the clefts the Cistus creep,
Low-trailing, of the chalky down;
Or Woodruff lift her fragrant crown
Of star-like blossoms pure as snow,
With radiate fringe of leaves below,
In greenwood shade; or Speedwell strew
With sapphir petals bright and blue,

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And pearl-like eye, the hedgerow bank;
Or in some hollow woodland dank,
(Such woodland pleasant Essex yields
By abbey'd Coggeshall's garden fields,
My home erewhile and pastoral care,)
See the May-Lily, chaste and fair,
Stud with her pendent globules white
The stem o'erarching, on the sight
Scarce peering from their verdant shade,
More by the scented air betray'd.
Yes, in these little plants that grow
In haunts sequester'd, meek and low
Of stature, signs imprest I see
Of gentleness and modesty.
And therefore as, the vernal tide,
Each grows my rural path beside,
Thoughts of kind greeting forth I send
To hail it as a welcome friend.
While thus in moralising strain
With one, the loveliest of the train,
As with a living thing the Muse
Holds converse, and her theme pursues
On hint, by lips of Wisdom taught,
Of heavenly lore and holy thought.

Address to the Lily of the Valley or May Lily

Fair flow'r, that lapt in lowly glade
Dost hide beneath the greenwood shade,
Than whom the vernal gale
None fairer wakes on bank or spray,
Our England's Lily of the May,
Our Lily of the vale!

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Art thou that “Lily of the field,”
Which, when the Saviour sought to shield
The heart from blank despair,
He show'd to our mistrustful kind,
An emblem to the thoughtful mind
Of God's paternal care?—
Not thus I trow; for brighter shine
To the warm skies of Palestine
Those children of the East!
There, when mild autumn's early rain
Descends on parch'd Esdrela's plain,
And Tabor's oak-girt crest;
More frequent than the host of night,
Those earth-born stars, as sages write,
Their brilliant disks unfold;
Fit symbol of imperial state
Their sceptre-seeming forms elate,
And crowns of burnish'd gold.
But not the less, sweet springtide's flower,
Dost thou display the Maker's power,
His skill and handy-work,
Our western valleys' humbler child,
Where in green nook of woodland wild
Thy modest blossoms lurk.
What though nor care nor art be thine,
The loom to ply, the thread to twine;
Yet, born to bloom and fade,

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Thee too a lovelier robe arrays,
Than e'er in Israel's brightest days
Her wealthiest king array'd.
Of thy twin leaves the embowed skreen,
Which wraps thee in thy shroud of green;
Thy Eden-breathing smell;
Thy arch'd and purple-vested stem,
Whence pendent many a pearly gem
Displays a milk-white bell;
Instinct with life, thy fibrous root,
Which sends from earth the ascending shoot,
As rising from the dead;
And fills thy veins with verdant juice,
Charg'd thy fair blossoms to produce,
And berries scarlet red;
The triple cell, the twofold seed,
A ceaseless treasure-house decreed,
Whence aye thy race may grow,
As from creation they have grown,
While Spring shall weave her flowery crown,
Or vernal breezes blow:—
Who forms thee thus with unseen hand;
Who at creation gave command,
And will'd thee thus to be,
And keeps thee still in being through
Age after age revolving, who
But the Great God is He?

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Omnipotent, to work his will;
Wise, who contrives each part to fill
The post to each assign'd;
Still provident, with sleepless care
To keep, to make thee sweet and fair
For man's enjoyment, kind!
“There is no God,” the senseless say:—
“O God, why cast'st thou us away?”
Of feeble faith and frail
The mourner breathes his anxious thought:—
By thee a better lesson taught,
Sweet Lily of the Vale.
Yes! He, who made and fosters thee,
In reason's eye perforce must be
Of majesty divine:
Nor deems she, that his guardian care
Will He in man's support forbear,
Who thus provides for thine.

Progress of animation. The pasture variegated with flowers. The Colt. The Hare and Leveret. Insects. Fish. The Corncrake. The Quail

Still animation holds its way
Rekindled by the breath of May:
And ever changing, ever new,
Fresh objects offers to the view
Of Him, whom nature's forms delight,
Each common sound, and smell, and sight.
Along the daisy-powder'd meads,
Prankt with the Crowfoot's golden heads,

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Where the green creeping Trefoil tips
His yellow keel with sanguine lips,
And the new herbage freshness breathes,
And Plantain's many-blossom'd wreaths
Succinct in imbricated rows
His dark and cluster'd heads inclose,
Like Negro's swarthy temples round
With white and twisted turban bound;
The new-born Colt, so tall and slim
Of form, with tottering length of limb,
Begins his strengthening powers to feel,
To frisk, to skip, to run, to wheel
O'er the smooth sward with leap and bound;
Till, startled by some unknown sound,
(As all is new, and apt alarm
To cherish,) from expected harm
He speeds to seek the refuge tried,
And couches by his mother's side.
Forth tempted by the silent eve
Her form amid the fern to leave,
Where through the livelong day she sate,
As fearful of impending fate,
Steals out the timid Hare to feed.
See her along the hedgerow lead,
The cornfield's dewy ridge along,
And garden turf her sportive young!
Her young about her sports with glee,
As best may youth beseem: but she,
Train'd in sedater course by age,
Perhaps by danger render'd sage,

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Surveys with stealthy pace the ground;
Marks each suspicious sight and sound
With ear erect and backward eye;
Prompt to her refuge-place to fly,
And shroud her in the secret lair,
If living thing her vision scare,
Or rustling breeze or footstep shake
The foliage of the tranquil brake.
On the smooth surface of the clear
Translucent water, where appear,
As in a sheet of silver'd glass,
Revers'd the green and waving grass,
The flow'rs that on the margin rise,
The fleecy clouds and azure skies;
Are countless insect forms at play,
Like bubbles in the sunny ray
Quick glancing. Now behold! they skim,
As if in dance, the rippling brim,
Each other, as by fancy led,
Pursuing, and incessant thread
Now here, now there, by countless ways
The windings of the tangled maze.
So have I seen the skaters glide
In mazes o'er the harden'd tide,
On the bright steel smooth-sliding glance,
And weave the many-mingled dance.
Now from the liquid sport they spring
Aërial, and the filmy wing
To the warm sunshine show, and there
Amid the soft and balmy air

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Exult unwearied, and the clue
Of that unrivall'd dance renew.
Or high in labyrinthine flight,
Above the fir-tree's topmost height
They float in many a tortuous spire:
As when the bramble-kindled fire
Sends forth the column'd smoke to rise
Slow curling 'mid the calm clear skies.
But on the smooth and silvery lake
The fish meanwhile their pastime take.
Now with elastick spring, and steep
Ascent, above the pool they leap,
Intent to catch the fluttering fly
Amid his reckless ecstasy:
And where the waters' face they thrill,
Broke by the plash, the waters still
In widening rings concentrick run,
And curl and sparkle in the sun.
Now plunging down, away they glance
Right forward through the smooth expanse,
And with the bow-shot arrow's speed:
Now dive within the embowering reed,
Or lurk beneath the cavern'd brink;
Where their fring'd flow'rs of white and pink
The spik'd and three-leav'd Bogbeans show:
Than which not England's Naïads know,
Wherewith to braid their flowing hair,
A plant more graceful or more fair.
But hark! as by the cornfield's side,
Where the fresh blades aspiring hide

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With wavy folds its furrow'd breast,
The ear what startling sounds arrest!
Perhaps you deem, from fenny bog
You hear the croaking of the frog
Monotonous, afar or nigh
The same untun'd repeated cry.
Again the sound! Now here, now there,
It tempts to follow: but howe'er
Your steps the fleeting cry pursue,
You'll scarce the cause retiring view;
You'll scarce with foot or eye o'ertake
The dark form of the mottled Crake;
As his long legs low-bending pass
Through the high corn, or waving grass,
With body prone; nor dares his wing
Up from the verdant covert spring.
Less likely of your aim to fail,
If with loud call the whistling Quail
Attract you, 'mid the bladed wheat
To spread the skilful snare, and cheat
With mimick sounds his amorous ear,
Intent the female's cry to hear.
For now the vernal warmth invites
From Afric's coasts their northward flights;
And prompts to skim on nightly breeze
Sicilian or Biscayan seas.

Birds continue building. Cuckoo. Her singularity: strange propensities. Reason unable to fathom the mysteries of nature. Referable to the will of the Creator. God unsearchable

And now does universal love
Each feather'd breast to action move:
And on the task of building goes,
And brisk the little builders; those,

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Who had erewhile their work begun,
Allur'd by April's showery sun;
And those, their corner-stone to lay
Who waited till the warmer May.
All but the Cuckow! She alone
Nor place of nestling of her own;
Nor brooding toils, nor joy, that flows
From care and love maternal, knows.
Lo, where she scuds across the lea
A homeless waif, from tree to tree!
The little birds her flight pursue
Importunate, as if they knew
Of secret mischief undefin'd
Against the common weal design'd.
So on from tree to tree she flies,
From hedge to hedge, with peering eyes
Inquisitive; intent to watch
Some precinct ill secur'd, and catch
The precious moment when to stop,
And her lone egg unnotic'd drop
In Linnet's, Pippit's, Bunting's dome,
Or chief the Titling's vacant home;
And passing leave the intruder there
Abandon'd to the stranger's care.
Strange, among creatures prone to prove
The fervour of maternal love,
Should one be found so hard of heart,
As to refuse the mother's part,
To kind affection's natural call
Insensate; yet so wise withal,
To find a step-dame to supply
Her own'd renounc'd maternity!

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Strange, that the foster-bird should feel
For one so left a parent's zeal;
Still nurse the intruder in her nest,
Of her own offspring dispossest;
Still toil to feed him with the food
Collected for her proper brood;
Nor know, to size ungainly grown,
The giant monster from her own!
Strange, that alert alone to bear
His foster-dam's maternal care,
The intrusive young should use his power
For mischief in the natal hour;
Prompt from their birthright to displace
His fellows of the adoptive race,
And hurl them o'er the mansion's brim
With hollow'd back and struggling limb;
Fain like the Turk to reign alone,
Nor bear a brother near the throne!
Yes! curious is the tale and strange!
But Reason, howsoe'er she range
Conjecture's realm to scan the cause,
Perplex'd at length her wing withdraws
From roving in a boundless sky;
Hides with its folds her downcast eye,
Too weak with unassisted sense
To pierce the depths of Providence;
And breathes the meek and lowly thought,
It is a work which God hath wrought!
Such thought the mind will oft present
To those on harmless pastime bent,
Or knowledge, who their ears and eyes
Expand to nature's mysteries.

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Yes, mysteries! For nature's range
Throughout mysterious is and strange:
Though, often seen, things lose their force,
And seem as if of common course.
But they, who seek the depths to sound,
Wherewith those common things abound;
And onward go from what they see,
To question “How can such things be?”
Must oft be satisfied to bear
For answer, ev'n that such things are:
Are by his pleasure, who assign'd
Their laws to each created kind,
Whose will his unform'd works obey'd,
Who spake the word, and they were made.
Then who the Universal Cause,
Save as his word the veil withdraws,
And deigns his lineaments to show,
Who the Great Cause can seek to know?
Who, fathom'd by his shallow mind,
The Almighty to perfection find,
How deep, how high, how long, how broad?
Who can “by searching find out God ?”
 

Job xi. 7.

Few birds now begin building. House or Chimney Swallow. Martlet. Sand Martin. Their actuating impulse. The Swift. Late arrival. Circumstances of nestling. Peculiar velocity. Patience in brooding. Each their law of nature. Nature's law the Creator's will

Of the plum'd architects but few
Now first their building cares pursue.
Chief of the few, the long-wing'd race,
Varying in form, and skill, and place.
Recruited from her distant flight,
And urg'd by memory's fond delight

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In the lov'd haunt, which erst she knew,
To plant her mansionry anew,
The Swallow forms herself a nest,
Where she may lodge her fostering breast,
And rear her young: a tube-like bed,
In steeple, barn, or straw-built shed;
Or where the steep ascending shaft
Forms for the smoke a straiten'd draft,
Sooth'd by the warmth of neighbouring flame,
And safe beyond the owlet's aim.
But on the sea-cliff's breezy face,
The Martlet for her nestling place,
(The Martlet with her breast of white,
And building with the dawning light,
That so her home of pendent clay
May harden with the sunny day,)
Or coign, some jutting ledge below,
Buttress or window, in a row
Of kindred domes each other near,
Suspends her mud-form'd hemisphere.
There waken'd with the wakening ray
She sits, and twittering bids “good day,”
And calls the sluggard forth to shake,
Like her, dull slumber off, and take
His ramble o'er the dewy lawn,
And taste the freshness of the dawn.
Their chambers in the cavern'd sand,
With rival depth of foresight plann'd,
And wrought with rival workmanship,
Close clinging to the surface steep,
The smaller Martins delve: with bill,
Like pick-axe sharp, the hill-side drill;

187

With body, like a compass, trace,
Slow wheeling round, the intended space,
The burrow's future bore; with claw
Abroad, as with a shovel, draw
The loosen'd sand, that so may lie,
Safe in that winding gallery,
On artless nest the expected brood;
Nor in their high and strait abode
Feel from above the incursive flight
Of kestrel, or rapacious kite;
Or keen assault of climbing foe,
Weasel, or prowling stoat below.
What bids these birds of kindred race,
Each in its own appropriate place,
Each with its own appropriate aim,
Contrivance, skill, their mansions frame?
What but the voice, in distant climes
Which bids them know the appointed times
And seasons, hitherward to come,
And find with us their summer home?
“The still small voice,” whose warnings reach,
Apart from utter'd sound or speech,
In silence to the listening mind:
And plainer than the vollied wind,
That rends the mountain, breaks the rock,
Than lightning flame, or earthquake's shock,
As once to Israel's doubting seer,
Proclaims that nature's God is here!
See too, arriv'd from Asia's lands
Remote, or Afric's southern sands,

188

Whether in April's closing day,
Or in the prime of newborn May,
At once without delay or rest
The Swift begins to build her nest,
Her eggs to lay, her young to rear.
No time has she for loitering here;
Among the last our shores to find,
Though fleeter than the wings of wind;
Impatient o'er the severing sea
Among the first our shores to flee.
So to the task their race to breed
At once without repose they speed:
In some tall castle's crannied roof,
Or tow'r, or tapering spire aloof,
With grass and feathers, as they fly,
Swept from the ground, while hurrying by
They stoop the wing, afraid to light
By purpose from their airy flight,
Lest the short leg and lengthen'd wing
Should let them from the upward spring.
Thus hurrying on with ceaseless haste
They form their rustick dwellings placed
Above the earth's dull surface high,
Pleas'd inmates of the vaulted sky.
And there the patient female keeps
From morn till night; while near her sweeps
Her sable partner round and round,
With oft-repeated squeaking sound,
Of watchful love a serenade,
By gentler notes within repaid.
Till, as the evening waxes late,
A few brief minutes for his mate

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Suffice to quit the future brood;
To snatch in haste her scanty food;
And stretch the cramp'd and wearied limb.
Then in the shade of twilight dim,
Together to the wonted height
The faithful partners speed their flight,
And the short night together rest
Incumbent on the cherish'd nest.
Of all the feather'd tribes, that meet,
In crowded city, or retreat
Of rural scenes, the British eye,
What pinion with the Swift's can vie?
As round the tow'rs of antique fame,
Stamp'd with the Roman's storied name,
Or Southwark's ancient-hallow'd pile,
Her Lady-shrine and pillar'd aisle,
They wheel their airy circles fleet,
And thread untouch'd the peopled street:
Or as where Thames irriguous leads
By Chelsea's domes through Fulham's meads
His broad expanse of flood, they skim
With dripping wing the dimpled brim;
Or through the low-brow'd arches glide
That bridge the smooth and swelling tide;
Pursuing keen the frequent fly:
Or screaming mount the azure sky,
Beat with quick strokes the air, or o'er
Heav'n's face with unmov'd pinions soar,
And dare the stretch of Lynceus' sight
To track them through their mazy flight.
How passing wonder is the gift
Of fleetness to the unrivall'd Swift,

190

Which, ere a double pulse can beat,
Is here and there, with motion fleet
As Ariel's wing could scarce exceed;
And full of vigour, as of speed,
Forestalls the dayspring's earliest gleam,
Nor fails with evening's latest beam!
How passing wonder is the might,
Which on a bird, with pow'rs of flight
So gifted as the Swift, can lay
Injunction through the livelong day,
In life's, in health's, in vigour's prime,
To watch the lazy-footed time,
As if in indolent repose;
The sweeping breadth of wing to close;
Immur'd, inactive sit; nor roam
An instant from her lonely home!
But what is each, the state of rest
Or action, but the law imprest
By nature on the obedient kind?
And what is nature's law, the mind
Instructing, but a silent sign
Perspicuous of the will divine,
The Maker Spirit's high behest,
Who forms the wing, directs the rest;
By whom “the time, the season's given
For every purpose under heaven !”
 

Eccles. iii. 1.

Fly Catchers, why late builders. Coldfinch. Beam-bird or spotted Fly-catcher. The Nightjar, slandered as a Goatsucker. His usefulness. Man heedless of gifts of Providence

What second cause postpones the time,
When, pilgrim from a distant clime,

191

So late the travell'd Swift prepares
To mingle in domestick cares,
The observant mind may guess: or why
The minor Chaser of the fly,
So late to seek our foreign fields,
So late his summer sojourn builds.
Why in thick bush, or ancient hole
Pierc'd in the dodder'd Ash-tree's bole,
The Coldfinch, clad in vesture pied,
By crystal Ulle's romantick side,
Or Windermere's steep wooded glades,
Or princely Lowther's castled shades;
Or why the spotted Beam-bird gray,
Not till the merry month of May,
On beam, or hole, or creeping vine
Or sweet-brier wall, begins to twine
His partner's dwelling in our coast
Meridian: where on neighbouring post,
Smooth rail, or leafless branch he sits,
And, as the thoughtless insect flits
Before him, from his watch-tow'r starts,
Swift on his fluttering victim darts
With zig-zag flight, and bears him thence
Back to his favourite eminence;
To take his stated watch anew,
Again with bristly bill pursue
And rapid wing the filmy prey,
And to his wonted haunt convey.
Or why, when May is well-nigh past,
Of Britain's summer-birds the last
To reach our shores, in waving fern
Or furze, beside some bosky bourn,

192

Hid from the prying eye of day
Their nestless eggs the Night-jars lay.
Thence issuing forth in evening gloom,
With hiss, and buzz, and solemn hum
As of the spinner's whirling wheel,
Unseen on noiseless wing they steal,
Smooth gliding through the unfann'd air;
With open mouth, and bristly hair
Fringing that cavern wide, prepar'd
To clasp the beetle's mailed shard,
Or circling chase in airy ring
The night-moth's soft and downy wing,
Much slander'd bird! Though vulgar fame
Traduce, and stamp thee with a name,
Denoting to the goat-herd's care
A wrong, nor dost nor canst thou bear;
Thy flight though few or see or hear
Thy three short months of sojourn here;
We bid thee welcome to our isles!
Not harming us, to us the whiles,
Thou'rt Providence's gift for good,
As hawking for thy nightly food
'Tis thine the peopled air to free
From noxious tenants! And like thee,
How many a blessing God has sent
To man, of good an instrument;
Which, sunk in negligent repose,
Ungracious man nor owns nor knows,
Or dreams with heedless mind, or will
Perverse, an instrument of ill!

193

Other birds late in building. The Jay. The Partridge. The Goldfinch: his habits and song. Address to the Goldfinch.

Not yet arriv'd, or forc'd to wait
The arrival of their lingering mate,
These wandering birds must needs delay
Their nestling till the later May.
But he, who makes his native wood
Resound his screaming harsh and crude
Continuously the season through;
Though scarce his painted wing you'll view
With sable barr'd, and white, and gray,
And varied crest, the lonely Jay:
And he, who 'mid the native rows
Of his still favourite cornfield chose
Three moons ago his mottled mate,
Her early partner and her late,
The faithful Partridge: why should they
So long their nestling cares delay?
Thou too, who deck'st the early spring
With glistening of thy golden wing,
From bough to bough in sportive play
Irradiate with the sunny ray,
With sable crown, and frontlet red;
Thou in our thickets born and bred,
And never from thy native home
Allur'd to foreign climes to roam:
Say, pretty Goldfinch, why should'st thou
Forego thy household cares till now?
For ever welcome to thy side
Appear'd thy party-colour'd bride:
And still at hand, whereon to lay
Thy dwelling, was the hawthorn spray;
Or elm-tree mantled with the twine
Of briar or twisted eglantine:

194

Still were at hand, wherewith to mould,
Mosses and bents, thy close-knit hold,
With wool and lichens intertwin'd,
And tufts of downy willow lin'd:
Still was at hand, whereon to feed
Thy young, the spiral fir-tree's seed,
The bank with dandelions spread,
Coltsfoot, or groundsel's yellow head.
Then, pretty Goldfinch, why should'st thou
Forego thy household cares till now;
Abroad a licens'd wanderer roam,
Nor plan till now thy felted home?
Howe'er it be, for darkling still
And fathomless the Maker's will,
And oft the inquiring mind to try
More apt, than minister reply;
Thy female see her wing of gold
Now o'er thy peerless nest unfold
With zeal that wearies not; while thou,
Perch'd on the Apple's blossom'd bough,
Dost sweetly with love-dittied song
Help the slow-pacing hours along.
Sing, pretty bird! Though bright and gay
The colours of thy plum'd array,
More gay and bright than often own
The natives of our temperate zone;
To thee the spriteliness belong
And sweetness of the vernal song,
Such as not oft the brilliant dies
Can boast, illum'd by tropick skies.

195

Sing, pretty bird! Thy spritely lay
And sweet, thy plumage bright and gay,
Thy manners gentle, docile, mild,
Oft tempt us from thy native wild,
From feeding on the thistle's down,
To bear thee to the dingy town,
And there thy captive form include
In the lone cage's solitude.
Sing, pretty bird! Though captive, sing;
Prune with sharp beak thy shining wing,
With cheerful heart and motion brisk
About thy wiry prison frisk;
Hop on thy mistress' offer'd hand,
Take what she gives with motion bland,
The seed or sugar sweet, and pay
Her bounty with a merry lay.
Sing, pretty bird! I'd rather see
And hear thee, blythe, alert, and free,
And haunting unrestrain'd at will
The orchard's bloom, the thistly hill:
But since at length the wintry cold
Will come, and earth retentive hold
With frozen grasp the buried seed,
And snow conceal the tufted weed;
Sing, pretty bird, though captive, sing!
To thee no ill shall winter bring,
As to thy race at liberty,
Cold, want, disease: but thine shall be

196

The crystal fount, the well-fill'd tray,
And warmth by night, and song by day;
And lengthen'd life and hoary age
Attend thy cheerful hermitage!

Strange variation in instinct. Its effect during incubation, in feeding the young, and bringing them from the nest. Its cessation. Revived for a new brood. Again ceases. Effectual for its purpose. Difference between it and human feelings. Parental and filial affection. Domestick union and happiness

How wonderful the instinctive power,
Which, varying with the varying hour,
Far as the occasion calls, extends;
And, when attain'd its destin'd ends,
Surceases: till reviving need
Prompts it again its part decreed
With renovated force to play,
Again to stop, again decay!
See, couch'd upon her pregnant nest,
The mother bird with fostering breast,
And hovering plumes extended, sits;
And scarce her charge tenacious quits,
Save with impatient haste to steal
From neighbouring fields the needful meal!
So nature prompts her: lest bereft
Of procreative warmth, and left
Unshelter'd, the intrusive air
The vivifying spark impair,
And the corrupted embryo dwell
Abortive in the torpid shell.
So sits she: till the star of night,
Which first with rim of silver light
Survey'd her sitting, hath fulfill'd
The circlet of the waxing shield,
And hastens on with gradual wane
To trim the silver rim again.

197

The brood is hatch'd. Behold her still,
To guard her young from breezes chill
And drenching raindrops, cowering fling
Above the nest the brooding wing,
Fed by the male's assiduous care!
Behold her next his labour share,
And for their nurslings day by day,
And hour by hour, the meal purvey;
And to and fro, abroad, at home,
Now go, and now returning come,
With grain, or worm, or insect food,
To gratify the craving brood!
To all in turns, howe'er comprest
Within the crowded clamorous nest;
To all, howe'er, with gaping beak,
And outstretch'd neck, and cry, they seek
Importunate the food to reach;
To all attentive, and to each,
Behold her still the dole bestow,
And none o'erfeed, and none forego!
Then, when the downy texture thin
Has deepen'd on the callow skin,
And the soft yielding pens assume
The firmness of the bearded plume,
And the broad van and pinion strong
Have now equipp'd the well-fledg'd young
To float upon the liquid air;
Behold her, with maternal care,
Conduct the yet unpractis'd race
Forth from their secret nestling place,
To perch upon the neighbouring edge
Of sloping roof, or window ledge,

198

Or bush, or branch of spreading tree,
Their native homestead's canopy!
Behold her there about them flit;
And tempt with voice and act to quit
Their station on the airy height;
Spread their fresh plumage for the flight;
On balanc'd wings the leap essay,
And follow where she leads the way!
'Tis done! Though many a fearful pause
The half-spread fluttering wing withdraws;
Though piteous cries of terror weak
The trembling breast's reluctance speak;
'Tis done! They tempt the daring flight,
And revel in the new delight.
But frail the link, that now inchains
The scattering race. For nature trains,
Or soon shall train the youngling brood
To ramble, as they will, for food;
To hunt amid the blossom'd weed
For ripening fruit or unctuous seed;
Or chase the worm, the gnat, the fly,
Untutor'd through the earth and sky.
But where is now the instinctive care,
Which bade the anxious parent dare
Seclusion, hunger, toil, fatigue?
'Tis gone: unless the nuptial league
Renew'd incite her to pursue
Her late solicitudes anew;
Again seclusion, toil embrace,
Fatigue, and hunger, for a race,
Which, like the former, left alone,
Disown'd itself, shall soon disown

199

The tie parental, nor retain
Remembrance of that pristine chain,
Completely rent, as if no share
They witness'd of parental care.
Thus nature prompts them to fulfil
The Universal Parent's will
By instinct's powerful voice, design'd
To propagate and keep the kind
In being: but, that end attain'd,
For objects, which triumphant reign'd
Of late, affection's sluices close;
Of those forgot, forgetting those,
On whom, concenter'd in the nest,
Their little world appear'd to rest.
How different from the moral sense,
With reason link'd, which Providence
Has with the natural feelings mix'd
Of kindred tenderness; and fix'd
In man, to teach the human heart
The filial and parental part!
Hence of the parent for the child
Affections holy, undefil'd
By aught of earthy mixture reign:
Hence of the duteous child again
Kind feelings animate the breast,
And on the honour'd parent rest:
Not soon to languish and decay
With helpless childhood's early day!
But still, in every gradual stage
Of life's eventful pilgrimage,

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Matur'd, and moulded to the form
Of mutual friendship, bright and warm,
In both reigns sympathy benign:
In each with its peculiar sign,
Here of superior goodness kind,
There with respectful deference join'd;
As best beseems the several spheres
Of greener and maturer years;
As best, what best each several name
Of parent and of child may claim.
Nor fairer boon does God bestow,
To heighten bliss, and soften woe,
Than when in mutual friendship's bands,
Attemper'd by his own commands,
The mother with her daughters runs
Her course, the father with his sons:
And all the grateful interchange
Of kindness, suited to their range
Reciprocal of duty, prove,
A happy family of love;
Love, which enlivens all the year,
Can every passing season cheer
With joy that feels not time's decay,
And make of every month a May!