 | Poems at Home and Abroad |  |
59
POEMS OF THE BIRDS
61
The Chaffinch's Nest
At Dunnabeck.
There is a little cup of fateBeside my trellised garden-gate,
A tiny cup most deftly made
With moss and lichen overlaid,
Wherein through all its strands is wove
The golden innocence of love—
A little loving-cup of life
And joy for feathered man and wife.
And therein, while the chaffinch sings,
A silent mother folds her wings,
Content to watch long hours apart
And press her jewels to her heart—
Jewels one day to find a voice
And bid the Junetide earth rejoice.
She knows her treasure-house shall be
Filled with new life, new song, new glee,
And roofs with her brown back the home
Against all rain and winds that come.
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Meets questioning gaze with fearless eye;
Unblenching though we giants stare,
Holds to her heaven-appointed care,
And shames us with a faith sublime
In life to be that keeps its time.
Far mightier powers than she has guessed
Bend like great angels o'er her nest:
The sun that rolls in royal state
Is with her watch confederate;
The punctual morn, the sequent eve,
Their spell about her casket weave,
Till sudden with a heart aglow
A mother's triumph she shall know,
And life will fill the cup of fate
Beside my trellised garden-gate.
Ah! would to God with such a heart
Our English mothers bore their part,
With such self-sacrificing zest
Would guard the home and keep the nest!
63
'Twixt Sunrise and the Moon
Now rosily and cosily
The farmstead window shines,
Two stars are watching still in heaven,
The moon is o'er the pines.
The farmstead window shines,
Two stars are watching still in heaven,
The moon is o'er the pines.
Now cheerily, unwearily
Mike shuts the barn-house door,
And with his hay-sheet on his back
Goes bravely to the moor.
Mike shuts the barn-house door,
And with his hay-sheet on his back
Goes bravely to the moor.
With clamouring and hammering
The village stithy wakes,
And smith and shepherd only know
How dawn the daylight makes;
The village stithy wakes,
And smith and shepherd only know
How dawn the daylight makes;
For flittering and twittering
The robin breaks to tune.
He sings the magic of the world
'Twixt sunrise and the moon.
The robin breaks to tune.
He sings the magic of the world
'Twixt sunrise and the moon.
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A Thrush in Spring
Awake and weary at the dawn of day
I heard thy music ringing thro' the hush;
It made a hundred morning memories rush
To give me back mine old life past away—
A little boy at prime in garden play
I paused to wonder listening by the bush,
A youth, at early school, I heard the thrush,
And dropped my task, enchanted by her lay.
I heard thy music ringing thro' the hush;
It made a hundred morning memories rush
To give me back mine old life past away—
A little boy at prime in garden play
I paused to wonder listening by the bush,
A youth, at early school, I heard the thrush,
And dropped my task, enchanted by her lay.
But most I well remember how that voice
Throbbed in mine ears upon my wedding morn,
Bidding me rise my well-beloved to greet;
And now in thy sweet tones as sad as sweet
I feel such sympathy for souls forlorn
That thro' my tears I hearken, and rejoice.
Throbbed in mine ears upon my wedding morn,
Bidding me rise my well-beloved to greet;
And now in thy sweet tones as sad as sweet
I feel such sympathy for souls forlorn
That thro' my tears I hearken, and rejoice.
65
The Blackbird Dead
Dead on the grass, and dead in spring,
With a nest half-built, what pitiful loss!
Look at his dress with its bridal gloss,
The soft grey satin of underwing;
With a nest half-built, what pitiful loss!
Look at his dress with its bridal gloss,
The soft grey satin of underwing;
The purple eye with its rim of gold,
The glow and gleam of his amber beak;
He sang of his wedding all through the week—
Now one is unwedded, the other lies cold.
The glow and gleam of his amber beak;
He sang of his wedding all through the week—
Now one is unwedded, the other lies cold.
Ah! wild north wind from over the foam,
You have stolen the life from our April air,
You have hushed our morn and our evening prayer,
Robbed us of melody, saddened our home.
You have stolen the life from our April air,
You have hushed our morn and our evening prayer,
Robbed us of melody, saddened our home.
But at least you have left us one thing dear—
The brown little widow so sad in the shade;
And the bond of sorrow between us made
Has brought man's heart and the bird's heart near.
The brown little widow so sad in the shade;
And the bond of sorrow between us made
Has brought man's heart and the bird's heart near.
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Sadness in Song
With swiftly broken sentences of song,
Ere yet the stars had faded to the grey,
The thrush began; he fluted all the day,
And when the sun set did his tune prolong
In passionate iteration; thro' the throng
Of inexpressible thoughts from far away
Came a clear voice, a solemn liquid lay,
A silver undercurrent sad and strong.
Ere yet the stars had faded to the grey,
The thrush began; he fluted all the day,
And when the sun set did his tune prolong
In passionate iteration; thro' the throng
Of inexpressible thoughts from far away
Came a clear voice, a solemn liquid lay,
A silver undercurrent sad and strong.
That was the blackbird. He who, though his bill
Be gold and gay, has never changed his weeds;
For ever, though the crocus flame and die,
And buttercup to daffodil succeeds,
He feels that love is linked with sorrow still,
He knows how soon the little ones will fly.
Be gold and gay, has never changed his weeds;
For ever, though the crocus flame and die,
And buttercup to daffodil succeeds,
He feels that love is linked with sorrow still,
He knows how soon the little ones will fly.
67
The Chorus of the Dawn
How merrily with ceaseless tuneThe chaffinch greets this first of June;
The warbler lifts a quavering voice
To bid the brotherhood rejoice;
The cushat coos, the cuckoo cries
Across the valley-paradise;
With soft insistence from afar
A lamb is bleating on Nab Scar;
Far off the kine their trumpets blow,
The cocks at dreamy distance crow;
The moor-hens in the reed-bed hear,
And sailing forth on Rydal mere,
Leave silver light in arrowy track
Upon its mirror ebon-black.
Filled with innumerable wings
The sycamore beside me sings,
Wherefrom a thrush perched high above
Sends down such ecstasy of love,
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With eddying pause must stay to hear.
I too, though voiceless, still may tune
My heart to greet the first of June,
And join on this high upland lawn
The choral greeting of the dawn.
69
The Waking of the Birds
First through the fragrant silence on mine ear
The blackbird's song came bravely, then the bush
Of dim white-flowering laurel, where the thrush
Warmed her young nestlings, throbbed with music clear;
Next roused the merry robin with his cheer,
The chiff-chaff answered, and in solemn hush,
Solemn, but with her monitory crush
And mellow mourning, hark! the ring-dove near.
The blackbird's song came bravely, then the bush
Of dim white-flowering laurel, where the thrush
Warmed her young nestlings, throbbed with music clear;
Next roused the merry robin with his cheer,
The chiff-chaff answered, and in solemn hush,
Solemn, but with her monitory crush
And mellow mourning, hark! the ring-dove near.
So broke the birds upon my night-time's sorrow,
For May was come, and tulips were awake,
And lake and vale lay brightening to the sun.
With happy cries the rooks cawed out ‘good morrow!’
While the quaint landrail with his magic crake
For very joyance from his voice did run.
For May was come, and tulips were awake,
And lake and vale lay brightening to the sun.
With happy cries the rooks cawed out ‘good morrow!’
While the quaint landrail with his magic crake
For very joyance from his voice did run.
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The Chiff-Chaff
Lithe of body, dusk of hue,
Little courier of the sun,
We have waited long for you.
Flower-time, shower-time has begun.
Larch is greening everywhere,
Birch-tree fragrance fills the air.
Little courier of the sun,
We have waited long for you.
Flower-time, shower-time has begun.
Larch is greening everywhere,
Birch-tree fragrance fills the air.
Poet, welcome to the west,
Ranging from your Asian grove
To the ‘Islands of the blest,’
To the land of food and love,
Tell us prithee how you found
Your remembered mating ground.
Ranging from your Asian grove
To the ‘Islands of the blest,’
To the land of food and love,
Tell us prithee how you found
Your remembered mating ground.
By the ilex and the pine
Did you see our budding thorn?
Thro' the olives and the vine
Were our verdurous pastures borne?
Did pale lakes and mountains grey
Haunt you hither all the way?
Did you see our budding thorn?
Thro' the olives and the vine
Were our verdurous pastures borne?
Did pale lakes and mountains grey
Haunt you hither all the way?
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Or where palms and cactus crest
All sweet privacy forbid,
Had you vision of a nest
In some English dingle hid?
Tell us wanderer over seas
Was your lodestar one of these?
All sweet privacy forbid,
Had you vision of a nest
In some English dingle hid?
Tell us wanderer over seas
Was your lodestar one of these?
Nay, but singing, ringing clear
Speed the message down the wind
That the guerdon of last year
Led you, joy of soul to find
That one sweetheart, tried and true,
Thro' a whole world followed you.
Speed the message down the wind
That the guerdon of last year
Led you, joy of soul to find
That one sweetheart, tried and true,
Thro' a whole world followed you.
Sing and ring, thro' trackless air
She, you love, is following now,
Soon your ecstasy will share,
Soon will warble from the bough,
And to listening ears shall prove
How adventuresome is Love.
She, you love, is following now,
Soon your ecstasy will share,
Soon will warble from the bough,
And to listening ears shall prove
How adventuresome is Love.
72
The Birthday of the Singers
Dunnabeck, 21st May, 1908.
The cuckoo cried across the Rydal mere,
The little warbler made the birch-tree thrill
With passionate words of greeting and goodwill;
Afar from ruddy Loughrigg lambs called clear,
On the near knoll the comfortable steer
Lowed, and the shepherd whistled up the hill;
Then thought I, Lord, what joy these sounds instil,
What sense of fullest peace and rest is here!
The little warbler made the birch-tree thrill
With passionate words of greeting and goodwill;
Afar from ruddy Loughrigg lambs called clear,
On the near knoll the comfortable steer
Lowed, and the shepherd whistled up the hill;
Then thought I, Lord, what joy these sounds instil,
What sense of fullest peace and rest is here!
But sudden in the pauses of the stream
That all night long its lullaby had made,
I heard such notes of wild triumphant mirth
Above a nest wherein five eggs were laid,
As made all other joy but sadness seem—
It was the song of life new-born to earth.
That all night long its lullaby had made,
I heard such notes of wild triumphant mirth
Above a nest wherein five eggs were laid,
As made all other joy but sadness seem—
It was the song of life new-born to earth.
73
‘Ubi Aves ibi Angeli’
Untired of will, with tireless tongue
From morn to latest eve has sung,
The thrush who, all through May and June,
Has kept my garden-close in tune.
There is no separate tree or flower
But owns her harmonizing power,
And feels to-day in every part
As if it had a brother's heart.
From morn to latest eve has sung,
The thrush who, all through May and June,
Has kept my garden-close in tune.
There is no separate tree or flower
But owns her harmonizing power,
And feels to-day in every part
As if it had a brother's heart.
The crake is silent in the vale,
The cuckoos cease their wandering tale;
But, still, as if it felt each morn
Some newer call for thanks was born,
This angel in the lilac-bush,
Impatient of a moment's hush,
Gives unto whom no voice is given
The note of praise that sounds in Heaven.
The cuckoos cease their wandering tale;
But, still, as if it felt each morn
Some newer call for thanks was born,
This angel in the lilac-bush,
Impatient of a moment's hush,
Gives unto whom no voice is given
The note of praise that sounds in Heaven.
74
Fieldfares
How blue above our head the sky!
How brown below the path we tread,
By silent carpet overspread
From sombre larches standing by!
The berries in the hedge are red,
On which the birds should sure have fed,
Alas! they long ago have fled
Who feel the frost and die.
How brown below the path we tread,
By silent carpet overspread
From sombre larches standing by!
The berries in the hedge are red,
On which the birds should sure have fed,
Alas! they long ago have fled
Who feel the frost and die.
But hark! a foreign note I hear,
Along the fell, behind the wall,
A language I must needs recall,
Old talk made new with every year!
O'er northern seas, thro' sleet and squall,
These birds have come for festival,
And on the coral berries fall
To keep their Christmas cheer.
Along the fell, behind the wall,
A language I must needs recall,
Old talk made new with every year!
O'er northern seas, thro' sleet and squall,
These birds have come for festival,
And on the coral berries fall
To keep their Christmas cheer.
With ‘tsik-tsak’ high and ‘tsik-tsak’ low—
While perched far off their pickets stand—
These wandering birds possess the land
Our Norseman fathers used to know.
In voice, half quarrel, half command,
They wrangle on, the robber band—
Swift-wingéd Vikings from the strand
Of ice and winter snow.
While perched far off their pickets stand—
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Our Norseman fathers used to know.
In voice, half quarrel, half command,
They wrangle on, the robber band—
Swift-wingéd Vikings from the strand
Of ice and winter snow.
I clap my hands, away they speed!
What matters where they rest to-night,
Beyond this vale are berries bright
And food where'er they wish to feed!
They know no law of tenant-right,
They only know they love the light;
One law alone can guide their flight—
The law of Nature's need.
What matters where they rest to-night,
Beyond this vale are berries bright
And food where'er they wish to feed!
They know no law of tenant-right,
They only know they love the light;
One law alone can guide their flight—
The law of Nature's need.
Ye red-backed rangers over sea,
Ye grey-winged rovers of the field,
Who, from what English roses yield,
Find life from lea to lea!
Those hearts must sure be hard and steeled
Who have no founts of faith unsealed
By your wild carelessness revealed,
This winter morn to me.
Ye grey-winged rovers of the field,
Who, from what English roses yield,
Find life from lea to lea!
Those hearts must sure be hard and steeled
Who have no founts of faith unsealed
By your wild carelessness revealed,
This winter morn to me.
| Poems at Home and Abroad | |