XIII.

=Birds.=

LINES

FROM “FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD.”

Welcome, pure thoughts, welcome, ye silent groves— These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves: Now the wing’d people of the sky shall sing My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring. SIR HENRY WOTTON, 1568–1639.

FLIGHT OF CRANES.

A SIMILE FROM HOMER.

As when of many sorts the long-neck’d fowl Unto the large and flowing plain repair, Through which Cayster’s waters gently roll, In multitudes—high flying in the air, Now here, now there fly, priding on their wing, And by-and-by at once light on the ground, And with their clamor make the air to ring, And th’ earth whereon they settle to resound;

So when the Achaians went up from the fleet, And on their march were to the towers of Troy, The earth resounded loud with hoofs and feet. But on Scamander’s flowery bank they stray, In number like the flowers of the field, Or leaves in spring, or multitude of flies In some great dairy, round the vessels filled, Delighted with the milk, dance, fall, and rise. _Translated by_ HOBBES.

THE SWALLOW AND THE GRASSHOPPER.

FROM THE GREEK, 450 B. C.

Attic maiden—honey-fed— Chirping warbler, bear’st away Thou the chirping grasshopper, To thy callow young a prey? Warbling thou—a warbler seize, Winged-one with lovely wings! Guest thyself—by summer brought— Fellow-guest, whom summer brings! Will not quickly let it drop? ’Tis not fair—indeed, ’tis wrong, That the ceaseless songster should Die by mouth of ceaseless song! _Translation of_ G. TREVOR.

THE SAME

ANOTHER TRANSLATION.

Attic maiden, breathing still Of the fragrant flowers that blow On Hymettus’ purple hill, Whence the streams of honey flow. Wherefore thus a captive bear To your nest the grasshopper?

Noisy prattler, cease to do To your fellow-prattler wrong; Kind should not its kind pursue— Least of all the heirs of song. Prattler, seek some other food For your noisy, prattling brood.

Both are ever on the wing, Wanderers both in foreign bowers; Both succeed the parting spring, Both depart with summer hours. Those who love the minstrel lay Should not on each other prey. _Translation of_ G. MERIVALE.

SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

FROM THE GREEK.

_Sung by the Children, passing from Door to Door, at the Return of the Swallow._

The swallow is come! The swallow is come! He brings us the season of vernal delight, With his back all of sable, and belly of white. Have you nothing to spare, That his palate would please— A fig, or a pear, Or a slice of rich cheese? Mark, he bars all delay: At a word, my friend, say, Is it yes, is it nay? Do we go? do we stay? One gift, and we’re gone: Refuse, and anon, On your gate and your door All our fury we pour; Or our strength shall be tried On your sweet little bride; From her seat we will tear her, From her home we will bear her; She is light, and will ask But small hands for the task. Let your bounty then lift A small aid to our mirth, And whate’er the gift, Let its size speak its worth. The swallow, the swallow, Upon you doth wait; An alms-man and suppliant, He stands at your gate; Let him in then, I say,

For no gray-beards are we, To be foiled in our glee; But boys who will have our own way. _Translation of_ MITCHELL.

SWALLOWS.

FROM “SALMONIA.”

_Hal._ While we have been conversing, the May-flies, which were in such quantities, have become much fewer; and I believe the reason is, that they have been greatly diminished by the flocks of swallows which everywhere pursue them. I have seen a single swallow take four, in less than a quarter of a minute, that were descending to the water.

_Poict._ I delight in this living landscape! The swallow is one of my favorite birds, and a rival of the nightingale; for he cheers my sense of seeing as much as the other does my sense of hearing. He is the glad prophet of the year—the harbinger of the best season: he lives a life of enjoyment among the loveliest forms of Nature. Winter is unknown to him; and he leaves the green meadows of England, in autumn, for the myrtle and orange groves of Italy, and for the palms of Africa. He has always objects of pursuit, and his success is secure. Even the beings selected for his prey are poetical, beautiful, and transient. The ephemeræ are saved by his means from a slow and lingering death in the evening, and killed in a moment, when they have known nothing of life but pleasure. He is the constant destroyer of insects—the friend of man; and, with the stork and ibis, may be regarded as a sacred bird. This instinct, which gives him his appointed seasons, and teaches him always when and where to move, may be regarded as flowing from a Divine Source; and he belongs to the Oracles of Nature, which speak the awful and intelligible language of a present Deity.

SIR HUMPHREY DAVY.

LINES

FROM “THE POLYOLBION.”

When Phœbus lifts his head out of the winter’s wave, No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave; At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring, But hunts-up to the morn the feather’d sylvans sing; And in the lower grove, as on the rising knole, Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole Those choristers are perch’d, with many a speckled breast; Then from her burnish’d gate the goodly glittering East

Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous night Bespangled had with pearl, to please the morning’s sight; On which the mirthful choirs, with their clear, open throats, Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes, That hills and valleys ring, and even the echoing air Seems all composed of sounds about them everywhere. MICHAEL DRAYTON, 1563–1631.

THE BLACK COCK.

Good-morrow to thy sable beak, And glossy plumage, dark and sleek— Thy crimson moon and azure eye— Cock of the heath, so wildly shy! I see thee slowly cowering through That wiry web of silver dew, That twinkles in the morning air, Like casement of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower, Who, peeping from her early bower, Half shows, like thee, with simple wile, Her braided hair and morning smile. The rarest things, with wayward will, Beneath the covert hide them still; The rarest things, to light of day Look shortly forth, and break away.

One fleeting moment of delight I warmed me in her cheering sight, And short, I ween, the time will be That I shall parley hold with thee. Through Snowdon’s mist red beams the day; The climbing herd-boy chants his lay; The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring; Thou art already on the wing. JOANNA BAILLIE.

TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.

Wing’d mimic of the woods! thou motley fool, Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe? Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe: Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe,

Thou sportive satirist of Nature’s school, To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch mocker, and mad Abbot of Mis-Rule! For such thou art by day—but all night long Thou pour’st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy Jacques complain— Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, And sighing for thy motley coat again. RICHARD HENRY WILDE.

THE BOB-O-LINKUM.

Thou vocal sprite—thou feathered troubadour! In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger, Com’st thou to doff thy russet suit once more, And play in foppish trim the masking stranger? Philosophers may teach thy whereabout and nature, But, wise as all of us, perforce, must think ’em, The school-boy best hath fix’d thy nomenclature, And poets, too, must call thee “Bob-o-linkum!”

Say, art thou long 'mid forest glooms benighted, So glad to skim our laughing meadows over— With our gay orchards here so much delighted, It makes thee musical, thou airy rover? Or are those buoyant notes the pilfer’d treasure Of fairy isles, which thou hast learn’d to ravish Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure, And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish?

They tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks, Wherever o’er the land thy pathway ranges; And even in a brace of wandering weeks, They say alike thy song and plumage changes; These both are gay; and when the buds put forth, And leafy June is shading rock and river, Thou art unmatch’d, blithe warbler of the North, While through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver.

Joyous, yet tender, was that gush of song, Caught from the brooks, where 'mid its wild flowers smiling, The silent prairie listens all day long, The only captive to such sweet beguiling;

Or didst thou, flitting through the verdurous halls, And column’d isles of western groves symphonious, Learn from the tuneful woods rare madrigals, To make our flowering pastures here harmonious?

Caught’st thou thy carol from Ottawa maid, Where through the liquid fields of wild rice plashing— Brushing the ears from off the burden’d blade, Her birch canoe o’er some lone lake is flashing? Or did the reeds of some savanna South, Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing, To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth, The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing?

Unthrifty prodigal! is no thought of ill Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever? Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence still Throb on in music till at rest forever? Yet now in 'wilder’d maze of concord floating, ’Twould seem that glorious hymning to prolong, Old Time, in hearing thee, might fall a-doating, And pause to listen to thy rapturous song! CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

THE OWL.

High rides the moon amid the fleecy clouds, That glisten as they float athwart her disk; Sweet is the glimpse that for a moment plays Among these mouldering pinnacles; but hark That dismal cry! it is the wailing owl, Night long she mourns, perched in some vacant niche, Or time-rent crevice; sometimes to the woods She bends her silent, slowly-moving wing, And on some leafless tree, dead of old age, Sits watching for her prey; but should the foot Of man intrude into her solemn shades, Startled, he hears the fragile, breaking branch Crash as she rises; farther in the gloom To deeper solitude she wings her way. REV. JAMES GRAHAME.

EXTRACT.

FROM “JOURNAL OF A NATURALIST.”

Rural sounds, the voices, the language of the wild creatures, as heard by the naturalist, belong to, and are in concord with, the country only. Our sight, our smell may perhaps be deceived for an interval by conservatories, horticultural arts, and bowers of sweets; but our hearing can in no way be beguiled by any semblance of what is heard in the grove or the field. The hum, the murmur, the medley of the mead, is peculiarly its own, admits of no imitation, and the voices of our birds convey particular intimation, and distinctly notify the various periods of the year with an accuracy as certain as they are detailed in our calendars. The season of spring is always announced as approaching by the notes of the rookery, by the jingle or wooing accents of the dark frequenters of the trees; and that time having passed away, these contentions and cadences are no longer heard. The cuckoo then comes and informs us that spring has arrived; that he has journeyed to see us, borne by gentle gales in sunny days; that fragrant flowers are in the copse and the mead, and all things telling of gratulation and of joy; the children mark this well-known sound, spring out, and cuckoo! cuckoo! as they gambol down the lane; the very plow-boy bids him welcome in early morn. It is hardly spring without the cuckoo’s song; and, having told his tale, he has voice for no more—is silent or away. Then comes the dark, swift-winged marten, glancing through the air, that seems afraid to visit our uncertain clime; he comes, though late, and hurries through his business here eager again to depart, all day long in agitation and precipitate flight. The bland zephyrs of the spring have no charms for them; but basking and careering in the sultry gleams of June and July, they associate in throngs, and, screaming, dash round the steeple or the ruined tower, to serenade their nesting mates; and glare and heat are in their train. When the fervor of summer ceases, this bird of the sun will depart. The evening robin, from the summit of some leafless bough or projecting point, tells us that autumn is come, and brings matured fruits, chilly airs, and sober hours; and he, the lonely minstrel that now sings, is understood by all. These four birds thus indicate a separate season, have no interference with the intelligence of the other, nor could they be transposed without the loss of all the meaning they convey, which no contrivance of art could supply; and, by long association, they have become identified with the period, and in peculiar accordance with the time.

J. L. KNAPP.

THE PATTICHAP’S NEST.

Well! in my many walks I’ve rarely found A place less likely for a bird to form Its nest; close by the rut-gulled wagon-road, And on the almost bare foot-trodden ground, With scarce a clump of grass to keep it warm, Where not a thistle spreads its spears abroad, Or prickly bush to shield it from harm’s way; And yet so snugly made, that none may spy It out, save peradventure. You and I Had surely passed it in our walk to-day, Had chance not led us by it! Nay, e’en now, Had not the old bird heard us trampling by, And fluttered out, we had not seen it lie Brown as the roadway side. Small bits of hay Pluck’d from the old prop’d haystack’s pleachy brow, And withered leaves, make up its outward wall, Which from the gnarled oak-dotterel yearly fall, And in the old hedge-bottom rot away. Built like an oven, through a little hole, Scarcely admitting e’en two figures in, Hard to discern, the bird’s snug entrance win. ’Tis lined with feathers, warm as silken stole, Softer than seats of down for painless ease, And full of eggs scarce bigger ev’n than pease. Here’s one most delicate, with spots as small As dust, and of a faint and pinky red.

* * * * *

A grasshopper’s green jump might break the shells; Yet lowing oxen pass them morn and night, And restless sheep around them hourly stray. JOHN CLARE.

A THOUGHT.

UPON OCCASION OF A RED-BREAST COMING INTO HIS CHAMBER.

Pretty bird, how cheerfully dost thou sit and sing, and yet knowest not where thou art, nor where thou shalt make thy next meal; and at night must shroud thyself in a bush for lodging! What shame is it for me, that see before me so liberal provisions of my God, and find myself sit warm under my own roof, yet am ready to droop under a distrustful and unthankful dullness. Had I so little certainty of my harbor and

purveyance, how heartless should I be, how careful; how little list should I have to make music to thee or myself. Surely thou comest not hither without a Providence. God sent thee not so much to delight, as to shame me, but all in a conviction of my sullen unbelief, who, under more apparent means, am less cheerful and confident; reason and faith have not done so much in me, as in thee mere instinct of nature; want of foresight makes thee more merry, if not more happy here, than the foresight of better things maketh me.

O God, thy providence is not impaired by those powers thou hast given me above these brute things; let not my greater helps hinder me from a holy security and comfortable reliance on thee!

BISHOP HALL, 1574–1656.

THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

FROM THE SWEDISH.

Behold! the birds fly From Gauthiod’s strand, And seek with a sigh Some far foreign land. The sounds of their woe With hollow winds blend: “Where now must we go? Our flight whither tend?” ’Tis thus unto heaven that their wailings ascend.

“The Scandian shore We leave in despair, Our days glided o’er So blissfully there: We there built our nest Among bright blooming trees; There rock’d us to rest The balm-bearing breeze; But now to far lands we must traverse the sea.

“With rose-crown all bright On tresses of gold, The midsummer night It was sweet to behold: The calm was so deep, So lovely the ray, We could not then sleep, But were tranced by the spray, Till wakened by beams from the bright car of day.

“The trees gently bent O’er the plains in repose; With dew-drops besprent Was the tremulous rose; The oaks now are bare; The rose is no more; The zephyr’s light air Is exchanged for the roar Of storms, and the May-fields have mantles of hoar.

“Then why do we stay In the North, where the sun More dimly each day His brief course will run? And why need we sigh— We leave but a grave, To cleave through the sky On the wings which God gave; Then, Ocean, we welcome the roar of thy wave!”

Of rest thus bereaved, They soar in the air, But soon are received Into regions more fair; Where elms gently shake In the zephyr’s light play, Where rivulets take Among myrtles their way, And the groves are resounding with Hope’s happy lay.

When earth’s joys are o’er And the days darkly roll, When autumn winds roar— Weep not, O my soul! Fair lands o’er the sea For the birds brightly bloom; A land smiles for thee, Beyond the dark tomb, Where beams never fading its beauties illume. _Anonymous Translation._ ERIC JOHAN STAGNELIUS, 1793–1823.

THE DOVE.

RUSSIAN.

On an oak-tree sat, Sat a pair of doves; And they bill’d and coo’d, And they heart to heart, Tenderly embraced With their little wings; On them suddenly Darted down a hawk.

One he seized and tore, Tore the little dove, With his feathered feet, Soft, blue little dove; And he pour’d his blood, Streaming down the tree; Feathers too were strewed Widely o’er the field; High away the down Floated in the air.

Ah, how wept and wept, Ah, how sobb’d and sobb’d The poor doveling then For her little dove.

“Weep not, weep not so, Tender little bird!” Spake the light young hawk To the little dove.

“O’er the sea away, O’er the far blue sea, I will drive to thee Flocks of other doves; From them choose thee then, Choose a soft and blue, With his feathered feet, Better little dove.”

“Fly, thou villain! not O’er the far blue sea,

Drive not here to me Flocks of other doves. Ah! of all thy doves None can comfort me, Only he, the father Of my little ones.” _Translated by_ J. G. PERCIVAL.

THE DYING SWAN.

The plain was grassy, wild, and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere An under-roof of doleful gray. With an inner voice the river ran, Adown it floated a dying swan, Which loudly did lament. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on And shook the reed-tops as it went.

Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky Shone out their crowning snows. One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; Above in the wind was the swallow, Chasing itself at its own wild will, And far through the marish green and still The tangled water-courses slept, Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow.

The wild swan’s death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow; at first to the ear The warble was low, and full, and clear; And floating about the under-sky, Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; But anon her awful jubilant voice, With a music strange and manifold, Flowed forth on a carol free and bold; As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, And the tumult of their acclaim is rolled

Through the open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, And the willow-branches hoar and dank, And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, And the silvery marish flowers that throng, The desolate creeks and pools among, Were flooded over with eddying song. ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE TWA CORBIES.

OLD SCOTTISH BALLAD.

As I gaed doun by yon house-en’, Twa corbies there were sittand their lane. The tane unto the tother sae, “O where shall we gae dine to-day?”

“O down beside yon new-faun birk, There lies a new-slain knicht, Nae livin kens that he lies there, But his horse, his hounds, and his lady fair.

“His horse is to the huntin gone, His hounds to bring the wild deer hame; His lady’s taen another mate; Sae we may make our dinner swate.

“O we’ll sit on his bonnie briest-bane, And we’ll pyke out his bonnie grey e’en; Wi ae lock o’ his gowden hair We’ll theek our nest when it blaws bare.

“Mony a ane for him maks mane, But nane sail ken where he is gane; Ower his banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair!” _Anonymous, about 1600._

THE RED-BREAST IN SEPTEMBER.

The morning mist is clear’d away, Yet still the face of heaven is gray, Nor yet th’ autumnal breeze has stirr’d the grove,

Faded, yet full, a paler green Skirts soberly the tranquil scene, The red-breast warbles round this leafy cove.

Sweet messenger of calm decay, Saluting sorrow as you may, As one still bent to make, or find the best, In thee, and in this quiet mead The lesson of sweet peace I read, Rather in all to be resign’d than blest.

’Tis a low chant, according well With the soft solitary knell, As homeward from some grave belov’d we turn, Or by some holy death-bed dear, Most welcome to the chasten’d ear Of her whom Heaven is teaching how to mourn.

O cheerful, tender strain! the heart That duly bears with you its part, Singing so thankful to the dreary blast, Though gone and spent its joyous prime, And on the world’s autumnal time 'Mid withered hues, and sere, its lot be cast,

That is the heart for thoughtful seer, Watching, in trance nor dark nor clear, Th’ appalling Future as it nearer draws; His spirit calm’d the storm to meet, Feeling the Rock beneath his feet, And tracing through the cloud th’ eternal Cause. JOHN KEBLE.

[Illustration: [Pastoral Scene]]