BIRDS BIRDS are singing round my window, So with thoughts my brain is peopled, Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903) SEA-BIRDS O LONESOME sea-gull, floating far Forever vainly seeking rest: Where is thy mate, and where thy nest? "Twixt wintry sea and wintry sky, Cleaving the keen air with thy breast, No fetter on thy wing is pressed:- O restless, homeless human soul, Following for aye thy nameless quest, The gulls float, and the billows roll; Thou watchest still, and questionest:— Where is thy mate, and where thy nest? Elizabeth Akers (1832-1911] THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice! The Blackbird Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us. Thy wail, What doth it bring to me? 1475 Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge— The Mystery-the Word. Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall, From out thy gloomy cells, A tale of mourning tells, Tells of man's woe and fall, His sinless glory fled. Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Come, quit with me the shore, For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing. Richard Henry Dana [1787-1879] THE BLACKBIRD How sweet the harmonies of afternoon: The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon; Rich breath of hayfields streams through whispering trees; And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, And listen fondly-while the Blackbird sings. How soft the lovelight of the West reposes And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings The very dial on the village church Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest; And there beneath the immemorial elm Three rosy revellers round a table sit, And through gray clouds give laws unto the realm, Before her home, in her accustomed seat, The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid; To her low chair a little maiden clings, And spells in silence-while the Blackbird sings. Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green, The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manorhouse, The ring of silver voices, and the sheen Of festal garments-and my Lady streams With her gay court across the garden green; Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love-dreams; The Blackbird And one calls for a little page; he strings A little while-and lo! the charm is heard, A youth, whose life has been all Summer, steals Forth from the noisy guests around the board, Creeps by her softly; at her footstool kneels; And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things Into her fond ear-while the Blackbird sings. 1477 The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher, Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal, On the high wold the last look of the sun Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream; The day is dying-still the Blackbird sings. Now the good Vicar passes from his gate Serene, with long white hair; and in his eye His heart is thronged with great imaginings, Down by the brook he bends his steps, and through Awful beside the bed of one who grew From boyhood with him-who, with lifted hands And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings, Two golden stars, like tokens from the Blest, Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun; His sinking hands seem pointing to the West; He smiles as though he said "Thy will be done": His eyes, they see not those illuminings; His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings. Frederick Tennyson [1807-1898] THE BLACKBIRD WHEN smoke stood up from Ludlow And mist blew off from Teme, The blackbird in the coppice "Lie down, lie down, young yeoman; I heard the tune he sang me, Then my soul within me Took up the blackbird's strain, And still beside the horses Along the dewy lane |