Thou too must rest.

But much, my little bird, could'st thou but tell,
I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well
To build thy nest.

For thou hast passed fair places in thy flight;
A world lay all beneath thee where to light;
And, strange thy taste,

Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye,
Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky,
To choose this waste!

Did fortune try thee?—was thy little purse
Perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse,
Felt here secure?

Ah, no! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one!
Thou know'st it not. Of all God's creatures, man
Alone is poor.

What was it, then?—some mystic turn of thought,
Caught under German eaves, and hither brought,
Marring thine eye

For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown
A sober thing that dost but mope and moan,
Not knowing why?

Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask,
Since here I see thee working at thy task
With wing and beak.

A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain,
At which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main,
Nor more need'st seek.

In truth, I rather take it thou hast got
By instinct wise much sense about thy lot,
And hast small care

Whether an Eden or a desert be

Thy home, so thou remain'st alive, and free
To skim the air.

God speed thee, pretty bird! May thy small nest
With little ones all in good time be blest.

Chimney Swallows

I love thee much;

For well thou managest that life of thine,
While I-oh, ask not what I do with mine!
Would I were such!

1529

Jane Welsh Carlyle [1801-1866]

CHIMNEY SWALLOWS

I SLEPT in an old homestead by the sea:
And in their chimney nest,

At night the swallows told home-lore to me,
As to a friendly guest.

A liquid twitter, low, confiding, glad,
From many glossy throats,

Was all the voice; and yet its accents had
A poem's golden notes.

Quaint legends of the fireside and the shore,

And sounds of festal cheer,

And tones of those whose tasks of love are o'er,
Were breathed into mine ear;

And wondrous lyrics, felt but never sung,

The heart's melodious bloom;

And histories, whose perfumes long have clung
About each hallowed room.

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,
As the swift ships went by;

And sighs suppressed and converse soft and low
About the sufferer's bed,

And what is uttered when the stricken know
That the dear one is dead;

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,
With uncorroded heart.

The music of the seasons touched the strain,
Bird-joy and laugh of flowers,

The orchard's bounty and the yellow grain,
Snow storm and sunny showers;

And secrets of the soul that doubts and yearns
And gropes in regions dim,

Till, meeting Christ with raptured eye, discerns
Its perfect life in Him.

So, thinking of the Master and his tears,
And how the birds are kept,

I sank in arms that folded me from fears,
And like an infant, slept.

Horatio Nelson Powers [1826-1890]

ITYLUS

SWALLOW, my sister, O sister swallow,
How can thine heart be full of the spring?

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,
Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south,

The soft south whither thine heart is set?
Shall not the grief of the old time follow?
Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth?
Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?

Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,
Thy way is long to the sun and the south;
But I, fulfilled of my heart's desire,

Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow,
From tawny body and sweet small mouth
Feed the heart of the night with fire.

I the nightingale all spring through,
O swallow, sister, O changing swallow,

All spring through till the spring be done,
Clothed with the light of the night on the dew,
Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow,
Take flight and follow and find the sun.

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,
Till thou remember and I forget.

Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow,

I know not how thou hast heart to sing.
Hast thou the heart? is it all passed over?

Thy lord the summer is good to follow,
And fair the feet of thy lover the spring:

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
Could I forget or thou remember,

Couldst thou remember and I forget.

O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow,
The heart's division divideth us.

Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree;
But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow
To the place of the slaying of Itylus,
The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.

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,
I know it, I know it, I know it.

Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,"
Yes, my wild little Poet.

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.