The Blood Horse 1473 THE BLOOD HORSE GAMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Look,-how 'round his straining throat Sinewy strength is in his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins; Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher He, who hath no peer, was born, Trod like one of a race divine! And yet, he was but friend to one By some lone fountain fringed with green: With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived, (none else would he obey 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 Over the ocean's icy waste, 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 takest thou its melancholy voice, 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, 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, With the motion and the roar 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 peakèd Manorhouse, Lie in warm sunshine—while the Blackbird sings. 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 |