Thou too must rest. But much, my little bird, could'st thou but tell, For thou hast passed fair places in thy flight; Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye, Did fortune try thee?—was thy little purse Ah, no! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one! What was it, then?—some mystic turn of thought, For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask, A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain, In truth, I rather take it thou hast got Whether an Eden or a desert be Thy home, so thou remain'st alive, and free God speed thee, pretty bird! May thy small nest Chimney Swallows I love thee much; For well thou managest that life of thine, 1529 Jane Welsh Carlyle [1801-1866] CHIMNEY SWALLOWS I SLEPT in an old homestead by the sea: At night the swallows told home-lore to me, A liquid twitter, low, confiding, glad, Was all the voice; and yet its accents had Quaint legends of the fireside and the shore, And sounds of festal cheer, And tones of those whose tasks of love are o'er, And wondrous lyrics, felt but never sung, The heart's melodious bloom; And histories, whose perfumes long have clung I heard the dream of lovers, as they found At last their hour of bliss, And fear and pain and long suspense were drowned In one heart-healing kiss. I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew To sons and daughters fair; And childhood's angels, singing as they flew, And sobs of secret prayer. I heard the voyagers who seemed to sail Into the sapphire sky, And sad, weird voices in the autumn gale, And sighs suppressed and converse soft and low And what is uttered when the stricken know And steps of those who, in the Sabbath light, Muse with transfigured face; And hot lips pressing, through the long, dark night, The pillow's empty place; And fervent greetings of old friends, whose path In youth had gone apart, But to each other brought life's aftermath, The music of the seasons touched the strain, The orchard's bounty and the yellow grain, And secrets of the soul that doubts and yearns Till, meeting Christ with raptured eye, discerns So, thinking of the Master and his tears, I sank in arms that folded me from fears, Horatio Nelson Powers [1826-1890] ITYLUS SWALLOW, my sister, O sister swallow, A thousand summers are over and dead. What hast thou found in the spring to follow? What hast thou found in thine heart to sing? What wilt thou do when the summer is shed? Itylus O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow, The soft south whither thine heart is set? Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow, Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow, I the nightingale all spring through, All spring through till the spring be done, Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, 1531 Though all things feast in the spring's guest-chamber, How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet? For where thou fliest I shall not follow, Till life forget and death remember, Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow, I know not how thou hast heart to sing. Thy lord the summer is good to follow, But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover? O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow, My heart in me is a molten ember And over my head the waves have met. But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow Couldst thou remember and I forget. O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow, Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree; O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow, I pray thee sing not a little space. Are not the roofs and the lintels wet? The woven web that was plain to follow, The small slain body, the flower-like face, Can I remember if thou forget? O sister, sister, thy first-begotten! The hands that cling and the feet that follow, The voice of the child's blood crying yet, Who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten? Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow, But the world shall end when I forget. Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909] THE THROSTLE "SUMMER is coming, summer is coming, Light again, leaf again, life again, love again," Sing the new year in under the blue. Last year you sang it as gladly. "New, new, new, new!" Is it then so new That you should carol so madly? "Love again, song again, nest again, young again," Never a prophet so crazy! And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, See, there is hardly a daisy. |