The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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THE AMERICAN BLUE-BIRD. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
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THE AMERICAN BLUE-BIRD.
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“Such are the mild and pleasing manners of the Blue-bird, and so universally is he esteemed, that I have often regretted that no pastoral Muse has yet risen, in this western woody world, to do justice to his name, and endear him to us still more, by the tenderness of verse, as has been done to his representative in Britain, the Robin Redbreast. A small acknowledgment of this kind I have to offer, which the reader I hope will excuse as a tribute to rural innocence.”
When Winter's cold tempests and snows are no more,
Green meadows, and brown furrow'd fields reappearing;
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,
And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,
When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasin';
O then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of Spring,
And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.
Green meadows, and brown furrow'd fields reappearing;
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,
And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,
When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasin';
O then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of Spring,
And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.
Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring,
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spicewood and sassafras budding together;
O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair,
Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;
The Blue-bird will chant from his box such an air,
That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure.
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spicewood and sassafras budding together;
O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair,
Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;
The Blue-bird will chant from his box such an air,
That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure.
He flits thro' the orchard, he visits each tree,
The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms;
He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;
He draws the vile grub from the corn it devours,
The worms from their webs where they riot and welter;
His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks, is, in Summer a shelter.
The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms;
He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;
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The worms from their webs where they riot and welter;
His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks, is, in Summer a shelter.
The ploughman is pleas'd when he gleans in his train,
Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him;
The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him;
The slow-ling'ring schoolboys forget they'll be chid,
While gazing intent as he warbles before 'em,
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him;
The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him;
The slow-ling'ring schoolboys forget they'll be chid,
While gazing intent as he warbles before 'em,
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
When all the gay scenes of the Summer are o'er,
And Autumn slow enters so silent and sallow;
And millions of warblers, that charm'd us before,
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow;
The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow;
Till forc'd by the horrors of Winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
And Autumn slow enters so silent and sallow;
And millions of warblers, that charm'd us before,
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow;
The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow;
Till forc'd by the horrors of Winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
While Spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,
The green face of Earth and the pure blue of heaven;
Or Love's native music have influence to charm,
Or Sympathy's glow to our feelings are given—
Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be;
His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure;
For, thro' bleakest storms, if a calm he but see,
He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure.
The green face of Earth and the pure blue of heaven;
Or Love's native music have influence to charm,
Or Sympathy's glow to our feelings are given—
Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be;
His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure;
For, thro' bleakest storms, if a calm he but see,
He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |