UNIVERSITY OF CA RIVERSIDE UBRARY 
 
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 ^^ LIBRARY 
 tfNIVERSfTY Of CAUFOftNIA 
 RIVERSfDE
 
 BARDS AND THE BIRDS
 
 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 SELECTED AND ARRANGED 
 BY 
 
 FREDERICK NOEL PATON 
 
 JVirH ILLUSTRAriONS 
 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. HUGH BLACKBURN (J.B.) 
 
 AND 
 
 HUBERT PATON 
 
 " Ye gentle Birdes! the world's faire ornament, 
 And heaven's glorie ..." 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 LONDON 
 REEVES AND TURNER 
 
 WELLINGTON STREET, STRAND 
 1894 
 
 [Ai/ Rights resenvd]

 
 TO 
 
 MY PARENTS, 
 
 WHO HAVE TAUGHT THEIR CHILDREN TO 
 
 LOVE THE BIRDS, NATURE, AND 
 
 ALL THINGS WHOLESOME, 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS 
 
 INSCRIBED.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 INTRODUCTION XI 
 
 I. GENERAI I 
 
 II. DAWN 33 
 
 III. SPRING — MORNING 67 
 
 IV. SPRING — NESTING I05 
 
 V. SWALLOWS — SUMMER — GARDEN . . • 177 
 
 VI. SUMMER — WOODS I97 
 
 VII. WOOD — SOLITUDE — SWALLOW — STREAM . . 213 
 
 VIII. MOORLAND — SKYLARK— SEA .... 245 
 
 IX. MOUNTAINS — EAGLES — AFTERNOON — EVENING 299 
 
 X. EVENING— NIGHT 337 
 
 XI. MORNING — AUTUMN 385 
 
 XII. HUMAN 393 
 
 XIII. COMPANIONS — MIGRATION — WINTER . . 463 
 
 INDEX OF author's NAMES, ETC. . . . 509
 
 " Then, warmly walled li'ith books, 
 While my ivood-fire supplies the siai's defect, 
 Whispering old forest-sagas in its dreams, 
 I take tny May down from the happy shelf 
 Where perch the world'' s rare so7ig-birds in a row 
 Waiting my choice to open with full breast. 
 And beg an alms of spring-time, ne'er denied 
 Ittdoors by vernal Chancer, whose fresh woods 
 Th7-ob thick with merle and mavis all the year." 
 
 LOWELL.
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 In writing an introduction to passages from the 
 works of acknowledged masters, there is ahvays 
 danger of seeming to hold a candle to the sun. 
 And when those masters treat of a theme so 
 fresh as that of Nature's Choristers — a theme that 
 touches our heart rather than our mind, and the 
 very essence of whose charm is the subtlety thereof 
 — one is confronted with the additional difficulty 
 of speaking of that theme without appearing so 
 impertinent as to speak for it and its fit exponents. 
 The amateur who proposes to manipulate the work 
 of the men who have made English literature 
 supreme had need walk humbly and circumspectly, 
 lest he seem to confound his office of priest with 
 that of patron. The poets may be trusted to speak 
 for themselves and their subject more effectively 
 than he could hope to do. A sculptor might as 
 well hope to express in bronze or granite the in- 
 definable essence of music, as an uninspired writer 
 of prose to construe in words the ecstatic song of 
 birds, or imbue his periods with that sublimate of 
 sunlight and ether which even the great masters 
 of poetry have sometimes failed to catch in the
 
 X INTRODUCTION 
 
 gossamer web of their verse. Singers alone can 
 hymn the songsters ; for to them alone do the 
 gods give, and their fellow-men permit, to speak 
 in transport like the larks and nightingales. The 
 writer of prose must be judicial and restrained. 
 He may not shake his thoughts out rhythmically 
 and extravagantly like the thrush. How, then, 
 could he give an impression of the wild gurghng 
 melody at dawn or moonrise, the fluttering song in 
 cloudland, that sets his heartstrings quivering to 
 its tune, or the sweet merry whisperings that come 
 to him with scent of fir and hyacinth in the sunny 
 noon of spring ? 
 
 It is this that makes the song-birds so peculiarly 
 the theme of poets : and surely it is true that the 
 rapture of the birds' own song has lent a richer 
 inspiration to the bards when they sang of birds. 
 It is striking to note how frequently the idea of 
 birds and their singing occurs in the freshest and 
 most delightful passages in the literatures of all 
 countries from the earliest periods ; and we know 
 that in the time of Aristophanes birds were the 
 fashion. The bird seems naturally to take its 
 place as the symbol of joy. When a poet writes 
 of happiness, he thinks of birds. When he writes 
 of birds, a crowd of sunny memories rushes to his 
 heart ; everything morbid and unwholesome flees 
 away ; and he sings of happiness. Sometimes it 
 is the joy of hope : sometimes the bliss of a sunny 
 present : sometimes it is the happiness of days
 
 INTRODUCTION XI 
 
 that are gone; but always it is a tender, earnest 
 feeling, partaking of the simplicity and gentle re- 
 signation of childhood. And though we may make 
 a shift to extract consolation from the conscious- 
 ness of wisdom that grows with years, no depth of 
 knowledge can bring such peace to us, or lay so 
 soothing a hand upon the fevered brow of sorrow, 
 as does a breath from the lost Eden of green in- 
 nocence. Those know this best whose reason does 
 most firmly disown the very simplicity they regard 
 so wistfully ; as he who has drunk most deeply of 
 life's fiery vintage finds keenest pleasure in regard- 
 ing and in dreaming of the innocence he misses in 
 himself. So also we often find the most confirmed 
 cynic toying with mere sentimentalism, and the 
 veriest roue delighting in the simpers of the in- 
 genue. When we are young, we long to feel the 
 stress and tug of life ; and we turn away from the 
 quiet valley of simplicity, instinct telfing us that 
 there we can learn little that is new. But in a 
 few years, when we have had enough of the fight 
 we sought so restlessly, our hearts hark back and 
 we would almost give our dearly-purchased know- 
 ledge in exchange, if we might lie down once again 
 in the sunny sleepy hollow and bask inanely. 
 
 " Did any bird come flying 
 After Adam and Eve, 
 When the door was shut against them 
 And they sat down to grieve ? " 
 
 There the birds were singing always ; and that is
 
 Xll INTRODUCTION 
 
 why we love to hear them sing again, and to be 
 put in mind of the feehngs that their singing stirred 
 in us. 
 
 And yet it is not the gift of song alone that sets 
 birds apart from the rest of nature, and invests 
 them with an attribute of the semi-supernatural. 
 We also have song ; and we can make even dead 
 things of string or wood or metal throb with a 
 melody wider and no less passionate than the 
 Nightingale's. More, we can chime two notes 
 together, waking such a twinge of sensuous plea- 
 sure as no feathered minstrelsy could compass. 
 But we cannot fly. 
 
 There is, in all the so-called "brute creation,'' 
 no other faculty so purely enviable as this of flight 
 — so palpably an advantage over the conditions 
 of self-complacent but grovelling humanity. A 
 dolphin may be envied for a moment when the 
 days are warm ; but after all, we too ca!n perform 
 certain lumbering operations that may pass for 
 swimming. Our method of landward progress, 
 however — compassing our journey step by step, 
 about two feet at a time — is only a degree better 
 than that of the inglorious loup-worm that spans 
 its tour by inches. The highest velocity of our 
 swiftest runner is to the Swallow's flight what a 
 slug's pace is to ours. Our speediest vessels are 
 mere circling points for birds that range about 
 them : and the Hawks make a stalking-horse and 
 laughing-stock of the " Flying Scotsman," as they
 
 INTRODUCTION Xlll 
 
 keep pace with it, and pounce upon the Unnets 
 that its thunders shake from the hedge-rows. 
 Our very eye is taxed to follow the darting of the 
 Swallow ; and our heart leaps up as we think what 
 delight it would be to skim the air as these little 
 brown things do. Surely wings are another 
 natural attribute of joy. What wonder that we 
 find ourselves, in spite of science, thinking of 
 these feathered meteors as a race entirely apart 
 from moles and weazels, or from geese and turkeys, 
 for the matter of that ? To recognise singing- 
 birds and barn-door hens as of one and the same 
 tribe, requires deliberate reflection ; and the desire 
 for some distinction between the two classes has 
 resulted in the restricted sense of the word " fowl " 
 as used in modern colloquial language.^ Neither 
 is it in human nature to praise its victims or to 
 think feelingly of such game-birds as it has destined 
 for the battue and the pot ; and while the famili- 
 arity begotten of the table has gone far to rob even 
 game-birds — wild though they are — of poetry, it 
 is not hard to recognise that one reason for the 
 peculiar position held in our fancy by birds, as 
 distinct from other animals, is that they alone 
 accompany man into the cities and sing there, re- 
 minding him of lanes and woodlands in the quiet 
 
 1 Tourguf^neff in his- Genfilhomme de la Steppe makes allu- 
 sion to a Russian proverb which says : " La femme n'est pas un 
 homme ; la poule n'est pas un oiseau ; un sous-lieutenant n'est 
 pas un officier."
 
 xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 country-places. It is not extraordinary tliat our 
 minds associate them with everything that is glad 
 and wholesome, and that the poets of all times 
 have been at their best when speaking of the 
 " smalle foule's." 
 
 Of course, there have been periods when the 
 feeling for nature and for birds became tinged 
 with artificiality and cloyed with moral ascription : 
 when serious Popinjays and what not — robbed of 
 the humour Chaucer always gave them — thought, 
 spoke, and acted like sententious prigs, and the 
 meekness of the Dove was corrupted into human 
 insipidity. But even at these times the birds, 
 on the whole, fared better than the beasts and 
 flowers. The gaiety that seems the soul of these 
 feathered gentry, was a touchstone with which 
 morbidity and cant could bear no contact. To 
 attribute sordid human passions to the lightsome 
 things that flitted and warbled in the sunlight 
 was too palpably absurd ; and even the ecstatic 
 melancholy of the Nightingale is interpreted rather 
 as the vague emotion of a half angelic dreamer 
 than as the concrete passion of a fleshly thing. 
 Indeed a reader can easily perceive that, in all 
 the most sincere poems about birds, the charm of 
 the subject, for the writer as well as for himself, 
 consists in the exclusion of everything sordid. 
 Their loves are pretty and sanctified by song ; 
 their rage is a thing to laugh at ; greed is in them 
 restrained by instinct more effectually than in
 
 INTRODUCTION XV 
 
 Other kinds ; and even their depredations are 
 not so terrible as to make it worth the while 
 of the human race at large to bear them a 
 grudge. 
 
 It would be difficult to say how much of the 
 affection we give to the birds arises in the con- 
 sciousness of their weakness, their inability to 
 harm, and even their positive dependence upon 
 our charity at times. Their very smallness makes 
 a claim upon our kindly regard ; and the endear- 
 ing terms so often employed in address to Lark 
 and Tomtit, would be ridiculous if lavished upon 
 an Emu or a Roc. It may be creditable or dis- 
 creditable to human nature, but it is certainly con- 
 sistent with it, that we should feel kindly toward 
 such beings as are weak, both for their own 
 protection and for our offence. In proportion as 
 the idea of strength and awe colours our con- 
 ception of a creature, the more tender feelings of 
 affection and benevolence withdraw themselves, 
 and the terms of our regard become more prosaic. 
 Towards an object of reverence we feel — though 
 to the misanthrope the statement may seem para- 
 doxical — more as we feel towards a fellow man. 
 One is more apt to impute to it the impulses and 
 emotions of humanity. 
 
 Herein has the Eagle suffered much at the 
 hands of the poets. To see the rising sun flashed 
 back, a pulsing star, from the burnished quills of 
 an Eagle circling almost out of sight, is to feel
 
 XVI INTRODUCTION 
 
 dwarfed, more than if we had spoken with Shake- 
 speare or Napoleon. But most of all has the 
 Eagle suffered at the hands of cockney poets to 
 whom he was not the splendid joyous creature that 
 he seems to those who have seen him thus, but a 
 mere brooding embodiment of the stupendous ; a 
 stock-property of the epic-writer, cradled in clouds, 
 rocked by earthquakes, and commonly associated 
 with the bolts of Jove. This apotheosis of the 
 Eagle is entirely at variance with the spirit that 
 makes the charm of bird poems in general. If it 
 had been the fate of all birds to be misconstrued 
 in like manner, one would scarcely have troubled 
 to collect the passages relating to them : and 
 there has been difficulty in deciding what measure 
 of representation the unnatural-heroic convention 
 was to have in this volume. Obviously there 
 had needs be some example of it, if only that its 
 artificiality might give their true value to the fresher 
 conceptions. And, of course, it is undeniable that 
 much splendid writing has been lavished upon the 
 fictitious bird of war. 
 
 When the work was first undertaken, it was 
 desired to include examples from the writings of 
 foreign poets, many of whom are rich in beautiful 
 reference to birds. But this was soon found to be 
 utterly impracticable. 
 
 The matter now incorporated in the following 
 pages does not represent anything like a half of 
 the passages tentatively transcribed from English
 
 INTRODUCTION XVU 
 
 writers ; and during that preliminary process of 
 selection quite as much again was primarily set 
 aside. 
 
 Many of the pieces necessarily excluded from 
 a volume of such limited dimensions are full of 
 interest of one kind or another, and are proscribed 
 simply by the limitation of space. The judging of 
 a single piece has often occasioned as much trouble 
 as would have sufficed to unearth half-a-dozen 
 fresh ones ; and it has been most difficult to decide 
 in some instances whether quaintness were an 
 adequate substitute for the charm that was some- 
 times sacrificed to eccentricity. Such, for instance, 
 were most of the pieces in which an attempt was 
 made to imitate in words the actual sounds formed 
 by the songsters. Even in music such realism is 
 inartistic, and the Waldivehen in Siegfried is seri- 
 ously marred by a deliberate mimicry of the 
 warblers which is worthy only of a toy symphony. 
 Specimens of metrical onomatopoea might by them- 
 selves be very interesting ; but not only is the 
 endeavour to reproduce such natural sounds — and 
 in so stiff a vehicle as specific language — both 
 barbarous and childish ; but even where it is rela- 
 tively successful, the result is more curious than 
 pleasing. Some typical examples have, however, 
 been retained. 
 
 Then came the question whether pieces that 
 would be new to most readers were to give place 
 to such familiar works as *' The Jackdaw of 
 
 b
 
 XVlll INTRODUCTION 
 
 Rheims " and "The Raven," some of which are 
 of considerable length. But those works are un- 
 deniably representative ; and it was felt that, though 
 the volume does not profess to be exhaustive, it 
 would be positively incomplete without such well- 
 known examples. Moreover, if the popularity of 
 any piece were admitted as a ground for its exclu- 
 sion, there would remain the difficulty of deter- 
 mining what degree of culture was to furnish the 
 criterion of familiarity. That which is novel to 
 one mind is to another as familiar as " Who killed 
 Cock Robin ? " 
 
 After all, the purpose of the book has been to 
 bring together in companionable form the most 
 attractive passages in which the English poets 
 treat of birds. Since the final arrangement of this 
 volume was begun, there appeared a book that 
 treats of the bird passages of a particular poet 
 and appraises them in accordance with their scien- 
 tific truth. But a poet is an idealist and not a 
 naturalist. In the following pages he is not ex- 
 pected to lecture but to sing ; and the collection 
 is designed to show the position of the bird, not 
 in nature but in poetic fancy and poetic litera- 
 ture. Its unique position in that fancy and that 
 literature is due not only to the wholesome 
 character of its natural associations, but still 
 more to their amenability to idealisation. They 
 owe much to their surroundings. As Emerson 
 says —
 
 INTRODUCTION XIX 
 
 " I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,' 
 .Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; 
 I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; 
 He sings the song, but it cheers not now, 
 For I did not bring home the river and sky." 
 
 So an endeavour has been made to bring the 
 " river and sky " into the book along with the 
 birds ; and the text quoted from Lowell expresses 
 what is really aimed at — to bring into the silent 
 snuggery an echo of the minstrelsy of spring, and 
 to make it possible at any season to find between 
 two boards the freshness of the summer greenwood 
 perpetually exhaled by these flowers of verse. 
 
 This being the object sought, the system of 
 arrangement has been adapted thereto. One of 
 the characteristic defects of anthologies is that 
 of the extracts being ordered chronologically, or 
 classified in accordance with a scheme scientific 
 rather than esthetic. The various passages, wrested 
 from their proper context, are greatly injured 
 through juxtaposition with others of an entirely 
 different mood. The imagination of the reader 
 becomes exhausted and demoralised if he tries to 
 lend it to the varying spirit of successive and dis- 
 similar effusions. No time is given him to suit his 
 temper fully to the motive of a piece ; and if he 
 
 1 " The (American) song-sparrow, ..." says Mr. Burroughs, 
 " displays a more marked individuality in its song than any 
 bird with which I am acquainted." " It modulates its simple 
 ditty as softly as the lining of its own nest." — Dh'ds and Poets, 
 by John Borroughs. See pp. 1 18-19.
 
 XX INTRODUCTION 
 
 desire to suit his reading to his mood he must go 
 poking about from one point to another, tasting 
 here and there disconsolate until he gratifies his 
 whim with intermittent sips. The passages have 
 therefore been arranged in accordance with the 
 successive phases of nature : so that parallel pas- 
 sages from various writers are collated for com- 
 parison and for congruity ; each piece is restored to 
 a sympathetic environment, leading naturally from 
 theme to theme ; and the reader is not required to 
 leap from one mood to another. The index will 
 enable him to refer to such extracts from any par- 
 ticular author as are distributed throughout the 
 volume. 
 
 The Editor has been at great pains to avoid the 
 possibility of any infringement of the rights of 
 authors or publishers ; and now feels tolerably cer- 
 tain that no copyright poem is included in the 
 collection without due consent. 
 
 He wishes to thank very cordially those authors, 
 publishers, and other holders of copyright who 
 have most kindly given him free permission to 
 reprint certain pieces. His thanks are tendered 
 also to Mrs. Blackburn, and to other friends who 
 have helped him in various ways. 
 
 F. N. P.
 
 L 
 
 GENERAL
 
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 From "PARADISE LOST" 
 
 And God said, Let the waters generate 
 Reptile with spawn abundant, Uving soul : 
 And let fowl fly above the earth, with wings 
 Display'd on the open firmament of heaven. 
 And God created the great whales, and each 
 Soul living, each that crept, which plenteously 
 The waters generated by their kinds ; 
 And every bird of wing after his kind ; 
 And saw that it was good, and bless'd them, saying, 
 Be fruitful, multiply, and in the seas. 
 And lakes, and running streams, the waters fill ; 
 And let the fowl be multiplied on the earth. 
 
 Meanwhile the tepid caves, and fens, and shores. 
 Their brood as numerous hatch'd from the egg 
 
 that, soon 
 Bursting with kindly rapture, forth disclosed 
 Their callow young ; but feather'd soon and fledge 
 They summ'd their pens : and soaring the air 
 
 sublime, 
 With clang despised the ground, under a cloud 
 In prospect : there the eagle and the stork
 
 4 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 On cliffs and cedar-tops their eyries build : 
 Part loosely wing the region ; part more wise, 
 In common, ranged in figure wedge their way, 
 Intelligent of seasons, and set forth 
 Their aery caravan, high over seas 
 Flying, and over lands, with mutual wing 
 Easing their flight • so steers the prudent crane 
 Her annual voyage, borne on winds ; the air 
 Floats as they pass, fann'd with unnumber'd 
 
 plumes. 
 From branch to branch the smaller birds with 
 
 songs 
 Solaced the woods, and spread their painted wings 
 Till even ; nor then the solemn nightingale 
 Ceased warbling, but all night tuned her soft lays : 
 Others, on silver lakes and rivers, bathed 
 Their downy breast ; the swan, with arched neck 
 Between her white wings mantling proudly, rows 
 Her state with oary feet ; yet oft they quit 
 The dank, and, rising on stiff pennons, tower 
 The mid aereal sky : others on ground 
 Walk'd firm; the crested cock whose clarion sounds 
 The silent hours, and the other whose gay train 
 Adorns him, colour'd with the florid hue 
 Of rainbows and starry eyes. The waters thus 
 With fish replenish'd, and the air with fowl, 
 Evening and morn solemnized the fifth day. 
 
 MILTON.
 
 WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID 
 
 WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID 
 
 VoGELWEiD the Minnesinger, 
 When he left this world of ours, 
 
 Laid his body in the cloister, 
 
 Under Wiirtzburg's minster towers. 
 
 .And he gave the monks his treasures, 
 Gave them all with this behest : 
 
 They should feed the birds at noontide 
 Daily on his place of rest ; 
 
 Saying, " From these wandering minstrels 
 I have learned the art of song ; 
 
 Let me now repay the lessons 
 
 They have taught so well and long." 
 
 Thus the bard of love departed ; 
 
 And, fulfilling his desire, 
 On his tomb the birds were feasted 
 
 By the children of the choir.
 
 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Day by day, o'er tower and turret, 
 
 In foul weather and in fair, 
 Day by day, in vaster numbers, 
 
 Flocked the poets of the air. 
 
 On the tree whose heavy branches 
 
 Overshadowed all the place. 
 On the pavement, on the tombstone, 
 
 On the poet's sculptured face, 
 
 On the cross-bars of each window. 
 
 On the lintel of each door. 
 They renewed the War of Wartburg, 
 
 Which the bard had fought before. 
 
 There they sang their merry carols. 
 Sang their lauds on every side ; 
 
 And the name their voices uttered 
 Was the name of V^ogelweid. 
 
 Till at length the portly abbot 
 
 Murmured, "Why this waste of food? 
 Be it changed to loaves henceforward 
 
 For our fasting brotherhood." 
 
 Then in vain o'er tower and turret, 
 From the walls and woodland nests, 
 
 When the minster bell rang noontide, 
 Gathered the unwelcome guests.
 
 THE BRIGS OF AYR 
 
 Then in vain, with cries discordant, 
 Clamorous round the Gothic spire. 
 
 Screamed the feathered Minnesingers 
 For the children of the choir. 
 
 Time has long effaced the inscriptions 
 On the cloister's funeral stones, 
 
 And tradition only tells us 
 
 Where repose the poet's bones. 
 
 But around the vast cathedral, 
 
 By sweet echoes multiplied, 
 Still the birds repeat the legend. 
 
 And the name of Vogelweid. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 From "THE BRIGS OF AYR" 
 
 The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough. 
 Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough ; 
 The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. 
 Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn 
 
 bush; 
 The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill. 
 Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er the 
 
 hill ;
 
 8 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
 
 To hardy independence bravely bred, 
 
 By early poverty to hardship steel'd, 
 
 And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field — 
 
 Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
 
 The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ! 
 
 Or labour hard the panegyric close. 
 
 With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ! 
 
 No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 
 
 And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings. 
 
 He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
 
 Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward ' 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 From 
 "LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP" 
 
 I WAS only a poor poet, made for singing at her 
 
 casement, 
 As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought 
 
 of other things. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
 
 THE POET AND THE BIRD 
 
 THE POET AND THE BIRD 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 Said a people to a poet — " Go out from among us 
 straightway ! 
 While we are thinking earthly things thou singest 
 of divine. 
 There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting 
 in the gateway, 
 Makes fitter music to our ear than any song of 
 thine ! " 
 
 The poet went out weeping — the nightingale ceased 
 chanting ; 
 " Now wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy 
 sweetness done ? " 
 " I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly 
 poet wanting, 
 Whose highest harmony includes the lowest 
 under sun."
 
 lO BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 The poet went out weeping, — and died abroad, 
 bereft there — 
 The bird flew to his grave and died, amid a 
 thousand wails ! — 
 Yet, when I last came by the place. I swear the 
 music left there 
 Was only of the poet's song, and not the night- 
 ingale's ! 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 From "TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN" 
 
 THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 
 
 "Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 
 
 From his republic banished without pity 
 
 The Poets ; in this little town of yours. 
 
 You put to death, by means of a Committee, 
 
 The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, 
 The street-musicians of the heavenly city, 
 
 The birds, who make sweet music for us all 
 
 In our dark hours, as David did for Saul.
 
 TALES OF A WAYSIDE IKN II 
 
 " The thrush that carols at the dawn of day 
 From the green steeples of the piny wood ; 
 
 The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, 
 Jargoning like a foreigner at his food. 
 
 The blue-bird balanced on some topmost spray, 
 Flooding with melody the neighbourhood ; 
 
 Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng 
 
 That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. 
 
 " You slay them all I and wherefore ? for the gain 
 Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, 
 
 Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, 
 
 Scratched up at random by industrious feet, 
 
 Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! 
 Or a few cherries that are not so sweet 
 
 As the songs these uninvited guests 
 
 Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 
 
 " Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? 
 
 Do you ne'er think who made them, and who 
 taught 
 The dialect they speak, where melodies 
 
 Alone are the interpreters of thought ? 
 Whose household words are songs in many keys, 
 
 Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! 
 Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
 Are half-way houses on the road to heaven !
 
 12 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 " Think, every morning when the sun peeps through 
 The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, 
 
 How jubilant the happy birds renew 
 Their old melodious madrigals of love ! 
 
 And when you think of this, remember too 
 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above 
 
 The awakening continents, from shore to shore, 
 
 Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 
 
 "Think of your woods and orchards without 
 l)irds ! 
 
 Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams 
 As in an idiot's brain remembered words 
 
 Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dream ! 
 Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 
 
 Make up for the lost music, when your teams 
 Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 
 The feathered gleaners follow to your door ? 
 
 " What ! would you rather see the incessant stir 
 Of insects in the windrows of the hay, 
 
 And hear the locust and the grasshopper 
 Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? 
 
 Is this more pleasant to you than the whirr 
 Of meadow-lark, and its sweet roundelay, 
 
 Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take 
 
 Your noonino- in the shade of bush and brake ?
 
 TALES OF A M^ A Y S 1 D E INN I 3 
 
 " You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know 
 They are the winged wardens of your farms, 
 
 Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, 
 And from your harvests keep a hundred harms ; 
 
 Even the blackest of them all, the crow, 
 Renders good service as your man-at-arms, 
 
 Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 
 
 And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 
 
 " How can I teach your children gentleness. 
 And mercy to the weak, and reverence 
 
 For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, 
 Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence. 
 
 Or Death, which seeming darkness, is no less 
 The selfsame light, although averted hence, 
 
 When by your laws, your actions, and your speech. 
 
 You contradict the very things I teach ? " 
 
 LONGFELLOW.
 
 14 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "SPEECH OF HERALD" 
 
 . . . But of late 
 Birds are the fashion — Birds are all in all — 
 Their ^ modes of life are grown to be mere copies 
 Of the birds' habits ; rising with the Lark ; 
 Scratching and scrabbling suits and informations ; 
 Picking and pecking upon points of law ; 
 Brooding and hatching evidence ; — in short, 
 It has grown to such a pitch, that names of Birds 
 Are given to individuals ; Cha^rophon 
 Is call'd an Owl, Theagenes a Goose, 
 Philocles a Cock Sparrow, Midias 
 A Dunghill Cock. — And all the songs in vogue 
 Have something about Birds, Swallows, or Doves ; 
 Or about flying, or a wish for wings. 
 
 Such is the state of things, and I must warn you. 
 That you may expect to see some thousands of 
 
 them 
 Arriving here, almost immediately, 
 With a clamorous demand for wings and claws : 
 I advise you to provide yourself in time. 
 
 ARISTOPHANES, 
 Translated by JOHN HOOKHAM Frere. 
 
 1 People of earth.
 
 SONG BY CHORUS I5 
 
 SONG BY CHORUS 
 
 Blest are they, 
 
 The Birds alway, 
 
 With perfect clothing, 
 
 Fearing nothing. 
 Cold or sleet or summer heat. 
 
 As it chances, 
 
 As he fancies, 
 Each his own vagary follows, 
 Dwelling in the dells and hollows ; 
 When, with eager weary strain, 
 The shrilly grasshoppers complain, 
 Parch'd upon the sultry plain, 
 Madden'd with the raging heat ; 
 We secure a cool retreat. 
 In the shady nooks and coves. 
 Recesses of the sacred groves. 
 Many an herb, and many a berry 
 Serves to feast, and make us merry. 
 
 ARISTOPHANES, 
 Translated by John Hookham Freke,
 
 l6 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE FOOT-PATH" 
 
 Thk bird I list hath never come 
 Within the scope of mortal ear ; 
 
 My prying step would make him dumb, 
 And the fair tree, his shelter, sear. 
 
 Behind the hill, behind the sky. 
 
 Behind my inmost thought, he sings ; 
 
 No feet avail ; to hear it nigh, 
 
 The song itself must lend the wings. 
 
 Sing on, sweet bird, close hid, and raise 
 Those angel stairways in my brain, 
 
 That climb from these low-vaulted days 
 To spacious sunshines far from pain. 
 
 Sing when thou wilt, enchantment fleet, 
 I leave thy covert haunt untrod, 
 
 And envy Science not her feat 
 To make a twice-told tale of God. 
 
 LOWELL.
 
 THE FALCON 17 
 
 THE FALCON 
 
 I KNOW a falcon swift and peerless 
 As e'er was cradled in the pine : 
 
 No bird had ever eye so fearless, 
 Or wing so strong as this of mine. 
 
 The winds not better love to pilot 
 A cloud with molten gold o'errun, 
 
 Than him, a little burning islet, 
 A star above the coming sun. 
 
 For with a lark's heart he doth tower, 
 By a glorious upward instinct drawn ; 
 
 No bee nestles deeper in the flower 
 Than he in the bursting rose of dawn. 
 
 No harmless dove, no bird that singeth. 
 
 Shudders to see him overhead ; 
 
 The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth 
 
 To innocent hearts no thrill of dread. 
 
 B
 
 l8 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Let fraud and wrong and baseness shiver, 
 For still between them and the sky 
 
 The falcon Truth hangs poised for ever 
 And marks them with his vengeful eye. 
 
 LOWELL, 
 
 From "A DRAMA OF EXILE" 
 
 Bird- Spirit. 
 
 I AM the nearest nightingale 
 
 That singeth in Eden after you ; 
 
 And I am singing loud and true, 
 
 And sweet, — I do not fail ! 
 
 I sit upon a cypress-bough, 
 
 Close to the gate ; and I fling my song 
 
 Over the gate and through the mail 
 
 Of the warden angels marshalled strong, — 
 
 Over the gate and after you ! 
 And the warden angels let it pass, 
 Because the poor brown bird, alas ! 
 
 Sings in the garden, sweet and true. 
 And I build my song of high pure notes, 
 
 Note over note, height over height, 
 
 Till I strike the arch of the Infinite ;
 
 BIRD OR BEAST 19 
 
 And I bridge abysmal agonies 
 With strong, clear calms of harmonies, — 
 And something abides, and something floats, 
 In the song which I sing after you : 
 
 Fare ye well, farewell ! 
 The creature-sounds, no longer audible, 
 
 Expire at Eden's door ! 
 
 Each footstep of your treading 
 Treads out some cadence which ye heard before : 
 
 Farewell ! the birds of Eden, 
 
 Ye shall hear nevermore. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 From "BIRD OR BEAST?" 
 
 Did any bird come flying 
 
 After Adam and Eve, 
 When the door was shut against them, 
 
 And they sat down to grieve ? 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
 
 20 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "AURORA LEIGH" 
 
 But then the thrushes sang, 
 And shook my pulses and the elms' new leaves, - 
 And then I turned, and held my finger up. 
 And bade him mark that, howsoe'er the world 
 Went ill, as he related, certainly 
 The thrushes still sang in it. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 From "THE MONK AND THE BIRD" 
 
 He, walking in a trance of selfish care. 
 
 Not once observed the beauty shed around. 
 The blue above, the music in the air, 
 The flowers upon the ground. 
 
 Till from the centre of that forest dim 
 
 Came to him such sweet singing of a bird, 
 As, sweet in very truth, then seemed to him 
 The sweetest ever heard.
 
 THE MONK AND THE BIRD 21 
 
 That lodestar drew him onward inward still, 
 
 Deeper than where the village children stray, 
 Deeper than where the woodman's glittering bill 
 Lops the large boughs away — 
 
 Into a central place of glimmering shade, 
 
 Where hardly might the straggling sunbeams pass. 
 Which a faint lattice-work of light had made 
 Upon the long lank grass. 
 
 He did not sit, but stood and listened there. 
 
 And to him listening the time seemed not long, 
 While that sweet bird above him filled the air 
 With its melodious song. 
 
 He heard not, saw not, felt not aught beside, 
 
 Through the wide worlds of pleasure and of pain, 
 Save the full flowing and the ample tide 
 Of the celestial strain. 
 
 As though a bird of Paradise should light 
 A moment on a twig of this bleak earth. 
 And singing songs of Paradise invite 
 All hearts to holy mirth. 
 
 And then take wing to Paradise again, 
 
 Leaving all listening spirits raised above 
 The toil of earth, the trouble, and the pain. 
 And melted all in love :
 
 22 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Such hidden might, such power was in the sound ; 
 
 But when it ceased sweet music to unlock, 
 The spell that held him sense and spirit-bound 
 Dissolved with a slis;ht shock. 
 
 All things around were as they were before — 
 The trees, and the blue sky, and sunshine 
 bright 
 Painting the pale and leaf-strewn forest-floor 
 With patches of faint light. 
 
 But as when music doth no longer thrill. 
 
 Light shudderings yet along the chords will run, 
 Or the heart vibrates tremulously still. 
 Although its prayer be done. 
 
 So his heart fluttered all the way he went, 
 
 Listening each moment for the vesper bell ; 
 For a long hour he deemed he must have spent 
 Li that untrodden dell 
 
 And once it seemed that something new or strange 
 Had passed upon the flowers, the trees, the 
 ground ; 
 Some slight but unintelligible change 
 On everything around :
 
 THE LOST BOWER 23 
 
 Such change, where all things undisturbed remain, 
 
 As only to the eye of him appears, 
 Who absent long, at length returns again — 
 The silent work of years. . . . 
 
 RICHARD CHEVENIX TRENCH. 
 
 From "THE LOST BOWER" 
 
 xxxvni. 
 
 Never lark the sun can waken 
 
 With such sweetness ! when the lark, 
 The high planets overtaking 
 In the half-evanished Dark, 
 Casts his singing to their singing, like an arrow to 
 the mark. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Never nightingale so singeth — 
 
 Oh ! she leans on thorny tree. 
 And her poet-soul she flingeth 
 Over pain to victory ! 
 Yet she never sings such music, — or she sings it 
 not to me !
 
 24 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 XL. 
 
 Never blackbirds, never thrushes, 
 Nor small finches sing as sweet. 
 When the sun strikes through the bushes, • 
 To their crimson clinging feet. 
 And their pretty eyes look sideways to the summei 
 heavens complete. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 If it were a bird, it seemed 
 
 Most like Chaucer's, which, in sooth, 
 He of green and azure dreamed, 
 While it sate in spirit-ruth 
 On that bier of a crowned lady, singing nigh her 
 silent mouth. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 From "PROMETHEIA" 
 
 "Those larks and nightingales that yonder hide," 
 
 The Goddess answer'd as on Earth she gazed, 
 
 " Inaudible and invisible to all ! 
 
 Darkling they haunt the shadows round them furl'd, 
 
 Silent amidst the universal brawl 
 
 And babble of the emancipated world.
 
 ASOLANDO 25 
 
 Yet heaven is husht to hear their minstrelsy : 
 For these the moon and stars are not too sweet, 
 For those the sun himself is not too high : 
 And shall they have no listeners? Hearts that 
 
 beat 
 With base emotions find ignoble voice, 
 Wrath, and Unreason, and Vulgarity 
 Speak loud. Stupidity and Spite rejoice 
 In utterance unrestricted. Say, then, why 
 (Where Folly's fife with Envy's clarion vies) 
 Must these alone, the darlings of the Spring, 
 Whose souls are fill'd with lyric ecstacies. 
 Unheard, or even if heard unheeded, sing ? " 
 
 ROBERT, EARL OF LVTTON. 
 
 From "ASOLANDO" 
 
 FLUTE-MUSIC. 
 
 Ah, the bird-like fluting 
 
 Through the ash-tops yonder — 
 Bullfinch-bubblings, soft sounds suiting 
 
 What sweet thoughts, I wonder? 
 Fine-pearled notes that surely 
 
 Gather, dewdrop-fashion. 
 Deep-down in some heart which purely 
 
 Secretes globuled passion —
 
 26 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Passion insuppressive — 
 Such is piped, for certain ; 
 
 Love, no doubt, nay, love excessive 
 'T is, your ash-tops curtain. 
 
 No ! as you explain things. 
 
 All's mere repetition. 
 Practice-pother : of all vain things 
 
 Why waste pooh or pish on 
 Toilsome effort — never 
 
 Ending, still beginning — 
 After what should pay endeavour 
 
 — Right performance ? winning 
 Weariness from you who, 
 
 Ready to admire some 
 Owl's fresh hooting — Tu-whit, tu-who — 
 
 Find stale thrush-songs tiresome. 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "ODE TO RAE WILSON, Esquire" 
 
 Thrice blessed, rather, is the man with whom 
 The gracious prodigality of nature. 
 
 The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom, 
 The bounteous providence in ev'ry feature. 
 Recall the good Creator to his creature.
 
 FANCY 27 
 
 Making all earth a fane, all heav'n its dome ! 
 To /lis tuned spirit the wild heather-bells 
 
 Ring Sabbath knells ; 
 The jubilate of the soaring lark 
 
 Is chaunt of clerk ; 
 For Choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet ; 
 
 The sod's a cushion for his pious want ; 
 iVnd, consecrated by the heaven within it, 
 
 The sky-blue pool a font. 
 Each cloud-capped mountain is a holy altar ; 
 
 An organ breathes in every grove ; 
 And the full heart's a Psalter, 
 
 Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love ! 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 From "FANCY" 
 
 . . . Thou shalt hear 
 Distant harvest-carols clear ; 
 Rustle of the reaped corn ; 
 Sweet birds antheming the morn : 
 And, in the same moment — hark 
 'Tis the early April lark, 
 Or the rooks, with busy caw, 
 Foraging for sticks and straw.
 
 2 8 BARDS AND THEBIRDS 
 
 Freckled nest eggs thou shalt see 
 Hatching in the hawthorn- tree, 
 ^Vhen the hen -bird's wing doth rest 
 Quiet on her mossy nest. 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 From "THE RED FISHERMAN" 
 
 Sounds seemed dropping from the skies, 
 Stifled whispers, smothered sighs, 
 And the breath of vernal gales, 
 And the voice of nightingales : 
 But the nightingales w-ere mute, 
 Envious, when an unseen lute 
 Shaped the music of its chords 
 Into passion's thrilling words. 
 
 W. M. PRAED.
 
 THE QUELETZU 29 
 
 THE QUELETZU 
 
 " Now the first bird that sang on earth was the Queletzu." — 
 Mexican Mythology. 
 
 Up in the air, 
 
 Like a spirit in prayer, 
 With the wings of a dove, and the heart of a rose. 
 And a bosom as white as the Zaraby snows. 
 When the hurricane blows ! 
 
 In the hght of the day, 
 
 Like a soul on its way 
 To the gardens of God, it was loosed from the 
 
 earth ; 
 And the song that it sang was a psean of mirth 
 For the raptures of birth. 
 
 The song that it sang 
 Like an echo out-rang 
 From the cloud to the copse, and the copse to the 
 
 cloud ; 
 And the hills and the valleys responded aloud, — 
 And the rivers were proud.
 
 30 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 If you think of the rush 
 Of the wind, and the flush 
 Of a morning in May when the sun is in view, 
 You will know what is meant by the flight from 
 
 the dew 
 Of the first Quele'tzu. 
 
 If you think of these things 
 You will dote on the wings 
 
 Of the wonderful bird in its upward career ; 
 
 And the legends thereof will be sweeter to hear 
 
 Than the song of a seer. 
 
 You will know what is meant 
 By the pinioned ascent 
 Of an angel of grace when its mission is done, 
 And the knowledge of this will be second to 
 
 none 
 Which the ages have spun. 
 
 For the lark in its nest 
 
 Is a minstrel at best, 
 And the music it makes is the mirth of a kiss 
 That is flung to the skies in a frenzy of bliss 
 On the Morning's abyss.
 
 THE QUELETZU 3I 
 
 And the nightingale's note 
 
 Is a sob from its throat, 
 And the gurgle thereof is a rapture of pain ; 
 For the roses are sad, — and the lilies complain, — 
 When the silence is slain. 
 
 All the larks in the world 
 With their feathers unfurled, 
 And the nightingales, too, in their tender despair, — 
 All the birds that we know have a sorrow to share 
 With the natives of air. 
 
 But the first Queletzu, 
 
 When it sprang to the blue, 
 Had the heart of a rose, and the wings of a dove ; 
 And the song that it sang to the angels above 
 Was the music of love. 
 
 ERIC MACKAY, 
 From " The Athenauvi." December 3, 1892.
 
 II. 
 
 DAWN
 
 SPRING 
 
 Soft-littered is the new-year's lambing fold, 
 And in the hollowed haystack at its side 
 The shepherd lies o' nights riow, wakeful-eyed 
 
 At the ewes' travailing call through the dark cold. 
 
 The young rooks cheep 'mid the thick caw o' the 
 old: 
 And near unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground, 
 By her spring-cry the moorhen's nest is found. 
 
 Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold. 
 
 Chill are the gusts to which the pastures cower, 
 And chill the current where the young reeds 
 
 stand 
 As green and close as the young wheat on land : 
 Yet here the cuckoo and the cuckoo-flower 
 Plight to the heart Spring's perfect imminent hour 
 Whose breath shall soothe you like your dear 
 one's hand. 
 
 D. G. ROSSETTI.
 
 ^6 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Fro?n "THY GARDEN" 
 
 Pure moonlight in thy garden, sweet, to-night, 
 Pure moonUght in thy garden, and the breath 
 
 Of fragrant roses. O my heart's deHght ! 
 
 Wed thou with Love, but I will wed with Death ! 
 
 Peace in thy garden, and the passionate song 
 Of some last nightingale that sings in June ! 
 
 Thy dreams with promises of love are strong. 
 And all thy life is set to one sweet tune. 
 
 Love wandering round thy garden, O my sweet ! 
 
 Love walking through thy garden in the night ; 
 Far off I feel his wings, I hear his feet, 
 
 I see the eyes that set the world alight. 
 
 My sad heart in thy garden strays alone. 
 My heart among all hearts companionless ; 
 
 Between the roses and the lilies thrown, 
 It finds thy garden but a wilderness.
 
 THY GARDEN 37 
 
 Great quiet in thy garden, now the song 
 Of that last nightingale has died away ! 
 
 Here jangling city chimes the silence wrong, 
 But in thy garden perfect rest has sway. 
 
 Dawn in thy garden, with the faintest sound, — 
 Uncertain, tremulous, awaking birds, — - 
 
 Dawn in thy garden, and from meadows round, 
 The sudden lowing of expectant herds. 
 
 Light in thy garden, faint and sweet and pure ; 
 
 Dim noise of birds from every bush and tree ; 
 Rumours of song the stars may not endure ; 
 
 A rain that falls and ceases suddenly. 
 
 Morn in thy garden, — bright and keen and strong ! 
 
 Love calls thee, from thy garden, to awake ; 
 Morn in thy garden, with the articulate song 
 
 Of birds that sing for love and warm light's sake. 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
 
 38 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "MY BEAUTIFUL LADY" 
 
 Small drowsy chirping met the Hght, 
 
 And dim in lowlands far 
 Lone marsh-birds winged their misty flight ; 
 What time Her aspect on my sight 
 
 Beamed from the morning star. 
 
 It waned into the warbling day ; 
 
 That, rising fierce and strong, 
 Now looked the Western gloom away, 
 And kindled such a roundelay, 
 
 The world awoke with song. 
 
 THOMAS WOOLNER, R.A. 
 
 From "THE INDIAN SONG OF SONGS" 
 
 " At the morn a clamour runs from tent to tent, 
 Like the wild geese cackling when the night is 
 spent." 
 
 SIK EDWIN ARNOLD.
 
 POEMS BY A PAINTER 39 
 
 From " SPINDRIFT " 
 
 "... softly, from the pines 
 That crowned with solemn shade the sunward 
 
 crags, 
 A stockdove cooed ; from the thick underwood 
 The small birds 'gan to jargle ; and afar 
 The sea-mews shrilly babbled of the dawn . . ." 
 
 SIR NOitL PATON. 
 
 From "POEMS BY A PAINTER" 
 
 " Still all the narrow vales lay dewy-dark ; 
 And not a bird was stirring, save one lark 
 That high o'erhead, the blinding light up-winging, 
 Woke the clear echoes with enchanted singing : 
 A joyous descant, beautiful and strange. 
 For ever changing — sweeter every change ! " 
 
 SIR NOEL PATON.
 
 40 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "HAMLET" 
 
 ACT I. SCENE I. 
 
 Marcellus. It faded on the crowing of the cock. 
 Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes 
 Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
 This bird of dawning singeth all night long ; 
 And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad : 
 The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, 
 No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm ; 
 So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From "THE NONNES PREESTES TALE" 
 
 A POURE widewe, somdcl stoupen in age. 
 Was whilom dwelling in a narwe cotage, 
 Beside a grove, stonding in a dale. 
 
 A yerd she had, enclosed all about 
 With stickes, and a drie diche without. 
 In which she had a cok highte Chaunteclere, 
 In all the land of crowing n'as his pere.
 
 LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON 4I 
 
 His vois was merier than the mery orgon, 
 On masse daies that in the chirches gon. 
 Wei sikerer was his crowing in his loge, 
 Than is a clok, or any abbey orloge. 
 By nature he knew eche ascentioun 
 Of the equinoctial in thilke toun ; 
 For whan degrees fiftene were ascended, 
 Then crew he, that it might not ben amended. 
 
 His combe was redder than the fin corall, 
 Enbattelled, as it were a castel wall. 
 His bill was black, and as the jet it shone ; 
 Like asure were his legges and his tone ; 
 His nailes whiter than the lily flour, 
 And like the burned gold was his colour. . . ." 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 From 
 
 "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON" 
 
 And meantime the sun, 
 Come from Euboean cliffs, had just begun 
 To light the high tips of the forest grass. 
 And in the thorn the blackbird singing was. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS.
 
 42 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "IMELDA" 
 
 "The morn came singing 
 Through the green forests of the Apennines, 
 With all her joyous birds their free flight winging, 
 And steps and voices out amongst the vines." 
 
 MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 From "THE EPIC OF HADES" 
 
 With the word, 
 There beamed a shaft of dawn athwart the skies, 
 And straight the sentinel thrush within the yew 
 Sang out reveille to the hosts of day, 
 Soldierly ; and the pomp and rush of life 
 Began once more, and left me there alone 
 Amid the awaking world. 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS.
 
 THE LIGHT OF ASIA 43 
 
 From "THE LIGHT OF ASIA" 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 Over the spangled grass 
 Swept the swift footsteps of the lovely Light, 
 Turning the tears of Night to joyous gems, 
 Decking the earth with radiance, 'broidering 
 The sinking storm-clouds with a golden fringe. 
 Gilding the feathers of the palms, which waved 
 Glad salutation ; darting beams of gold 
 Into the glades : touching with magic wand 
 The stream to rippled ruby ; in the brake 
 Finding the mild eyes of the antelopes 
 And saying " It is day ; " in nested sleep 
 Touching the small heads under many a wing 
 And whispering, "Children, praise the light of 
 
 day ! " 
 Whereat there piped anthems of all the birds, 
 The Koil's fluted song, the Bulbul's hymn. 
 The "morning, morning" of the painted thrush. 
 The twitter of the sunbirds starting forth 
 To find the honey ere the bees be out, 
 The grey crow's caw, the parrot's scream, the 
 
 strokes
 
 44 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Of the green hammersmith, the myna's chirp, 
 The never-finished love-talk of the doves : 
 Yea ! and so holy was the influence 
 Of that high Dawn which came with victory 
 That, far and near, in homes of men there spread 
 An unknown peace. 
 
 SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. 
 
 From "THE BIRTH OF THE FLOWERS " 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 Then wider as awoke the day, 
 Was seen a speck — a tiny wing 
 
 That, from the sward, drifting away. 
 Rose up at heaven's gate, to sing 
 
 A matin hymn melodious : Hark ! 
 
 That orison ! — it was the lark, 
 
 Hailing the advent of the sun. 
 
 DAVID MACBETH MOIR.
 
 AURORA LEIGH 45 
 
 From "MY BEAUTIFUL LADY" 
 
 What time that noisy spot of life, the lark, 
 Climbs, shrill with ecstasy, the trembling air ; 
 And "Cuckoo, Cuckoo," baffling whence it comes 
 Shouts the bhthe egotist who cries himself; 
 And every hedge and coppice sings. 
 
 THOMAS WOOLNER, R.A. 
 
 From "THE PRINCESS" 
 
 . . . morn by morn the lark 
 Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres. 
 
 '^ TENNYSON. 
 
 From "AURORA LEIGH" 
 
 The music soars within the little lark. 
 And the lark soars. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
 
 46 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "ARISTOPHANES' APOLOGY" 
 
 Encircled with poetic atmosphere, 
 
 As lark emballed by its own crystal song. 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "POEMS BY A PAINTER" 
 
 " No thing of earthly mould was nigh, 
 Save one lone skylark, trancedly 
 Hymning up the cloudless sky, 
 On the wings of his own wild melody." 
 
 .SIR NOEL PATON. 
 
 From "MEMORIAL VERSES" 
 
 And with such song the hollow ways were stirred 
 As of a god's heart hidden in a bird. 
 
 SWINBURNE.
 
 SONG OF FLOWERS AND BIRDS 47 
 
 THE SONG OF FLOWERS AND BIRDS 
 
 What is a bird but a living fiower ? 
 
 A flower but the soul of some dead bird ? 
 And what is a weed but the dying breath 
 Of a perjured word ? 
 
 A flower is the soul of a singing-bird, 
 
 Its scent is the breath of an old-time song : 
 But a weed and a thorn spring forth each day 
 For a new-done wrong. 
 
 Dead souls of song-birds, thro' the green grass 
 
 Or deep in the midst of the golden grain, 
 In woodland valley, where hill-streams pass, 
 We flourish again. 
 
 We flowers are the joy of the whole wide earth, 
 
 Sweet nature's laughter and secret tears — • 
 Whoso hearkens a bird in its spring-time mirth 
 The song of a flow'r-soul hears ! 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP.
 
 48 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Froin "NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE 
 GROVE IN GREEN" 
 
 The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, 
 
 An' climbs the early sky, 
 Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 
 
 In morning's rosy eye. 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 From "ROMEO AND JULIET" 
 
 ACT III. SCENE V. 
 
 Juliet. Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day 
 It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 
 That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear ; 
 Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree : 
 Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 
 
 Romeo. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, 
 No nightingale.
 
 CYMBELINE 49 
 
 Juliet. It is, it is, — hie hence, begone, away ! 
 It is the lark that sings so out of tune, 
 Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps. 
 Some say the lark makes sweet division ; 
 This doth not so, for she divideth us : 
 Some say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes ; 
 O, now I would they had chang'd voices too I 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From "CYMBELINE" 
 
 ACT II. SCENE III. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Hakk, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, / 
 
 And Phcebus gins arise, i 
 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 
 On chalic'd flowers that lies ; 
 And winking Mary-buds begin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes ; 
 ^Vith every thing that pretty bin. 
 
 My lady sweet, arise; 
 Arise, arise ! 
 
 SHAKESPEARE,
 
 50 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From « VENUS AND ADONIS " 
 
 STANZA 143. 
 
 Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, 
 From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, 
 And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast 
 The sun ariseth in his majesty ; 
 
 Who doth the world so gloriously behold, 
 That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From "ELORE, LO" 
 
 OLD BALLAD. 
 
 " The light upspringeth, the dew dow^n dingeth. 
 The sweet lark singeth her hours of prime."
 
 THE PROGRESS OF SPRING 5I 
 
 From "THE PROGRESS OF SPRING" 
 
 Up leaps the lark, gone wild to welcome her, 
 
 About her glance the tits, and shriek the jays, 
 Before her skims the jubilant woodpecker, 
 
 The linnet's bosom blushes at her gaze. 
 While round her brows a woodland culver flits, 
 
 Watching her large light eyes and gracious looks. 
 And in her open palm a halcyon sits 
 
 Patient — the secret splendour of the brooks. 
 
 Now past her feet the swallow circling flies, 
 A clamorous cuckoo stoops to meet her hand ; 
 
 Her light makes rainbows in my closing eyes, 
 I hear a charm of song thro' all the land. 
 
 Across my garden ! and the thicket stirs. 
 
 The fountain pulses high in summer jets. 
 The blackcap warbles, and the turtle purrs, 
 
 The starling claps his tiny castanets. 
 Still round her forehead wheels the woodland dove. 
 
 And scatters on her throat the sparks of dew, 
 The king-cup fills her footprint, and above 
 
 Broaden the glowing isles of vernal blue. 
 
 TENNYSON.
 
 52 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "SPINDRIFT" 
 
 High-hearted minstrel of the morn, 
 
 Who singest all unseen 
 
 Up the steep eastern sheen, 
 Towards the gates of pearl enraptured borne. 
 
 O for those wings of thine ! 
 
 O for those tones divine. 
 
 That circling upwards float 
 
 From thine inspired throat. 
 Like viewless incense round a sacred shrine ! 
 So faint, so sweet, so crystal clear. 
 The listening heart must weep, or break to hear. 
 
 Or, O swart bird, that thou, 
 Who from the topmost twinkling aspen bough, 
 
 In strains that seem to well 
 
 Through gurgling oinomel, 
 Pourest thy passionate love-song all abroad ; 
 
 And yet couldst not unload, 
 
 Till midnight didst thou try, 
 That throbbing breast of its sweet agony !
 
 EPITHALAMION 53 
 
 O passionate bird ! that tliou 
 
 Wouldst be my tutor now, 
 And to my yearning heart and brain 
 Reveal the secret of thy magic strain ! 
 
 SIR NOEL PATON. 
 
 From "EPITHALAMION" 
 
 Wake now, my love, awake ; for it is time ; 
 The rosy morne long since left Tithons bed, 
 All ready to her silver coche to clyme ; 
 And Phcebus gins to show his glorious hed. 
 Hark ! how the cheerfuU birds do chaunt theyr 
 
 laies 
 And carroU of Loves praise. 
 The merry larke hir mattins sings aloft ; 
 The thrush replyes ; the mavis descant playes : 
 The ouzell shrills ; the ruddock warbles soft ; 
 So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, 
 To this dayes merriment. 
 Ah ! my deere love : why doe ye sleepe thus 
 
 long, 
 When meeter were that ye should now awake, 
 T'awayt the comming of your ioyous make.
 
 54 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And hf'arken to the birds love-learned song, 
 The deawy leaves among ! 
 For they of ioy and pleasance to you sing, 
 That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho 
 ring. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 From "MORNING" 
 
 Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken ! 
 Deep the moon her draught has taken 
 Of the babbling rivulet sheen, 
 Far beyond the Ochil green. 
 From her gauzy veil on high 
 Trills the laverock's melody ; 
 Round and round, from glen and grove, 
 Pour a thousand hymns to love ; 
 Harps the quail amid the clover, 
 O'er the moon-fern whews the plover ; 
 Bat has hid, and heath-cock crowed, 
 Courser neighed, and cattle lowed, 
 Kid and lamb their lair forsaken ; — 
 Waken, drowsy slumberer, Avaken ! 
 
 HOGG.
 
 THE BIRD S MESSAGE 55 
 
 THE BIRD'S MESSAGE 
 
 Ye little birds that sit and sing . 
 
 Amidst the shady valleys, ^ 
 
 And see how Phillis sweetly walks 
 
 Within her garden alleys ; 
 Go, pretty birds, about her bower ; 
 Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower ; 
 Ah, me ! methinks I see her frown ! 
 
 Ye pretty wantons, warble. 
 
 Go, tell her, through your chirping bills, 
 
 As you by me are bidden, 
 To her is only known my love. 
 
 Which from the world is hidden. 
 Go, pretty birds, and tell her so ; 
 See that your notes strain not too low ; 
 For still, methinks, I see her frown ! 
 
 Ye pretty wantons, warble. 
 
 Go, tune your voices' harmony. 
 
 And sing, I am her lover ; 
 Strain loud and sweet, that every note 
 
 With sweet content may move her. 
 
 /
 
 56 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And she that hath the sweetest voice, 
 Tell her I will not change my choice : 
 Yet still, methinks, I see her frown 
 Ye pretty wantons, warble. 
 
 Oh, fly ! make haste ! see, see, she falls 
 
 Into a pretty slumber. 
 Sing round about her rosy bed, 
 
 That waking she may wonder. 
 Say to her, 'tis her lover true 
 That sendeth love to you, to you ; 
 And when you hear her kind reply. 
 
 Return with pleasant warblings. 
 
 Pack, clouds away, and welcome day. 
 
 With night we banish sorrow ; 
 Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft 
 
 To give my Love good-morrow ! 
 Wings from the wind to please her mind. 
 
 Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; 
 Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing, 
 
 To give my Love good-morrow : 
 To give my Love good-morrow 
 Notes from them both I'll borrow.
 
 THE STORY OF RIMINI 57 
 
 Wake from thy nest, Robin-Redbreast, 
 
 Sing birds in every furrow ; 
 And from each hill let music shrill 
 
 Give my fair Love good-morrow ! 
 Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 
 
 Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! 
 You pretty elves, among yourselves, 
 
 Sing my fair Love good-morrow ; 
 I'o give my Love good-morrow, 
 Sing birds in every furrow ! 
 
 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 From "THE STORY OF RIMINI " 
 
 Anon the sweet birds, like a sudden throng 
 Of happy children, ring their tangled song 
 From out the greener trees ; and then a cloud 
 Of cawing rooks breaks o'er them, gathering loud 
 Like savages at ships ; and then again 
 Nothing is heard but their own stately train, • 
 Or ring-dove that repeats his pensive plea. 
 Or startled gull up-screaming toward the sea. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT.
 
 58 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "A DARK MONTH" 
 
 XX. 
 
 Louder seems each bird 
 In the brightening branches heard 
 Still to speak some ever more delightful word. 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 From "THE VISION OF DELIGHT" 
 
 How is't each bough a several music yields ? 
 The lusty throstle, early nightingale, 
 Accord in tune, though vary in their tale ; 
 The chirping swallow call'd forth by the sun, 
 And crested lark doth his division run ? 
 The yellow bees the air with murmur fill, 
 The finches carol, and the turtles bill ? 
 Whose power is this ? what god ? 
 
 BEN JONSON.
 
 BENEDICITE AND OTHER POEMS 59 
 
 From 
 "BENEDICITE AND OTHER POEMS" 
 
 " O ALL ye Birds of various wing, 
 
 Bless ye the Lord in joyful lays ; 
 
 Whether in some dim forest-maze, 
 Unseen yourselves, your voices ring : 
 Or up through azure heights ye spring, 
 
 Bearing aloft melodious praise : 
 O all ye Birds of various wing, 
 
 Bless ye the Lord in joyful lays. 
 
 Whether in garden-nooks ye sing, 
 Or warble by the public ways : 
 If but a simple trill ye raise, 
 Or but a cheery chirp ye bring : 
 O all ye Birds of various wing. 
 Bless ye the Lord in joyful lays." 
 
 RICHARD WILTON.
 
 60 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "PARADISE LOST" 
 
 . . . tune His praise. 
 Join voices, all ye living souls : ye birds, 
 That singing up to heaven-gate ascend. 
 Bear on your wings and in your notes His praise. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 From "EASTER WINGS" 
 
 Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, 
 
 Though foolishly he lost the same, 
 
 Decaying more and more. 
 
 Till he became 
 
 Most poor : 
 
 With thee 
 
 O let me rise 
 
 As larks, harmoniously. 
 
 And sing this day thy Victories : 
 
 Then shall the fall further the flight in me. 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT.
 
 PIPPA PASSES 6l 
 
 From "THE EXCURSION" 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 There crows the cock, single in his domain : 
 The small birds find in spring no thicket there 
 To shroud them ; only from the neighbouring vales 
 The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill-tops, 
 Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 From "PIPPA PASSES" 
 
 The year's at the spring 
 And day's at the morn ; 
 Morning's at seven ; 
 The hill-side's dew-pearled ; 
 The lark's on the wing ; 
 The snail's on the thorn : 
 (rod's in His heaven — 
 All's right with the world I 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 yX
 
 62 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "ROSAMUND DE CLIFFORD" 
 
 Oh, I was cheerful as the lark, whose lay 
 Thrills through the ether, and awakes the day ! 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 « SONNETS " 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Haply I think on thee, — and then my state 
 
 (Like to the lark at break of day arising 
 
 From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate ; 
 
 For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth 
 brings, 
 
 That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE.
 
 ODE ON PLEASURE 6^ 
 
 From 
 
 "ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING 
 
 FROM VICISSITUDE" 
 
 Now the golden morn aluft 
 
 Waves her dew-bespangled wing, 
 With vermeil cheek and whisper soft 
 
 She wooes the tardy spring : 
 Till April starts, and calls around 
 The sleeping fragrance from the ground : 
 And lightly o'er the living scene 
 Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. 
 
 New-born flocks, in rustic dance, 
 Frisking ply their feeble leet ; 
 
 Forgetful of their wintry trance 
 The birds his presence greet : 
 
 But chief, the sky-lark warbles high 
 
 His trembling, thrilling ecstasy ; 
 
 And, lessening from the dazzled sight, 
 
 Melts into air and liquid light. 
 
 Rise, my soul ! on wings of fire. 
 Rise the rapt'rous choir among ; 
 
 Hark ! 'tis nature strikes the lyre, 
 And leads the gcn'ral song :
 
 64 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Warm let the lyric transport flow, 
 Warm as the ray that bids it glow ; 
 And animates the vernal grove 
 With health, with harmony, and love. 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 A GREEN CORNFIELD 
 
 ■ And singing still dost soar and soaring ever singest.' 
 
 The earth was green, the sky was blue : 
 I saw and heard one sunny morn 
 
 A skylark hang between the two, 
 A singing speck above the corn ; 
 
 A stage below, in gay accord, 
 
 White butterflies danced on the wing, 
 
 And still the singing skylark soared 
 And silent sank and soared to sing. 
 
 The cornfield stretched a tender green 
 To right and left beside my walks ; 
 
 I knew he had a nest unseen 
 
 Somewhere among the million stalks :
 
 A GREEN CORNFIELD 65 
 
 And as I paused to hear his song 
 While swift the sunny moments slid, 
 
 Perhaps his mate sat listening long, 
 And listened longer than I did. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
 
 III. 
 
 SPRING — MORNING
 
 ■ ■ >:,;V/V 
 
 >//■ ' -i^ hi -' ^ 
 
 i^rr.,« "IN MEMORIAM" ji^^ C^ 
 
 When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 
 
 And rarely pipes the mounted thrush ; 
 
 Or underneath the barren bush 
 Flits by the sea-blue bird of March. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 From "SONGS AND SONNETS" 
 
 Then lovers walk and tell their tale, 
 Both of their bliss, and of their bale ; 
 
 And how they serve, and how they do, 
 And how their lady loves them too. 
 
 Then tune the birds their harmony ; 
 
 Then flock the fowl in company ; 
 Then everything doth pleasure find 
 In that, that comforts all their kind. 
 
 henry HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY,
 
 70 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "MORGANA" 
 
 And blithe are the birds in the Barleywood, 
 
 Where merle and mavis and woodlark sing, 
 And the cushat croodles high unseen, 
 And the cuckoo calls from the brachen green ; 
 And sweet are the smells that the wind-wafts 
 bring, 
 When the morning airs are keen. 
 
 WALTER C. SMITH. 
 
 HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh, to be in England 
 
 Now that April's there. 
 
 And whoever wakes in England 
 
 Sees, some morning, unaware. 
 
 That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 
 
 Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf. 
 
 While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
 
 In England — now 1
 
 A SPRING CAROL 7I 
 
 11. / 
 
 / 
 
 And after April, when May follows, ]^ 
 
 And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows ! 
 Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 
 Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
 Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's 
 
 edge — 
 That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice 
 
 over, 
 Lest you should think he never could recapture 
 The first fine careless rapture ! 
 And though the fields look rough with hoary dew 
 All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
 The buttercups, the little children's dower 
 — Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 
 
 BROWNING 
 
 A SPRING CAROL 
 
 Blithe friend ! blithe throstle ! Is it thou. 
 Whom I at last again hear sing. 
 
 Perched on thy old accustomed bough, 
 Poet-prophet of the Spring ?
 
 72 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Yes ! Singing as thou oft hast sung, 
 I can see thee there among 
 The clustered branches of my leafless oak ; 
 Where, thy plumage gray as it. 
 Thou mightst unsuspected sit. 
 Didst thou not thyself betray 
 With thy penetrating lay, 
 Swelling thy mottled breast at each triumphant 
 stroke. 
 Wherefore warble half concealed, 
 When thy notes are shaft and shield, 
 And no hand that lives would slay 
 Singer of such a roundelay ? 
 Telling of thy presence thus, 
 Be nor coy nor timorous ! 
 Sing loud ! Sing long ! 
 And let thy song 
 Usurp the air 'twixt earth and sky : 
 Let it soar and sink and rally. 
 Ripple low along the valley, 
 Break against the fir-trees high, 
 Ofttimes pausing, never dying, 
 While we lean where fancy bids, 
 Listening, with half-closed lids, 
 Unto the self-same chant, most sweet, most 
 satisfying.
 
 A SPRING CAROL ^ ^ 
 
 Wherefore dost thou sing, and sing ? 
 
 Is it for sheer joy of singing ? 
 Is it to hasten lagging Spring, 
 
 Or greet the Lenten hhes through turf and 
 tuft upspringing ? 
 Dost thou sing to earth or sky ? 
 Never comes but one reply : 
 Carol faint, carol high, 
 
 Ringing, ringing, ringing ! 
 Are those iterated trills 
 For the down-loo'king daffodils, 
 That have strained and split their sheath. 
 And are listening underneath ? 
 Or but music's prompting note, 
 
 Whereunto the lambs may skip ? 
 Haply dost thou swell thy throat. 
 
 Only to show thy craftsmanship ? 
 Wouldst thou pipe if none should hearken ? 
 If the sky should droop and darken. 
 
 And, as came the hills more close, 
 Moody March to wooing Spring 
 
 Sudden turned a mouth morose, — 
 Unheeded wouldst, unheeding, sing? 
 What is it rules thy singing season ? 
 Insunct, that diviner reason,
 
 74 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 To which the thirst to know seemeth a sort of 
 treason ? 
 
 If it be, 
 
 Enough for me, 
 And any motive for thy music I 
 A\'ill not ask thee to impart, 
 Letting my head play traitor to my heart, 
 
 Too deeply questioning why. 
 Sing for nothing, if thou wilt. 
 Or, if thou for aught must sing, 
 Sing unto thy anxious spouse, 
 Sitting somewhere 'mong the boughs, 
 In the nest that thou hast built. 
 Underneath her close-furled wing 
 Future carols fostering. 
 Sing, because it is thy bent ; 
 Sing, to heighten thy content ! 
 Sing, for secret none can guess ; 
 Sing, for very uselessness ! 
 Sing for love of love and pleasure, 
 Unborn joy, unfound treasure. 
 Rapture no words can reach, yearning no 
 thoughts can measure ' 
 
 ALFRED AUSTIN.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY 75 
 
 From "THE SPANISH GYPSY" 
 
 Pablo {sings). 
 
 It was in the prime 
 
 Of the sweet Spring-time. 
 
 In the Hnnet's throat 
 
 Trembled the love-note, 
 And the love-stirred air 
 Thrilled the blossoms there. 
 
 Little shadows danced 
 
 Each a tiny elf, 
 Happy in large light 
 
 And the thinnest self. 
 
 It was but a minute 
 
 In a far-off Spring, 
 
 But each gentle thing. 
 Sweetly-wooing linnet, 
 Soft-thrilled hawthorn tree, 
 
 Happy shadowy elf 
 
 With the thinnest self. 
 
 Live still on in me. 
 O the sweet, sweet prime 
 Of the past Spring-time ! 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT.
 
 76 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 F/-o/« " SUDDEN FINE WEATHER" 
 
 With song the bosoms of the birds run o'er, 
 
 The cuckoo calls, the swallow's at the door, 
 
 And apple-trees at noon, with bees alive, 
 
 Burn with the golden chorus of the hive. 
 
 Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal blaze, 
 
 Is but one joy, express'd a thousand ways : 
 
 And honey from the flowers, and song from birds. 
 
 Are from the poet's pen his overflowing words. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 SPRING 
 
 The soote^ season that bud and bloom forth brings 
 With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale ; 
 The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; 
 The turtle to her make ^ hath told her tale ; 
 Summer is come, for every spray now springs. 
 The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ; 
 The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; 
 
 1 Sweet. - Mate.
 
 BOOKE OF THE DUTCHESSE 7/ 
 
 The fishes float with new repaired scale ; 
 
 The adder all her slough away she slings ; 
 
 The swift swallow pursueth the flies small ; 
 
 The busy bee her honey now she mings ; ^ 
 
 Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale. 
 And thus I see among these pleasant things 
 Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs ! - 
 
 HENRY HOWARD, EART, OF SURREY. 
 
 From "THE BOOKE OF THE 
 DUTCHESSE" 
 
 Me thought thus, that it was May, 
 And in the dawning there I lay. 
 Me met^ thus in my bed all naked. 
 And looked forth, for I was waked, 
 With smale foules a great hepe, 
 That had afraied ^ me out of my slepe, 
 Through noise and sweetnesse of hir song. 
 And as me mette, they sat among 
 Upon my chamber roofe without. 
 Upon the tyles over all about ; 
 And everiche song ^ in his wise 
 The most solemne "^ servise 
 
 1 Mixes. 2 Grows anew. ^ Dreamt. 
 
 ^ Startled. •'' Each one sang. " Joyful.
 
 78 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 By note, that ever man I trow 
 
 Had heard ; for some of hem sung low, 
 
 Some high, and all of one accord. 
 
 To tell shortly at o word, 
 
 Was never heard so sweet a Steven,^ 
 
 But it had be a thing of Heven. 
 
 So merry a sowne, so sweet entunes, 
 
 That certes for the towne of Tewnes 
 
 I n'olde but I had heard hem sing ; 
 
 For all my chamber gan to ring, 
 
 Through singing of hir ermony, 
 
 For instrument nor melody 
 
 Was no where heard yet halfe so swete, 
 
 Nor of accord halfe so mete, 
 
 For there was none of hem that fained 
 
 To sing ; for ech of hem him pained 
 
 To find out many crafty notes ; 
 
 They ne spared nat hir throtes. . . . 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 ^ Sound.
 
 THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF 79 
 
 From "THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF" 
 
 And up I rose three houres after twelfe, 
 About the springing of the day ; 
 And on I put my geare and mine array, 
 And to a pleasaunt grove I gan passe, 
 Long er the bright Sunne up risen was ; 
 
 In which were okes great, streight as a hne, 
 Under the which the grasse so fresh of hew, 
 Was newly sprong, and an eight foot or nine 
 Every tree well fro his fellow grew. 
 With branches brode, laden with leves new, 
 That sprongen out ayen the sunne-shene. 
 Some very red, and some a glad light grene. 
 
 Which, as me thought, was right a pleasant sight; 
 And eke the briddes songe for to here, 
 Would have rejoiced any earthly wight. 
 And I that couth not yet, in no manere, 
 Heare the nightingale of all the yeare, 
 Ful busily herkened with herte and eare. 
 If I her voice perceive coud any where.
 
 8o BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And as I stood and cast aside mine eie, 
 
 I was ware of the fairest medler tree, 
 
 That ever yet in all my life I sie, 
 
 As full of blossomes as it might be ; 
 
 Therein a goldfinch leaping pretile 
 
 Fro bough to bough ; and, as him list, he eet 
 
 Here and there of buds and floures sweet. 
 
 x^nd to the herber side was joyning 
 This faire tree, of which I have you told ; 
 And at the last the brid began to sing, 
 Whan he had eaten what he eat wold. 
 So passing sweetly, that by manifold 
 It was more pleasaunt than I could devise. 
 And whan his song was ended in this wise, 
 
 The nightingale with so merry a note 
 
 Answered him, that all the wood rong 
 
 So sodainly, that, as it were a sote,^ 
 
 I stood astonied ; so was I with the song 
 
 Thorow ravished, that till late and long, 
 
 I ne wist in what place I was, ne where ; 
 
 And ayen, me thought, she song ever by mine ere. 
 
 CHAUCERIAN PERIOD. 
 1 A fool.
 
 CUCKOW AND THE N IGH'J'ING ALE 8l 
 
 From "THE CUCKOW AND THE 
 NIGHTINGALE " 
 
 And anone as I the day aspide, 
 
 No lenger would 1 in my bed abide ; 
 
 But unto a wood that was fast by, 
 
 I went forth alone boldely, 
 
 And held the way downe by a brooke side, 
 
 There sat I downe among the faire flours, 
 And saw the birds trip out of hir hours, 
 There as they rested hem all the night ; 
 They were so joyfull of the dayes light, 
 They began of May for to done honours. 
 
 They coud that service all by rote ; 
 There was many a lovely note ! 
 Some song loud as they had plained. 
 And some in other manner voice yfained, 
 And some all out with the full throte. 
 
 'i'hey proyned hem, and maden hem right gay, 
 x\.nd daunceden and lepten on the spray; 
 And evermore two and two in fere. 
 Right so as they had chosen hem to-yere 
 In Feverere upon saint Valentine's day.
 
 82 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And the river that I sate upon, 
 It made such a noise as it ron, 
 Accordaunt with the birdes armony, 
 Me thought it was the best melody 
 That might ben yheard of any mon. 
 
 And for dehte, I wote never how, 
 
 I fell in such a slomber and a swow,i — 
 
 Nat all asleepe, ne fully waking, — 
 
 And in that swow me thought I hearde sing 
 
 The sorry bird, the leud cuckow. 
 
 And that was on a tree right fast by. 
 
 But who was then evill apaid but I ? 
 
 " Now God " (quod I) " that died on the crois, 
 
 Yeve sorrow on thee, and on thy leud vois ! 
 
 Full little joy have I now of thy cry." 
 
 And as I with the cuckow thus gan chide, 
 I heard, in the next bush beside, 
 A nightingale so lustely sing. 
 That her clere voice she made ring 
 Thurgh all the greene wood wide. 
 
 "Ah, good nightingale," (quod I then,) 
 " A little hast thou ben too long hen ; 
 For here hath ben the leud cuckow. 
 And songen songs rather than hast thou : 
 I pray to God evill fire her bren ! " 
 
 1 Swoon.
 
 Chaucer's dream 83 
 
 But now I wol you tell a wonder thing : — 
 As long as I lay in that swouning, 
 Me thought I wist what the birds ment, 
 And what they said, and what was hir entent, 
 And of hir speech I had good knowing. . . . 
 
 CHAUCERIAN PERIOD. 
 
 From "CHAUCER'S DREAM" 
 
 And whan the night past and ronne 
 Was, and the new day begonne, 
 The yong morrow with rayes red, 
 Which from the Sunne over all con spred, 
 Atempered clere was and faire, 
 And made a time of wholsome aire, 
 Befell a wonder case and strange, 
 Among the people, and gan change 
 Soone the word and every woo. 
 Unto a joy, and some to two : 
 A bird all fedred blew and greene. 
 With bright rayes like gold betweene, 
 As small thred over every joynt. 
 All full of colour strange and coint. 
 Uncouth and wonderfuU to sight, 
 Upon the queen's herse con light, 
 And song full low and softely,
 
 84 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Three songs in her harmony, 
 
 Unletted of every wight, 
 
 Till at the last an aged knight, 
 
 Which seemed a man in great thought, 
 
 Like as he set all thing at nought. 
 
 With visage and eyen all forwept. 
 
 And pale, as man long unslept, 
 
 By the herses as he stood, 
 
 With hasty hondling of his hood, 
 
 (Jnto a prince that by him past, 
 
 Made the bridde somewhat agast. 
 
 Wherefore she rose and left her song, 
 
 And depart from us among, 
 
 And spread her wings for to passe 
 
 By the place he entred was, 
 
 And in his hast, shortly to tell. 
 
 Him hurt, that backeward downe he fell. 
 
 From a window richly peint, 
 
 With lives of many divers seint, 
 
 And bet his wings and bled fast, 
 
 And of the hurt thus died and past; 
 
 And lay there well an houre and more. 
 
 Till at last, of briddes a score 
 
 Come and sembled at the place 
 
 Where the window broken was. 
 
 And made swiche waimentacioun, 
 
 That pity was to heare the soun, 
 
 And the warbles of their throtes.
 
 Chaucer's dream 85 
 
 And the complaint of their notes, 
 
 Which from joy cleane was reversed ; 
 
 And of them one the glas soone persed, 
 
 And in his beke, of colours nine. 
 
 An herbe he brought flourelesse, all grene, 
 
 Full of small leaves, and plaine. 
 
 Swart and long with many a veine. 
 
 And where his fellow lay thus dede. 
 
 This hearbe down laid by his hede, 
 
 And dressed it full softily, 
 
 And hong his head and stood thereby. 
 
 Which hearb in lesse than half an houre, 
 
 Gan over all knit, and after floure 
 
 Full out ; and wexe ripe the seed. 
 
 And right as one another feed 
 
 Would, in his beake he tooke the graine, 
 
 And in his fellowe's beake certaine 
 
 It put, and thus within the third 
 
 Up stood, and pruned him the bird, 
 
 Which dead had be in all our sight ; 
 
 And both togither forth their fiight 
 
 Tooke, singing, from us, and their leve ; 
 
 Was none disturb hem would ne greve. 
 
 And, whan they parted were and gone 
 
 Th' abbesse the seeds soone echone 
 
 Gadred had . . . 
 
 CHAUCERJAN PERIOD.
 
 86 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE COURT OF LOVE" 
 
 On May day, whan the larke began to rise, 
 To matens went the lusty nightingale, 
 Within a temple shapen hauthorn-wise, 
 He might not slepe in all the nightertale, 
 But '''' Domine labia," gan he cry and gale, 
 "My lippes open, Lord of Love I crye. 
 And let my mouth thy praising now bewry." 
 
 The egle sang " Venite bodies all, 
 
 And let us joy to love that is our health." 
 
 And to the desk anon they gan to fall, 
 
 And who came late he preesed in by stealth : 
 
 Than sayd the faucon, our own hertes wealth, 
 
 " Domine DoDiimis nosier I wote. 
 
 Ye be the God that done us brenne thus bote." 
 
 " Cxii enarrani" said the popingay, 
 
 " Your might is told in Heaven and firmament." 
 
 And than came in the gold-finch freshe and gay, 
 
 And said this psalme with hertily glad intent, 
 
 " Domini est terra ; " this latin intent, 
 
 The God of Love hath yerth in governaunce : 
 
 And than the wren gan skippen and to daunce.
 
 THE COURT OF LOVE ?,y 
 
 ^^/ube Do nine O Lord of Love, I pray 
 Commaund me well this lesson for to rede ; 
 This legende is of all that woulden dey 
 Martires for love, God yet the souls spede ! 
 And to thee Venus sing we, out of drede. 
 By influence of all thy vertue great, 
 Beseching thee to keepe us in our heat." 
 
 The se. ond lesson robin redebrest sang, 
 " Haile to the god and goddes of our lay ! "' 
 And to the lectorne amorously he sprong : — 
 "Haile now," (quod eke) "O fresh season of May, 
 Our moneth glad that singen on the spray ! 
 Haile to the floures, rede, and white, and blewe, 
 Which by their vertue maketh our lust new I " 
 
 The third lesson the turtil dove toke up. 
 And thereat lough the mavis in a scorne : 
 He said, " O God, as mote I dine or suppe, 
 This folish dove will give us al an home ! 
 There ben right here a thousand better borne. 
 To rede this lesson, which as well as he, 
 And eke as bote, can love in all degree." 
 
 The turtil dove said, " Welcom, welcom May, 
 Gladsom and light to lovers that ben trew ! 
 I thanke thee Lord of Love that doth purvey 
 For me to rede this lesson al of dewe ;
 
 88 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 For in good soth of corage I pursue 
 
 To serve my make till death us must depart : ' 
 
 And than " Tit autem " sang he all apart. 
 
 " Te deiiiji aiuoris'" sang the throstel cocke: 
 
 Tuball himself, the first musician, 
 
 \\'ith key of armony coude not onlocke, 
 
 So swete tewne as that the throstel can : 
 
 " The Lord of Love we praysen," (quod he) than. 
 
 And so done al the foules great and lite, 
 
 " Honour we May, in fals lovers dispite." 
 
 y Do/nifii/s reguavif,'" said the pecocke there, 
 The Lord of Love that mighty prince, ywis. 
 He is received here and every where : 
 Noiv Jubilate sing: — 'What meaneth this?" 
 Said then the linet ; "welcome. Lord of blisse I " 
 Out sterte the owle with ^^ Benedicite" 
 "What meaneth all this mery fare" (quod he). 
 
 '' Lai/dafe" sang the larke with voice ful shril : 
 And eke the kight " O admirabile ; 
 This quere wil thorow mine ears pers and thril ; 
 But what? welcome this May season," (quod he) 
 " And honour to the Lord of Love mote be. 
 That hath this feste so solempne and so hie : " 
 '■'Amen,'' said al, and so said eke the pie.
 
 THE COURT OF LOVE 89 
 
 And forth the cuckow gan precede anon, 
 ^\^ith '■'• Benedidus'''' thanking God in hast, 
 That in this May would visite them echon, 
 And gladden them all while the feast shal last : 
 And therewithal a-laughter out he brast, 
 " I thank it God that I should end the song, 
 And all the service whicli hath ben so long." 
 
 Thus sang they all the service of the feste, 
 And that was done right erly to my dome ; 
 And forth goeth all the court both most and leste, 
 To fetch the floures fresh, and braunch and 
 
 blome ; 
 And namely, hauthorn brought both page and 
 
 grome. 
 With fresh garlants party blew and white, 
 And than rejoysen in their great delite. 
 
 CHAUCERIAN PERIOD
 
 90 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 THE MERLE AND THE NIGHTINGALE 
 
 In May, as that Aurora did upspring, 
 With crystal een chasing the cloudes sable, 
 I heard a Merle ^ with merry notes sing 
 A song of love, with voice right comfortable, 
 Against the orient beames, amiable. 
 Upon a blissful branch of laurel green ; 
 This was her sentence, sweet and delectable, 
 "A lusty life in Love's service been." 
 
 Under this branch ran down a river bright. 
 Of balmy liquor, crystalline of hue, 
 Against the heavenly azure skyes light, 
 Where did, upon the other side, pursue 
 A Nightingale, with sugar'd notes new, 
 ^Vhose angel feathers as the peacock shone 
 This was her song, and of a sentence true, 
 " All love is lost but upon God alone." 
 
 ' Rlackl.ird.
 
 MERLE AND THE NIGHTINGALE 9I 
 
 With notes glad, and glorious harmony, 
 This joyful Merle, saluted she the day, 
 While rung the woodes of her melody, 
 Saying, " Awake, ye lovers, O, this May ; 
 Lo, fresh Flora has flourish'd every spray. 
 As nature has her tauglit, the noble queen. 
 The fields be clothed in a new array ; 
 A lusty life in Love's service been ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ne'er sweeter noise was heard with living man, 
 Than made this merry gentle Nightingale ; 
 Her sound went with the river as it ran. 
 Out through the fresh and flourish'd lusty vale: 
 " O Merle ! " quoth she, " O fool ! stint of thy tale. 
 For in thy song good sentence is there none, 
 For both are lost, the time and the travail. 
 Of every love but upon Ood alone." 
 
 v. 
 
 "Cease," quoth the Merle, "thy preaching. Night- 
 ingale : 
 Shall folk their youth spend into holiness ? 
 Of young saintis, grow old fiendis, biit^ fable; 
 Fie hypocrite, in yearis' tenderness 
 
 1 Without.
 
 92 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Against the law of kind thou goest express, 
 That crooked age makes one with youth 
 
 serene, 
 Whom nature of conditions made diverse : 
 A lusty life in Love's service been." 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Nightingale said, " Fool, remember thee, 
 That both in youth and age, and every hour, 
 The love of God most dear to man should be ; 
 That him, of nought, wrought like his own 
 
 figour, 
 And died himself, from death him to succor ; 
 Oh, whether was shewed there true love or 
 
 none ? 
 He is most true and steadfast paramour. 
 All love is lost but upon him alone." 
 
 The Merle said, " Why put God so much beauty 
 In ladies, with such womanly having. 
 But if he would that they should loved be ? 
 To love eke nature gave them inclining, 
 And he of nature that worker was and king. 
 Would nothing useless put, nor let be seen. 
 Into his creature of his own making ; 
 A lusty life in Love's service been."
 
 MERLE AND THE NIGHTINGALE 93 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Nightingale said, " Not to that behoof 
 Put God such beauty in a lady's face, 
 That she should have the thank therefor or love, 
 But He, the worker, that put in her such grace ; 
 Of beauty, bounty, riches, time, or space. 
 And every goodness that be to come or gone, 
 The thanks redound to him in every place : 
 All love is lost but upon God alone." 
 
 IX. 
 
 " O Nightingale ! it were a story nice, 
 
 That love should not depend on charity ; 
 
 And, if that virtue contrar' be to vice. 
 
 Then love must be a virtue, as thinks me ; 
 
 For, aye, to love envy must contrar' be : 
 
 God bade eke love thy neighbours from the 
 
 spleen, 1 
 And who than ladies sweeter neighbours be ? 
 A lusty life in Love's service been I " 
 
 X. 
 
 The Nightingale said, " Bird, why does thou rave ? 
 Man may take in his lady such delight, 
 Him to forget that her such virtue gave, 
 And for his heaven receive her colour white : 
 1 Heart.
 
 94 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Her golden tressed hairis redornite,^ 
 Like to Apollo's beamis though they shone, 
 Should not him blind from love that is perfite ; 
 All love is lost but upon God alone." 
 
 XI. 
 
 The Merle said, " Love is cause of honour aye, 
 Love makes cowards manhood to purchase, 
 Love makes knightis hardy at essay, 
 Love makes wretches full of largeness, 
 Love makes sweir ^ folk full of business. 
 Love makes sluggards fresh and well beseen,^ 
 Love changes vice in virtuous nobleness ; 
 A lusty life in IvOve's service been." 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Nightingale said, " True is the contrary ; 
 Such useless love it blindis men so far. 
 Into their minds it maketh them to vary ; 
 Li false vain-glory they so drunken are, 
 Their wit is went, of woe they are not 'ware. 
 Till that all worship away be from them gone, 
 Fame, goods, and strength ; wherefore well say I 
 
 dare, 
 All love is lost but upon God alone." 
 
 i Encircled. - Sloth. ■• Of good appearance.
 
 MERLE AND THE NIGHTINGALE 95 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Then said the Merle, " Mine error I confess 
 This useless love is all but vanity ; 
 Blind ignorance me gave such hardiness, 
 To argue so against the verity ; 
 Wherefore I counsel every man that he 
 With love not in the fiendis net be tone,^ 
 But love the love that did for his love die ; 
 All love is lost but upon God alone." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then sang they both with voices loud and clear. 
 The Merle sang, " Man, love God that has thee 
 
 wrought." 
 The Nightingale sang, " Man, love the Lord most 
 
 dear. 
 That thee and all this world made of nought." 
 The Merle said, "Love him that thy love has 
 
 sought 
 From heaven to earth, and here took flesh and 
 
 bone." 
 The Nightingale sang, "And with his death thee 
 
 bought ; 
 All love is lost but upon him alone." 
 
 1 Taken.
 
 g6 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Then flew these birds over the boughis sheen, 
 
 Singing of love among the leaves small ; 
 
 Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis green, 
 
 Both sleeping, waking, in rest and in travail ; 
 
 Me to recomfort most it does avail, 
 
 Again for love, when love I can find none, 
 
 To think how sung this Merle and Nightingale ; 
 
 " All love is lost but upon God alone." 
 
 DUNBAR. 
 
 From "THE GOLDEN TARGE: A MAY- 
 DAY DREAM " 
 
 Bright as the starn ^ of day begouth - to shine, 
 AVhen gone to bed were Vesper and Lucine, 
 
 I rase,^ and by a rosere ■* did me rest. 
 Up sprang the golden candle matutine,^ 
 With clear depurit^ beames crystalline. 
 
 Gladding the merry fowles in their nest : 
 
 Or'' Phoebus was in purpur cape revest,** 
 Up rose the lark, the heavens' minstrel fine, 
 
 In May, intill a morrow '■' mirthfulest. 
 
 ' Star of day, sun. 
 
 - Began. 
 
 3 Rose. 
 
 ■* Rose-bush. 
 
 5 Of morning. 
 
 " Purified. 
 
 ? Before. 
 
 s Reclothed. 
 
 ** In a morninj
 
 THE GOLDEN TARGE 9/ 
 
 Full angel-like thir ^ birdes sang their hours 
 Within their curtains green into their bowers, 
 
 Apparelled white and red with bloomes sweet : 
 Enamelled was the field with all colours ; 
 The pearly droppis shook in silver showers, 
 
 While all in balm did branch and leaves fleet i^ 
 
 To part frae Phoebus did Aurora greet ; ^ 
 Her crystal tears I saw hing on the flowers, 
 
 Whilk* he, for luve, all drank up with his heat. 
 
 For mirth of May, with skippes and with hops, 
 The birdes sang upon the tender crops 
 
 With curious notes, as Venus' chapel-clerks : 
 The roses young, new spreading of their knops,'' 
 Were powdered bricht with heavenly beryl drops, 
 
 Through beames red, burning as ruby sparks: 
 
 The skyes rang for shouting of the larks : 
 The purpur heaven, o'er-scaled in silver slops, 
 
 O'er-gilt the trees, branches, leaves, and barks. 
 
 DUNBAR. 
 1 These. -' Flow. •' Weep. ■* Which. •'' Buds.
 
 98 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Frojii "A SCOTCH MAY MORNING 
 IN 1513" 
 
 PROLOGUE TO BOOK XII. 
 
 Maist amiable waxes the emerant meads. 
 Swannes soughes ^ throughout the risp and reeds, 
 Ower all their lowes - and the floodes gray, 
 Seekand by kind a place where they suld lay : 
 Phoebus' red fowl ^ his coral crest gan steir,"* 
 Oft strecking forth his heckle,^ crawand clear, 
 Amid the wortcs'"' and the rootes gent," 
 Pickand his meat in alleys where he went ; 
 His wives, Toppa and Pertelote, him by. 
 As bird all time that hantes ^ bigamy : 
 The painted poune,^ pacand with plumes gim,^" 
 Cast up his tail, a proud pleasand wheel-rim, 
 Y-shrowdit in his feathram ^^ bricht and sheen, 
 Shapand the print of Argus' hundred eyne : 
 Amang the brownes ^- of the olive twests ^^ 
 Seir 1^ smalle fowles workand crafty nests 
 
 ' Breathe or whistle. - Lochs. •' The cock. 
 
 ■* Stir, move. ^ Stretching forth his spur. 
 
 ^ Plants. 7 Neat. * Practises. 
 
 '^ Peacock. '" .Smart. i' Feathering. 
 
 !■- Branches. '^ Twigs. '•* Many.
 
 SCOTCH MAY MORNING IN I513 99 
 
 Endlang the hedges thick, and on rank aiks,^ 
 Ilk bird rejoicing with their mirthful makes.- 
 In corners and clear fenesters ' of glass 
 Full busily Arachne * weavand was, 
 To knit her nettes and her webbes sly. 
 Therewith to catch the midge and little fly. 
 So dusty powder upstours ^ in every street, 
 While Corby "^^ gaspit for the fervent heat. 
 
 Dame Nature's minstrels, on that other part, . 
 With merry notes mirthfully forth brest, . . . 
 The cushat croods and pirkes on the rise ; ' 
 The starling changes divers Stevens ^ nice ; 
 The sparrow chirmes in the walles clift : 
 Goldspink and lintwhite fordinnand the lift ; 
 The cuckoo gales,^ and so whitters the quail ; 
 \Vhile rivers reirdit,^'' shaws, and every vale ; 
 And tender twistes trimmilt ^^ on the trees, 
 For birdes sang and bimming ^- of the bees. 
 In warbles dulce of heavenly armonies, 
 The larkes, loud releshand ^^ in the skies, 
 
 ' Oaks. - Mates. ^ Windows. 
 
 ■* The spider. ^ Clouds up. '' The crow. 
 
 '' The wood-pigeon coos and twitters on tlie branch. 
 
 8 Sounds, modulations. ^ Calls. 
 
 '" Clamoured. ^i Twigs trembled. '- Humming. 
 
 '^ Singing freely.
 
 lOO BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Loves their Liege, ^ with tones curious; 
 Baith to Dame Nature and the fresh Venus, 
 Rendering high laudes in their observance ; 
 Whaes sugured throates made glad heartes dance ; 
 And all small fowles singes on the spray : — 
 " Welcome, the Lord of Light, and Lamp of Day ; 
 Welcome, foster of tender herbes green ; 
 Welcome, quickener of flourished flowers sheen ; 
 Welcome, support of every root and vein ; 
 Welcome, comfort of allkind fruit and grain : 
 Welcome, the birdes bield upon the breir ; ^ 
 Welcome, maister and ruler of the year ; 
 Welcome, weelfare of husbands ^ at the ploughs ; 
 Welcome, repairer of woodes, trees, and boughs : 
 Welcome, depainter of the bloomit meads ; 
 Welcome, the life of everything that spreads ; 
 Welcome, storer of all kind bestial ; •* 
 Welcome be thy bricht beames, gladding all ; 
 Welcome, celestial mirror, and espy, 
 Atteaching^ all that hauntes^ sluggardy." 
 
 And with this word, in chamber where I lay, 
 The ninth morrow of freshe temperate May, 
 On foot I sprent." 
 
 GAWAIN DOUGLAS. 
 
 1 Lord. 
 
 - Shelter on the brier. 
 
 ■' Husbandmen. 
 
 * Cattle. 
 
 ■'5 Reproving. 
 
 •> Practise, 
 
 " Sprang. 
 

 
 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING lOl 
 
 "LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING" 
 
 I HEARD a thousand blended notes, 
 
 While in a grove I sat reclined, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did nature link 
 
 The human soul that through me ran ; 
 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What man has made of man. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, 
 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths : 
 
 And 'tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopped and played ; 
 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
 But the least motion which they made, 
 
 It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan. 
 
 To catch the breezy air ; 
 And I must think, do all I can. 
 
 That there was pleasure there.
 
 I02 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 If I these thoughts may not prevent, 
 If such be of my creed the plan, 
 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What man has made of man ? 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 TO A WATERFOWL 
 
 Whither, midst faUing dew, 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
 
 Thy solitary way ? 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
 As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean-side ? 
 
 There is a Power whose care 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — 
 The desert and illimitable air — 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost.
 
 TO A WATERFOWL IQ3 
 
 All day thy wings have fanned. 
 At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 
 Though the dark night is near. 
 
 And soon that toil shall end ; 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 
 
 Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 
 
 Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
 Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
 Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
 
 And shall not soon depart. 
 
 He who, from zone to zone, I 
 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, =; 
 
 In the long way that I must tread alone, 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 J
 
 IV. 
 
 SPRING — NESTING
 
 THE CUCKOO 
 
 Amid the sound of picks to-day, 
 And shovels rasping on the rail, 
 
 A sweet voice came from far away, 
 From out a gladly greening vale. 
 
 My mate look'd up in some surprise ; 
 
 I half stopp'd humming idle rhyme : 
 Then said, the moisture in my eyes, 
 
 " The cuckoo, Jack, for the first time." 
 
 How sweet he sang ! I could have stood 
 For hours, and heard that simple strain ; 
 
 An early gladness throng'd my blood, 
 And brought my boyhood back again. 
 
 The primrose took a deeper hue. 
 The dewy grass a greener look ; 
 
 The violet wore a deeper blue, 
 A lighter music led the brook.
 
 I08 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Each thing to its own depth was stirr'd, 
 Leaf, flower, and heaven's moving cloud, 
 
 As still he piped, that stranger bird, 
 His mellow May-song clear and loud. 
 
 Would I could see him as he sings, 
 When, as if thought and act were one, 
 
 He came ; the gray on neck and wings 
 Turn'd white against the happy sun 
 
 I knew his well-known sober flight. 
 That boyhood made so dear to me ; 
 
 And, blessings on him ! he stopp'd in sight, 
 And sang where I could hear and see. 
 
 Two simple notes were all he sang, 
 And yet my manhood fled away ; 
 
 Dear God ! The earth is always young, 
 And I am young with it to-day. 
 
 A wondrous realm of early joy 
 
 Grew all around as I became 
 Among my mates a bearded boy. 
 
 That could have wept but for the shame. 
 
 For all my purer life, now dead, 
 Rose up, fair-fashioned, at the call 
 
 Of that gray bird, whose voice had shed 
 The charm of bovhood over all.
 
 TOTHECUCKOO lOQ 
 
 O early hopes and sweet spring tears ! 
 
 That heart has never known its prime 
 That stands without a tear and hears 
 
 The cuckoo's voice for the first time. 
 
 ALEXANDER ANDERSON 
 
 (" Surfaceman "). 
 
 From "INFANCY— A FRACxMENT" 
 
 The Hnnet chirp'd upon the furze as well, 
 To my young sense, as sings the nightingale. 
 Without was paradise — because within 
 Was a keen relish, without taint of sin. 
 
 CRARBE. 
 
 "TO THE CUCKOO" 
 
 O BLITHE new-comer ! I have heard, 
 
 I hear thee and rejoice : 
 O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird. 
 
 Or but a wandering voice ?
 
 IIO BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 While I am lying on the grass, 
 Thy loud note smites my ear ! 
 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
 At once far off and near ! 
 
 I hear thee babbling to the vale 
 Of sunshine and of flowers ; 
 
 And unto me thou bring'st a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the spring ! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 No bird, but an invisible thing, 
 
 A voice, a mystery. 
 
 The same whom in my school-boy days 
 
 I listened to ; that cry 
 Which made me look a thousand ways 
 
 In bush, and tree, and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 
 Through woods and on the green : 
 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
 Still longed for, never seen ! 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet ; 
 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 
 That golden time again.
 
 THE SHEALING SONG III 
 
 O blessed bird ! the earth we pace 
 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, fairy place ; 
 
 That is fit home for thee 1 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 /> 
 
 From "THE SHEALING SONG" 
 
 When the cry of the cuckoo is heard from the craig, 
 Then the milk on the kye will be flowing, 
 
 And we'll leave low Glen Spean, and up to Loch 
 Treig, 
 And his bonny green shealings be going. 
 
 On the birk comes the leaf at the glad cuckoo cry, 
 And green braird to upland and hollow, 
 
 Comes bloom to the hillside, and warmth to the sky, 
 And to the still lochan the swallow. 
 
 I. C. SHAIRP.
 
 112 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "KING LEAR" 
 
 ACT I. SCENE IV. 
 
 Fool. \ 
 
 The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long. 
 That it had its head bit off by its young. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS 
 
 When I hear the waters fretting, 
 When I see the chestnut letting 
 All her lovely blossom falter down, I think. " Alas 
 the day ! " 
 Once with magical sweet singing, 
 Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, 
 That awakes no more while April hours wear them- 
 selves away. 
 
 In our hearts fair hope lay smiling, 
 Sweet as air and all beguiling ; 
 And there hung a mist of bluebells on the slope 
 and down the dell ;
 
 WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS II3 
 
 And we talked of joy and splendour 
 That the years unborn would render, 
 And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for 
 they knew it well. 
 
 Piping, fluting, " Bees are humming, 
 April's here, and summer's coming : 
 Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, 
 in pride and joy ; 
 Think on us in alleys shady, 
 When you step a graceful lady ; 
 For no fairer day have we to hope for, little girl 
 and boy. 
 
 "Laugh and play, O lisping waters, 
 Lull our downy sons and daughters ; 
 Come, O wind, and rock their leafy cradle in thy 
 wanderings coy : 
 When they wake we'll end the measure 
 With a wild sweet cry of pleasure. 
 And a ' Hey down derry, let's be merry ! little girl 
 and boy ! ' " 
 
 JEAN INGELOW.
 
 114 BARDS AND THh BIRDS 
 
 From "THE EPIC OF HADES" 
 
 The broad West wind breathes softly, and the air 
 Is tremulous with the lark, and thro' the woods 
 The soft full-throated thrushes all day long 
 Flood the green dells with joy, and thro' the dry 
 Brown fields the sower strides, sowing his seed, 
 And all is life and song. 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. 
 
 From "AN APRIL SONG" 
 
 And let me hear the mavis pour 
 
 His rich full-throated lay. 
 Unbosoming his redundant store 
 
 Of gladness to the day ; 
 And let me ban all moody thoughts 
 
 To Limbo far away. 
 When all the air is quick with notes 
 
 Of happy life to-day. 
 
 Shine, shine, O April bright. 
 And drive dull care away ! 
 
 JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
 
 THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE II5 
 
 From "LOCKSLEY HALL" 
 
 In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the 
 
 robin's breast ; 
 In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself 
 
 another crest ; 
 
 In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd 
 
 dove ; 
 In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to 
 
 thoughts of love. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 From "THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE 
 
 The birdes, that han left hir song 
 ^Vhile they han suffred cold full strong 
 In wethers grille and derke to sight, 
 Ben in May, for the Sunne bright, 
 So glad, that they shew in singing 
 That in hir heart is such liking,
 
 Il6 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 That they mote singen and ben light. 
 Than doth the nightingale her might 
 To maken noyse, and singen blithe : 
 Than is blisfull many a sithe, 
 The chelaundre, and the popingaye : 
 Than younge folke entenden ay, 
 For to ben gay and amorous ; 
 The time is then so savorous. 
 
 Harde is his heart that loveth nought 
 In May, whan all this mirth is wrought, 
 Whan he may on these braunches here 
 The smalle birdes singen clere 
 Hir blisfull, swete song piteous. . . . 
 
 CHAUCERIAN PERIOD. 
 
 From *' VALENTINE'S DAY" 
 
 Oh ! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the 
 south. 
 Settled among the alder-holts, and twittering by 
 the stream ; 
 I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny 
 mouth. 
 And sing my tiny hfe away in one melodious 
 dream.
 
 FRAGMENT I I 7 
 
 I would sing about the blossoms, and the sunshine 
 and the sky, 
 And the tiny wife I mean to have in such a cosy 
 nest ; 
 And if some one came and shot me dead, why then 
 I could but die, 
 With my tiny life and tiny song just ended at 
 their best. 
 
 CHARL?:S KINOSLRY. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 Chaste are their instincts, faithful is their fire, 
 No foreign beauty tempts to false desire ; 
 The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown, 
 The simple plumage, or the glossy down 
 Prompt not their loves — the patriot bird pursues 
 His well-acquainted tints, and kindred hues. 
 Hence through their tribes no mixed polluted flame, 
 No monster breed to mark the groves with shame ; 
 But the chaste blackbird, to its partner true. 
 Thinks black alone is beauty's favourite hue. 
 The nightingale, with mutual passion blest, 
 Sings to its mate, and nightly charms the rest. 
 While the dark owl to court its partner flies, 
 And owns its offspring in their yellow eyes. 
 
 (?)
 
 Il8 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 THE BIRDS 
 
 HE. 
 
 Where thou dwellest, in what grove, 
 Tell me, fair one, tell me, love ; 
 Where thou thy charming nest dost build, 
 O thou pride of every field ! 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Yonder stands a lonely tree : 
 There I live and mourn for thee. 
 Morning drinks my silent tear. 
 And evening winds my sorrow bear. 
 
 HE. 
 
 thou summer's harmony, 
 
 1 have lived and mourned for thee ; 
 Each day I moan along the wood, 
 And night hath heard my sorrows loud. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Dost thou truly long for me ? 
 And am I thus sweet to thee ? 
 Sorrow now is at an end, 
 O my lover and my friend !
 
 THE WREN S NEST II9 
 
 Come ! on wings of joy we'll fly 
 To where my bower is hung on high ; 
 Come, and make thy calm retreat 
 Among green leaves and blossoms sweet. 
 
 BLAKE. 
 
 THE WREN'S NEST 
 
 I TOOK the wren's nest ; — 
 
 Heaven forgive me ! 
 
 Its merry architects so small 
 
 Had scarcely finished their wee hall, 
 
 That, empty still and neat and fair 
 
 Hung idly in the summer air. 
 
 The mossy walls, the dainty door, 
 
 Where Love should enter and explore. 
 
 And Love sit carolling outside, 
 
 And Love within chirp multiplied; — 
 
 I took the wren's nest. — 
 
 Heaven forgive me ! 
 
 How many hours of happy pains 
 Through early frosts and April rains. 
 How many songs at eve and morn 
 O'er springing grass and greening corn.
 
 I 20 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 What labours hard through sun and shade 
 Before the pretty house was made ! 
 One little minute, only one, 
 And she'll fly back, and find it — gone ! 
 
 I took the wren's nest : 
 
 Bird, forgive me ! 
 
 Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear. 
 Ye have before you all the year. 
 And every wood holds nooks for you, 
 In which to sing and build and woo ; 
 One piteous cry of birdish pain — 
 And ye'll begin your life again. 
 Forgetting quite the lost, lost home 
 In many a busy home to corne. — 
 But I ? — Your wee house keep I must 
 Until it crumble into dust. 
 
 I took the wren's nest : 
 
 God forgive me ! 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.
 
 THE FOUR BRIDGES 121 
 
 From "THE FOUR BRIDGES" 
 
 To yonder copse by moonlight I did go, 
 
 In luxury of mischief, half afraid, 
 To steal the great owl's brood, her downy snow, 
 
 Her screaming imps to seize, the while she preyed 
 With yellow, cruel eyes, whose radiant glare 
 Fell with their mother rage, I might not dare. 
 
 Panting I lay till her great fanning wings 
 
 Troubled the dreams of rock-doves, slumbering 
 nigh; 
 
 And she and her fierce mate, like evil things, 
 Skimmed the dusk fields ; then rising, with a cry 
 
 Of fear, joy, triumph, darted on my prey. 
 
 And tore it from the nest and fled away. 
 
 But afterward, belated in the wood, 
 I saw her moping on the rifled tree. 
 
 And my heart smote me for her, while I stood 
 Awakened from my careless reverie ; 
 
 So white she looked, with moonlight round her shed, 
 
 So mother-like she drooped and hung her head. 
 
 JEAN INGELOW.
 
 122 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "GERTRUDE OF WYOMING" 
 
 And nought within the grove was heard or seen 
 But stock-doves plaining through its gloom pro- 
 found, 
 Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird, 
 Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round. 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 From "WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA" 
 
 The trees shook hands high over head, 
 And bow'd and intertwined across 
 The narrow way, while leaves and moss 
 And luscious fruit, gold-hued and red. 
 Through all the canopy of green, 
 Let not one sunshaft shoot between. 
 
 Birds hung and swung, green-robed and red. 
 Or droop'd in curved lines dreamily. 
 Rainbows reversed, from tree to tree. 
 Or sang low-hanging overhead —
 
 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS I23 
 
 Sang low, as if they sang and slept, 
 Sang faint, like some far waterfall. 
 And took no note of us at all, 
 Though nuts that in the way were spread 
 Did crash and crackle as we stept. 
 
 The long days through from blossom'd trees 
 There came the sweet song of sweet bees, 
 With chorus-tones of cockatoo 
 That slid his beak along the bough. 
 And walk'd and talk'd and hung and swung, 
 In crown of gold and coat of blue. 
 The wisest fool that ever sung, 
 Or had a crown, or had a tongue. 
 
 JOAQUIN iMILLER. 
 
 From "THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS" 
 
 There sits the bird that speaks ! there, quivering, 
 
 rise 
 Wings that reflect the glow of evening-skies ! 
 Half bird, half fly, the fairy king of flowers 
 Reigns there, and revels thro' the fragrant hours ; 
 Gem full of life, and joy, and song divine. 
 Soon in the virgin's graceful ear to shine. 
 
 ROGERS.
 
 124 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "LALLA ROOKH" 
 
 Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen ; — 
 Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between 
 The crimson blossoms of the coral tree 
 In the warm isles of India's sunny sea ; 
 Mecca's blue sacred pigeon, and the thrush 
 Of Hindostan, whose holy warblings gush 
 At evening from the tall pagoda's top ; — 
 Those golden birds ^ that, in the spice time, drop 
 About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food 
 Whose scent hath lured them o'er the summer 
 
 flood; 
 And those that under Araby's soft sun 
 Build their high nests of budding cinnamon ; — 
 In short, all rare and beauteous things that fly 
 Through the pure element here calmly lie 
 Sleeping in light, like the green birds - that dwell 
 In Eden's radiant fields of asphodel ! 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 ' Birds of Paradise. 
 
 - " The spirits of the martyrs will be lodged in the crops of 
 green birds." — Gibbon.
 
 WARBLE FOR LILAC-TIME 12$ 
 
 WARBLE FOR LILAC-TIME 
 
 Warble me now for joy of lilac-time, (returning in 
 
 reminiscence,) 
 Sort me, O tongue and lips, for Nature's sake, 
 
 souvenirs of earliest summer, 
 Gather the welcome signs, (as children with pebbles 
 
 or stringing shells,) 
 Put in April and May, the hylas croaking in the 
 
 ponds, the elastic air, 
 Bees, butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes, 
 Blue-bird and darting swallow, nor forget the high- 
 hole flashing his golden wings. 
 The tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the 
 
 vapour, 
 Shimmer of waters with fish in them, the cerulean 
 
 above, 
 All that is jocund and sparkling, the brooks 
 
 running, 
 The maple woods, the crisp February days and 
 
 the sugar-making. 
 The robin where he hops, bright-eyed, brown 
 
 breasted. 
 With musical clear call at sunrise, and again at 
 
 sunset.
 
 126 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Or flitting among the trees of the apple-orchard, 
 building the nest of his mate, 
 
 The melted snow of March, the willow sending 
 forth its yellow-green sprouts, 
 
 For spring-time is here ! the summer is here ! and 
 what is this in it and from it ? 
 
 Thou, soul, unloosen'd — the restlessness after I 
 know not what ; 
 
 Come, let us lag here no longer, let us be up and 
 away ! 
 
 O if one could but fly like a bird ! 
 
 O to escape, to sail forth as in a ship ! 
 
 To glide with thee, O soul, o'er all, in all, as a sliip 
 o'er the waters ; 
 
 Gathering these hints, the preludes, the blue sky, 
 the grass, the morning drops of dew, 
 
 The Hlac-scent, the bushes with dark green heart- 
 shaped leaves, 
 
 A\'ood-violets, the little delicate pale blossoms 
 called innocence. 
 
 Samples and sorts not for themselves alone, but 
 for their atmosphere. 
 
 To grace the bush I love — to sing with the birds, 
 
 A. warble for joy of lilac-time, returning in reminis- 
 cence. 
 
 WALT WHITMAN.
 
 THE TITLARK S NEST 12/ 
 
 From 
 "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON" 
 
 And many a green necked bird sung to his mate 
 Within the sHm-leaved, thorny pomegranate, 
 That flung its unstrung rubies on the grass. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 THE TITLARK'S NEST 
 
 A PARABLE. 
 " Introite, nam et huic deii sunt." — Apnd Gelliiiin. 
 
 I. 
 
 AVhere o'er his azure birthplace still the smile 
 Of sweet Apollo kindles golden hours, 
 
 High on the white peak of a glittering isle 
 A ruin'd fane within a wild vine's bowers 
 
 Muffled its marble-pillar'd peristyle ; 
 
 As under curls, that clasp in frolic showers 
 
 A young queen's brow, her antique diadem's 
 
 Stern grandeur hides its immemorial gems.
 
 128 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 11. 
 
 The place was solitary, and the fane 
 
 Deserted save that where, in saucy scorn 
 
 Of desolation's impotent disdain, 
 
 The revelling leaves and buds and bunches born 
 
 From that wild vine along a roofless lane 
 
 Of mouldering marble columns roam'd, one 
 morn 
 
 A titlark, by past grandeur unopprest, 
 
 Had boldly built her inconspicuous nest. 
 
 And there where girt by priests and devotees 
 A god once gazed upon the suppliant throng, 
 
 Wild foliage waved by every wandering breeze 
 Now shelter'd one small bird ; to whose lone 
 song, 
 
 Companion'd by no choral minstrelsies. 
 An aged shepherd listen'd all day long. 
 
 Unlearn'd the listener and untaught the lay. 
 
 But bhthe were both in their instinctive way. 
 
 iV. 
 
 Thither once came a traveller who had read 
 Marcus Vitruvius PoUio, and had all 
 
 The terms of architecture in his head, 
 Apophyge, and plinth, and astragal.
 
 IHE titlark's nest I 29 
 
 He, from below, had in its leafy bed 
 
 Spied out the carcass of an antique wall, 
 Keen as, from heaven, the hovering condor spies 
 Where, in the pampas hid, a dead horse lies. 
 
 " Pelasgian ? Nought doth old Pausanias say 
 About this ruin, and I find no plan 
 
 Or note of it in learned Caylus ; nay, 
 
 I doubt not it was miss'd by Winckelmann. 
 
 The prize is mine. No joke, this hot noon-day, 
 To climb yon hill ! But Science leads the van 
 
 Of Enterprise ; and now's the chance to shame 
 
 The English Elgin's cheaply-purchased fame. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Ho, you there, yonder in the bramble-bush ! " 
 The tired explorer to the shepherd cried, 
 
 " A drachma for thy guidance, friend ! " But 
 " Hush ! " 
 The grey-hair'd herdsman of the hills replied. 
 
 Then, pointing upward to the leafage lush 
 
 That rippled round the ruin'd fane, with pride 
 
 He added, "Hark, where yonder leaves are 
 swinging. 
 
 The god's voice from his sanctuary singing ! "
 
 MO BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 VII. 
 
 The traveller laugh'd. '"Tis a curruca small, 
 The Orphea, I surmise, whose note we hear. 
 
 Her nest is haply in yon temple wall. 
 
 An earlier songstress she, and sings more clear, 
 
 Than her small northern cousin whom we call 
 Atricapilla Sylvia. But I fear, 
 
 My worthy friend, we must not deem divine 
 
 Each vagrant voice that issues from a shrine." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Yet," said the old man, with a pensive smile, 
 " I heard my mother tell when I was young 
 
 (And she, Sir, was a daughter of this isle) 
 
 How everything that's here had once a tongue, 
 
 In the old times. Myself, too, many a while 
 Have heard the streamlets singing many a 
 song, 
 
 And, tho' their language was unknown to me, 
 
 The reeds were moved by it, as I could see. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Sir, when I was a boy I pastured here 
 
 My father's goats which now, Sir, are mine own. 
 
 For he is underground this many a year. 
 
 But he had lived his life, and Heaven hath shown
 
 THE TITLARKS NEST I3I 
 
 Much goodness to us, and my children dear 
 
 Are all grown up ; and, musing here alone, 
 Oft have I wonder'd ' Could this temple break 
 Long silence, in what language would it speak ? ' 
 
 " Full sure was I that if it spoke to me, 
 
 Whate'er its language, I should understand. 
 
 Then, I was young : and now, tho' old I be, 
 When sweet in heaven above the silent land 
 
 That voice I hear, my soul feels glad and free, 
 And I am fain to bless the god's command, 
 
 With welcome prompt responding to the voice 
 
 He sends from heaven to bid my heart rejoice. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Ah, not in vain its message have I heard ! 
 
 And, Sir, tho' it may be, as you aver. 
 The voice comes only from a little bird. 
 
 Whose name, indeed, I never heard of. Sir, 
 And tho' I doubt not aught by you averr'd. 
 
 For you. Sir, seem a learned traveller, 
 Yet still the temple that contains the song 
 A temple is, and doth to God belong.
 
 132 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 XII. 
 
 " And haply to the Httle bird I hear 
 
 He may have said ' I am myself too high 
 
 For this poor man. Speak to him thou, speak clear, 
 And tell him, little bird, that he may lie 
 
 On consecrated ground and have no fear, 
 But listen to thy messages, and try 
 
 To understand.' And I have understood, 
 
 For when I Usten, Sir, it does me good." 
 
 ROBERT, EARL OF LYTTON. 
 
 / 
 
 From "THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY" 
 
 / 
 
 Then, stand there and hear 
 The birds' quiet singing, that tells us 
 
 What life is, so clear ? 
 — The secret they sang to Ulysses 
 
 When, ages ago. 
 He heard and he knew this life's secret, 
 
 I hear and I know. 
 
 BROWNING.
 
 ATHENS (1865) 133 
 
 From "ATHENS" 
 
 But the darkness of the twihght noon is cloven 
 Still with shrill sweet moan of many a nightin- 
 gale. 
 Closer clustering there they make sweet noise 
 together, 
 Where the fearful gods look gentler than our 
 fear, 
 And the grove thronged through with birds of 
 holiest feather 
 Grows nor pale nor dumb with sense of dark 
 things near. 
 
 SW^INBURNE. 
 
 From "ATHENS" (1865) 
 
 But loud o'er Grecian ruins still the lark 
 Doth, as of old, Hyperion's glory hail, 
 And from Hymettus, in the moonlight, hark 
 
 The exuberant nightingale ! 
 
 ROBERT, EARL OF LYTTON.
 
 134 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 ; 
 
 IN TUSCANY 
 
 Dost thou remember, friend of vanish'd days, 
 How in the golden land of love and song, 
 
 We met in April in the crowded ways 
 Of that fair city where the soul is strong, 
 
 Aye ! strong as fate, for good or evil praise ? 
 
 And how the lord whom all the world obeys, — 
 The lord of light to whom the stars belong, — 
 Illumed the track that led thee through the 
 throng ? 
 
 Dost thou remember, in the wooded dale. 
 Beyond the town of Dante the Divine, 
 How all the air was flooded as with wine ? 
 
 And how the lark, to drown the nightingale, 
 
 Peal'd out sweet notes ? I live to tell the tale. 
 But thou ? Oblivion signs thee with a sign ! 
 
 ERIC MACKAV.
 
 MAY-DAY 135 
 
 From "MAY SONG" 
 
 Birds on their boughs, of every sort, 
 Send forth their notes and make great mirth, 
 On banks that bloom ; on every brae, 
 On every brae, on every brae ; 
 And fare and fly o'er field and firth, 
 Through gladness of this lusty May, 
 Through gladness of this lusty May. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 From "MAY-DAY" 
 
 Ah ! well I mind the calendar. 
 Faithful through a thousand years, 
 Of the painted race of flowers, 
 Exact to days, exact to hours. 
 Counted on the spacious dial 
 Yon broidered zodiac girds. 
 I know the trusty almanac 
 Of the punctual coming-back, 
 On their due days, of the birds.
 
 136 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 I marked them yestermorn, 
 
 A flock of finches darting 
 
 Beneath the crystal arch, 
 
 Piping, as they flew, a march, — 
 
 BeUke the one they used in parting 
 
 Last year from yon oak or larch ; 
 
 Dusky sparrows in a crowd, 
 
 Diving, darting northward free, 
 
 Suddenly betook them all. 
 
 Every one to his hole in the wall, 
 
 Or to his niche in the apple-tree. 
 
 I greet with joy the choral trains 
 
 Fresh from palms and Cuba's canes. 
 
 Best gems of Nature's cabinet. 
 
 With dews of tropic morning wet. 
 
 Beloved of children, bards, and Spring, 
 
 O birds, your perfect virtues bring, 
 
 Your song, your forms, your rhythmic flight. 
 
 Your manners for the heart's delight. 
 
 Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof, 
 
 Here weave your chamber weather-proof, 
 
 Forgive our harms, and condescend 
 
 To man, as to a lubber friend. 
 
 And, generous, teach his awkward race 
 
 Courage, and probity, and grace ! 
 
 EMERSON.
 
 PROTHALAMION I37 
 
 From "PROTHALAMION" 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 "Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament, 
 And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower 
 Doth leade unto your lovers blissfull bower, 
 Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content 
 Of your loves couplement ! 
 And let faire Venus, that is Queen of love, 
 With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile, 
 Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove 
 All loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile 
 For ever to assoile. 
 
 Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord. 
 And blessed Plenty wait upon you[r] bord ; 
 And let your bed with pleasures chast abound, 
 That fruitful! issue may to you afford, 
 AV^hich may your foes confound, 
 And make your joyes redound 
 Upon your Brydale day, which is not long : 
 
 Sweete Themmes ! run softlie, till I end my 
 song." 
 
 SPENSER.
 
 m8 bards and the birds 
 
 / 
 
 SPRING 
 
 Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; 
 Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring. 
 Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, 
 Cuckoo, Jug-Jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. 
 
 The palm and may make country houses gay. 
 Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day. 
 And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, 
 Ciickoo, Jugjug, pu-ive, to-ivitta-'ivoo. 
 
 The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, 
 Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit. 
 In every street these tunes our ears do greet. 
 Cuckoo, Jugjug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. 
 Spring, the sweet Spring ! 
 
 THOMAS NASH.
 
 THE SONG OF BIRDS I 39 
 
 THE SONG OF BIRDS 
 
 What bird so sings, yet so does wail ? 
 O 'tis the ravished Nightingale ! 
 Jug'jug ! jug-jug ! tereu I she cries, 
 And still her woes at midnight rise. 
 
 Brave prick-song ! who is't now we hear ? 
 None but the Lark so shrill and clear ; 
 At Heaven's gate she claps her wings, 
 The morn not waking till she sings. 
 
 Hark, hark ! with what a pretty throat 
 Poor Robin Redbreast tunes his note ; 
 Hark how the jolly Cuckoos sing, 
 
 Cuckoo ! to welcome in the spring ! 
 
 Cuckoo ! to welcome in the spring ! 
 
 JOHN LVLV.
 
 I40 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM" 
 
 STANZA XV. 
 
 As it fell upon a day, 
 In the merry month of May, 
 Sitting in a pleasant shade 
 Which a grove of myrtles made. 
 Beasts did leap, and birds did sing. 
 Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; 
 Everything did banish moan. 
 Save the nightingale alone : 
 She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 
 Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn, 
 And there sung the dolefuU'st ditty. 
 That to hear it was great pity : 
 " Fie, fie, fie," now would she cry ; 
 " Teru, Teru ! " by and by ; 
 That to hear her so complain. 
 Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 
 For her griefs, so lively shown. 
 Made me think upon mine own. 
 Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain ! 
 None take pity on thy pain :
 
 A DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING I4I 
 
 Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; 
 
 Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee. 
 
 King Pandion, he is dead ; 
 
 All thy friends are lapp'd in lead ; 
 
 All thy fellow-birds do sing, 
 
 Careless of thy sorrowing. 
 
 Even so, poor bird, like thee, 
 
 None alive will pity me. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From 
 
 "A DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING" 
 
 And hark ! behind baptismal shower, 
 
 Whose drops, new-poured on leaf and flower, 
 
 Unto their infant faces cling, 
 
 The cuckoo, sponsor of the Spring, 
 
 Breaks in, and strives, with loud acclaim, 
 
 To christen it with his own name. 
 
 Now he begins, he will not cease. 
 
 Nor leave the woodlands any peace, 
 
 That have to listen all day long 
 
 To him reciting his one song. 
 
 And oft you may, when all is still. 
 
 And night lies smooth on vale and hill.
 
 142 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Hear him call " Cuckoo ! " in his dream, 
 Still haunted by the egoist theme. 
 
 Yes, Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! cuckoo, still ! 
 Do you not feel an impulse thrill 
 Your vernal blood to do the same, 
 And, boylike, shout him back his name? 
 But though he loudest, longest sings, 
 Music is shook from myriad wings. 
 Hear you the lark advancing now. 
 Through seas of air, with rippling prow ? 
 They say that from the poet's tears 
 Spring sweetest songs for unseen ears ; 
 And from its moist and lowly bed, 
 The lark mounts up aloft to shed. 
 In heavenly fields beyond our view. 
 Music still drenched with earthly dew. 
 The robin, that in winter cheers 
 With his lone voice our lonelier ears. 
 Though warbling still on neighbouring bough. 
 Sings all unheard, unnoticed now. 
 Chatter the jays, the starlings flute, 
 There's not a single throat that's mute. 
 From tree to tree the finches flit. 
 Nor once their carols intermit. 
 The willow-warbler mounts, then drops, 
 And in his silvery solo stops
 
 A DEFENCE OF ENGLISH SPRING I43 
 
 Just as it bubbles to the brim, 
 
 To hark if any answer him. 
 
 High on a bare conspicuous spray, 
 
 That none may doubt who chants the lay. 
 
 Proud of his undisputed skill 
 
 To breast whatever note he will, 
 
 The thrush runs revelling all along 
 
 The spacious gamut of his song ; 
 
 Varies, inverts, repeats the strain, 
 
 Then sings it different again. 
 
 The blackbird, less expert than he, 
 
 Coaxes and scolds alternately ; 
 
 Then, with a sudden scream and rush, 
 
 Is off into another bush. 
 
 Feigning to fear for life and limb. 
 
 Though none have interfered with him. 
 
 But listen ! ne'er on urban bough 
 
 Was perched the note you caught just now. 
 
 Hush ! move a little down the lane ; 
 
 When we have passed he'll start again. 
 
 There ! Did you ever hear a strain 
 
 Of such apotheosized pain. 
 
 Such sadness almost sung to bliss. 
 
 Blending of woe and joy like this ? 
 
 Yes, he descants all day, despite 
 
 The name he borrows from the night. 
 
 Though then perchance the wails increase. 
 
 When doth true anguish ever cease ?
 
 144 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 He is the poet-bird that sings 
 
 Through joy, through sorrow, through all things. 
 
 'Tis only we that do not hark 
 
 Until our own bright days grow dark. 
 
 ALFRED AUSTIN. 
 
 From "THE ASSEMBLY OF FOULES" 
 
 A GARDEiN saw I full of blosomed bowis, 
 Upon a river in a grene mede. 
 There as sweetnesse evermore inough is, 
 With floures white, blewe, yelowe, and rede. 
 And cold welle streames, nothing dede. 
 That swommen full of smale fishes light, 
 With finnes rede, and scales silver bright. 
 
 On every bough the birdes heard I sing. 
 With voice of angell in hir armonie. 
 That busied hem hir birdes forth to bring. 
 The little pretty conies to hir play gan hie. 
 And further all about I gan espie 
 The dredeful roe, the buck, the hart, and hind, 
 Squirrels, and beastes small of gentle kind. 
 
 Of instruments of stringes in accorde 
 Heard I so play a ravishing swetnesse.
 
 THE ASSEMBLY OK FOULES I45 
 
 That God, that maker is of all and Lorde, 
 Ne heard never better, as I gesse. 
 Therewith a wind, unneth ^ it might be lesse, 
 Made in the leaves grene a noise soft 
 Accordant to the foules song on loft. 
 
 For this was on sainct Valentine's day. 
 Whan every foule cometh to chese hir make, 
 Of every kind that men thinke may. 
 And that so huge a noise gan they make. 
 That earth, sea, and tree, and every lake, 
 So full was. that unneth there was space 
 For me to stand, so full was all the place. 
 
 And right as Alain, in the Plaint of Kinde, 
 Deviseth Nature of such araie and face, 
 In suche aray men might her there finde 
 This noble empresse full of all grace. 
 Bad every foule take hir owne place. 
 As they were wont alway, fro yere to yere. 
 On sainct Valentine's day, standen there. 
 
 That is to say, the foules of ravine 
 Were highest set, and than the foules smale, 
 That eaten as that nature would encline. 
 As worme or thing, of which I tell no tale, 
 
 1 Scarcely.
 
 146 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 But water foule sat lowest in the dale, 
 
 And foules that liveth by seed sat on the grene, 
 
 And that so many, that wonder was to sene. 
 
 There might men the royall egle find, 
 
 That with his sharpe looke perseth the Son, 
 
 And other egles of a lower kind. 
 
 Of which that clerkes well devisen con ; 
 
 There was the tyrant with his fethers don, 
 
 And grene, I mean the goshauke that doth pine 
 
 To birdes, for his outragious ravine. 
 
 The gentle faucon, that with his fete distreineth 
 The king's hand, the hardy sperhauke eke, 
 The quailes foe, the merlion that peineth 
 Himself full oft the larke for to seke. 
 There was the dove, with her eyen meke. 
 The jelous swan, ayenst his deth that singeth. 
 The oul eke, that of deth the bode bringeth. 
 
 The crane, the geaunt, with his trompes soune, 
 The thief the chough, and the chattring pie, 
 The scorning jaye, the eles foe the heroune. 
 The false lapwing, full of trecherie, 
 The stare, that the couhsaile can bewrie, 
 The tame ruddocke, and the coward kite, 
 The cocke, that horiloge is of thorpes lite.
 
 The eles foe the Heroune. " 
 
 Chaucek.
 
 THE ASSEMBLY OF FOULES I47 
 
 The sparowe Venus' son, and the nightingale 
 That clepeth ^ forth the fresh leaves new, 
 The swalowe, murdrer of the bees smale 
 That maken honie of fioures fresh of hew, 
 The wedded turtell, with his herte true. 
 The pecocke, with his angel fethers bright, 
 The fesaunt, scorner of the cocke by night. 
 
 The waker gose, the cuckowe ever unkind. 
 
 The popingey, full of delicasy. 
 
 The drake, stroier of his owne kind, 
 
 The storke, wreker of adoutry, 
 
 The bote cormeraunt, full of glotony. 
 
 The ravin and the crowe, with her voice of care,, 
 
 The throstell olde, and the frostie feldefare. 
 
 What should I say ? of foules of every kind. 
 That in this world have fethers and stature. 
 Men might in that place assembled find. 
 Before that noble goddesse of Nature, 
 And eche of them did his busie cure, 
 Benignely to chese, or for to take 
 By her accorde, his formell or his make. 
 
 And whan this werk brought was to an end. 
 To every foule Nature yave his make, 
 
 1 Calleth.
 
 148 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 By even accord, and on hir way they wend, 
 And Lord the blisse and joy that they make. 
 For ech of hem gan other in his wings take, 
 And with hir neckes ech gan other winde, 
 Thanking alway the noble goddess of kinde. 
 
 But first were chosen foules for to sing, 
 As yere by yere was alway hir usaunce. 
 To sing a roundel at hir departing, 
 To do Nature honour and pleasaunce, 
 The note I trow maked was in Fraunce, 
 The words were such as ye may here find 
 The next verse as I now have in mind. 
 
 Qui hien ayme tard oublye. 
 
 " Now welcome summer, with thy sunnes soft, 
 That hast this winter weathers overshake. 
 Saint Valentine, thou art full high on loft, 
 Which drivest away the long nights blake ; 
 Thus singen smale foules for thy sake. 
 Well have they cause for to gladen oft. 
 Sens each of hem recovered hath his make, 
 Full blisful may they sing whan they awake." . . 
 
 CHAUCER,
 
 PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED 1 49 
 
 PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 I SHALL not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau 
 If birds confabulate or no ; 
 'Tis clear, that they were always able 
 To hold discourse, at least in fable ; 
 And e'en the child, who knows no better 
 Than to interpret by the letter, 
 A story of a cock and bull. 
 Must have a most uncommon skull. 
 It chanc'd then on a winter's day, 
 But warm, and bright, and calm as May, 
 The birds, conceiving a design 
 To forestall sweet St. Valentine, 
 In many an orchard, copse, and grove, 
 Assembled on affairs of love, 
 And with much twitter and much chatter. 
 Began to agitate the matter. 
 At length a Bullfinch, who could boast 
 More years and wisdom than the most, 
 Entreated, op'ning wide his beak, 
 A moment's liberty to speak ;
 
 150 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And, silence publicly enjoin'd, 
 Deliver'd briefly thus his mind : 
 
 My friends ! be cautious how ye treat 
 The subject upon which we meet ; 
 I fear we shall have winter yet. 
 
 A Finch, whose tongue knew no control. 
 With golden wing, and satin poll, 
 A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried 
 What marriage means, thus pert replied : 
 
 Methinks the gentleman, quoth she, 
 Opposite in the apple-tree, 
 By his good will would keep us single 
 Till yonder heav'n and earth shall mingle. 
 Or (which is likelier to befall) 
 Till death exterminate us all. 
 I marry without more ado. 
 My dear Dick Redcap, what say you ? 
 
 Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling? 
 Turning short round, strutting and sideling, 
 Attested, glad, his approbation 
 Of an immediate conjugation. 
 Their sentiments so well express'd 
 Influenc'd mightily the rest, 
 All pair'd, and each pair built a nest. 
 
 But though the birds were thus in haste, 
 The leaves came on not quite so fast, 
 And Destiny, that sometimes bears 
 An aspect stern on man's affairs,
 
 PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED 15I 
 
 Not altogether smil'd on theirs. 
 The wind, of late breath'd gently forth, 
 Now shifted east, and east by north ; 
 Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, 
 Could shelter them from rain or snow, 
 Stepping into their nests, they paddled, 
 Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were 
 
 addled ; 
 Soon ev'ry father bird and mother 
 Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other. 
 Parted without the least regret, 
 Except that they had ever met. 
 And learn'd in future to be wiser. 
 Than to neglect a good adviser. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Misses ! the tale that I relate 
 This lesson seems to carry — 
 
 Choose not alone a proper mate. 
 But proper time to marry. 
 
 COWPER.
 
 152 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 WINTER RAIN 
 
 Weave a bower of love 
 
 For birds to meet each other, 
 
 Weave a canopy above 
 Nest and egg and mother. 
 
 CHRISTINA (;. ROSSETTl. 
 
 THE TWA CORBIES 
 
 OLD BALLAD. 
 
 As I was walking a' my lane, 
 I heard twa corbies makin' their mane ; 
 The fane unto the t'ither did say, 
 " Whaur sail we gang dine this day?" 
 
 " Down beside yon new-fa'en birk, 
 
 I wot there lies a new-slain knight ; 
 
 Nae livin' kens that he lies there, 
 
 But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.
 
 UNDER THE WILLOWS I53 
 
 ' His hound is to the huntin' gane, 
 His hawk to fetch the wildfowl hame, 
 His lady's ta'en anither mate, 
 Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet. 
 
 " Ye'll sit on his white hause bane, 
 And I'll pyke out his bonny blue een, 
 VVi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, 
 We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. 
 
 " Mony a ane for him mak's mane, 
 But nane sail ken whaur he is gane ; 
 O'er his white banes when they are bare. 
 The wind sail blaw for evermair." 
 
 From "UNDER THE WILLOWS" 
 
 'T IS he ! 
 My oriole, my glance of summer fire, 
 Is come at last, and, ever on the watch. 
 Twitches the pack-thread I had lightly wound 
 About the bough to help his housekeeping, — 
 Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck, 
 Yet fearing me who laid it in his way, 
 Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs. 
 Divines the providence that hides and helps. 
 Heave, ho ! Heave, ho ! he whistles as the twine
 
 154 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Slackens its hold ; once more, now ! and a flash 
 Lightens across the sunlight to the elm 
 Where his mate dangles at her cup of felt. 
 Nor all his booty is the thread ; he trails 
 My loosened thought with it along the air, 
 And I must follow, would I ever find 
 The inward rhyme to all this wealth of life. 
 
 LOWELL. 
 
 From "CHARLES AVKSON" 
 
 . . . 'T was a bird 
 Breast-deep there, tugging at his prize, deterred 
 No whit by the fast-falling snow-flake : gain 
 Such prize my blackcap must by might and main — 
 The cloth shred, still a-flutter from its nail 
 That fixed a spray once. Now, what told the tale 
 To thee, — no townsman but born orchard-thief, — 
 That here — surpassing moss-tuft, beard from sheaf 
 Of sun-scorched barley, horsehairs long and stout, 
 All proper country-pillage — here, no doubt. 
 Was just the scrap to steal should line thy nest 
 Superbly ? Off he flew, his bill possessed 
 The booty sure to set his wife's each wing 
 Greenly a-quiver. How they climb and cling.
 
 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON I55 
 
 Hang parrot-wise to bough, these blackcaps ! 
 
 Strange 
 Seemed to a city-dweller that the finch 
 Should stray so far to forage : at a pinch, 
 Was not the fine wool's self within his range 
 — Filchings on every fence ? But no : the need 
 Was of this rag of manufacture, spoiled 
 By art, and yet by nature near unsoiled, 
 New-suited to what scheming finch would breed 
 In comfort, this uncomfortable March. 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "BROTHERS, AND A SERMON" 
 
 Coo, dove, to thy married mate — 
 She has two warm eggs in her nest : 
 
 Tell her the hours are few to wait 
 Ere life shall dawn on their rest ; 
 
 And thy young shall peck at the shells, elate 
 With a dream of her brooding breast. 
 
 Coo, dove, for she counts the hours, 
 
 Her fair wings ache for flight : 
 By day the apple has grown in the flowers, 
 
 And the moon has grown by night, 
 And the white drift settled from hawthorn bowers, 
 
 Yet they will not seek the light.
 
 156 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Coo, dove ; but what of the sky ? 
 
 And what if the storm-wind swell, 
 And the reeling branch come down from on high 
 
 To the grass where daisies dwell. 
 And the brood beloved should with them lie 
 
 Or ever they break the shell ? 
 
 Coo, dove ; and yet black clouds lower, 
 
 Like fate, on the far-off sea : 
 Thunder and wind they bear to thy bower. 
 
 As on wings of destiny. 
 Ah, what if they break in an evil hour, 
 
 As they broke over mine and me? . . . 
 
 JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 From "RED COTTON NIGHT-CAP 
 COUNTRY" 
 
 The white domestic pigeon pairs secure. 
 Nay, does mere duty by bestowing egg 
 In authorised compartment, warm and safe, 
 Boarding about, and gilded spire above. 
 Hoisted on pole, to dogs' and cats' despair ! 
 But I have spied a veriest trap of twigs 
 On tree-top, every straw a thievery.
 
 GEORGE BUBB DODINGTON 157 
 
 Where the wild dove — despite the fowler's snare, 
 The sportman'b shot, the urchin's stone, — 
 
 crooned gay, 
 And solely gave her heart to what she hatched, 
 Nor minded a malignant world below. 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "GEORGE BUBB DODINGTON" 
 
 WiSELiER would fools that carp bestow a thought 
 How birds build nests ; at outside, roughly 
 
 wrought. 
 Twig knots with twig, loam plasters up each chink. 
 Leaving the inmate rudely lodged — you think ? 
 Peep but inside ! That spacious rude-and-rough 
 Covers a domicile where downy fluff 
 Embeds the ease-deserving architect. 
 Who toiled and moiled not merely to effect 
 'Twixt sprig and spray a stop-gap in the teeth 
 Of wind and weather, guard what swung beneath 
 From upset only, but contrived himself 
 A snug interior, warm and soft and sleek. 
 Of what material ? Oh, for that, you seek 
 How nature prompts each volatile ! Thus — pelf 
 Smoothens the human mudlark's lodging, power
 
 158 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Demands some hardier wrappage to embrace 
 
 Robuster heart-beats : rock, not tree nor tower, 
 
 Contents the building eagle : rook shoves close 
 
 To brother rook on branch, while crow morose 
 
 Apart keeps balance perched on topmost bough. 
 
 No sort of bird but suits his taste somehow : 
 
 Nay, Darwin tells of such as love the bower — 
 
 His bower-birds opportunely yield us yet 
 
 The lacking instance when at loss to get 
 
 A feathered parallel to what we find 
 
 The secret motor of some mighty mind 
 
 That worked such wonders — all for vanity ! 
 
 'Worked them to haply figure in the eye 
 
 Of intimates as first of — doers' kind ? 
 
 Actors', that work in earnest sportively. 
 
 Paid by a sourish smile. How says the Sage ? 
 
 Birds born to strut prepare a platform-stage 
 
 With sparkling stones and speckled shells, all sorts 
 
 Of slimy rubbish, odds and ends and orts. 
 
 Whereon to pose and posture and engage 
 
 The priceless female simper. 
 
 BROVvNlNG.
 
 A ROSEBUD BY MY EARLY WALK I 59 
 From "THE EXCURSION" 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 " Yes ! " said the Solitary, with a smile 
 That seemed to break from an expanding heart, 
 
 "The untutored bird may found, and so construct, 
 And with such soft materials line, her nest. 
 Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake. 
 That the thorns wound her not ; they only guard. 
 Powers, not unjustly likened to those gifts 
 Of happy instinct which the woodland bird 
 Shares with her species. Nature's grace sometimes 
 Upon the individual doth confer, 
 Among the higher creatures born and trained, 
 To use of reason." w^ordsworth. 
 
 From 
 "A ROSEBUD BY MY EARLY WALK 
 
 Within the bush, her covert nest, 
 A little linnet fondly prest ; 
 The dew sat chilly on her breast 
 Sae early in the morning.
 
 l6o BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 She soon shall see her tender brood, 
 The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
 Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd. 
 Awake the early morning. 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 From "THE STAR'S MONUMENT" 
 
 Ah ! little bird (he thought), most patient bird, 
 Breasting thy speckled eggs the long day through, 
 
 By so much as my reason is preferred 
 
 Above thine instinct, I my work would do 
 
 Better than thou dost thine. Thou hast not stirred 
 This hour thy wing. Ah ! russet bird, I sue 
 
 For a like patience to wear through these hours — 
 
 Bird on thy nest among the apple-flowers. . . . 
 
 JEAN INGELOW.
 
 MISCONCEPTIONS l6l 
 
 From "MACBETH" 
 
 ACT I. SCENE VI. 
 
 Banquo. This guest of summer, 
 
 The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, 
 By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath 
 Smells wooingly here : no jutty, frieze, 
 Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird 
 Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle ; 
 Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd. 
 The air is delicate. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 - // 
 
 From "MISCONCEPTIONS" 
 
 This is a spray the Bird clung to, 
 Making it blossom with pleasure, 
 
 Ere the high tree-top she sprung to. 
 Fit for her nest and her treasure. 
 
 L
 
 l62 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Oh, what a hope beyond measure 
 Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet 
 
 hung to,^ — 
 So to be singled out, built in, and sung to ! 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "HYPERION" 
 
 / ... shall the tree be envious of the dove 
 Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings 
 To wander wherewithal and find its joys ? 
 We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs 
 Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves, 
 But eagles golden-feather'd, who do tower 
 Above us in their beauty, and must reign 
 In right thereof; for 'tis the eternal law 
 That first in beauty should be first in might. 
 
 KEATS.
 
 A child's garden of verses 163 
 
 From 
 
 "A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES" 
 
 NEST EGGS. 
 
 Birds all the sunny day 
 
 Flutter and quarrel 
 Here in the arbour-like 
 
 Tent of the laurel. 
 
 Here in the fork 
 
 The brown nest is seated ; 
 Four Httle blue eggs 
 
 The mother keeps heated. 
 
 While we stand watching her, 
 
 Staring like gabies, 
 Safe in each egg are the 
 
 Bird's little babies. 
 
 Soon the frail eggs they shall 
 
 Chip, and upspringing 
 Make all the April woods 
 
 Merry with singing.
 
 164 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Younger than we are, 
 
 O children, and frailer, 
 Soon in blue air they'll be 
 
 Singer and sailer. 
 
 We, so much older, 
 
 Taller and stronger, 
 We shall look down on the 
 
 Birdies no longer. 
 
 They shall go flying 
 
 With musical speeches 
 High overhead in the 
 
 Tops of the beeches. 
 
 In spite of our wisdom 
 
 And sensible talking. 
 We on our feet must go 
 
 Plodding and walking. 
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
 
 sa'di in the garden 165 
 
 From "SA'DI IN THE GARDEN" 
 
 I. 
 All in a Garden fair I sat and spied 
 The Tulips dancing, dancing side by side, 
 
 With scarlet turbans dressed ; 
 All in a Garden green at night I heard 
 The gladsome voice of night's melodious Bird 
 
 Singinsr that " Love is Best ! " 
 
 The shy white Jasmine drew aside her veil, 
 Breathing faint fragrance on the loitering gale, 
 
 And nodded, nodded " Yes ! 
 " Sweetest of all sweet things is Love ! and wise ! 
 Dance, Tulip ! Pipe, fond Bird, thy melodies ! 
 
 Wake, Rose of Loveliness ! " 
 
 in. 
 
 "Yet," sighed the swaying Cypress, "who can tell 
 If Love be wise as sweet? if it be well 
 
 For Love to dance and sing ? 
 I see — growing here always — year by year 
 The Bulbuls die, and on their grassy bier 
 
 Rose-petals scattering I "
 
 l66 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 IV. 
 
 All in that Garden green the Rose replied : 
 " Ah ! Cypress, look ! I put my leaves aside ; 
 
 Mark what is 'mid this bush ! 
 Three blue eggs in a closely-woven nest, 
 Sheltered, for music's sake, by branch and breast ! 
 
 There will be Bulbuls ! hush ! " 
 
 V. 
 
 All in that Garden green the Bulbul trilled : 
 "Oh, fooHsh Cypress ! thinking Love was killed 
 
 Because he seemed to cease : 
 My best-Belov'd hath secrets at her heart, 
 Gold seeds of summer-time, new buds to start ; 
 
 There will be Roses ! peace ! " 
 
 Then lightlier danced the Tulips than before 
 To waftings of the perfumed breeze, and more 
 
 Chanted the Nightingale : 
 The fire-flies in the palms fresh lanterns lit ; 
 Her zone of grace the blushing Rose unknit, 
 
 And blossomed, pure and pale ! 
 
 SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
 
 OUT OF THE CRADLE 167 
 
 From "AYLMER'S FIELD" 
 
 ... a passion yet unborn perhaps 
 Lay hidden as the music of the moon 
 Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 From "OUT OF THE CRADLE END- 
 LESSLY ROCKING" 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 Up this sea-shore in some briers, 
 
 Two feather'd guests from Alabama, two together, 
 
 And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted 
 
 with brown, 
 And every day the he-bird to and fro, near at 
 
 hand, 
 And every day the she-bird crouch'd on her nest, 
 
 silent, with bright eyes. 
 And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, 
 
 never disturbing them. 
 Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.
 
 l68 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Till of a sudden, 
 
 May-be kill'd, unknown to her mate, 
 
 One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the 
 
 nest, 
 Nor return'd that afternoon, nor the next, 
 Nor ever appear'd again. 
 
 And thenceforward all summer in the sound of 
 
 the sea, 
 And at night under the full of the moon in calmer 
 
 weather. 
 Over the hoarse surging of the sea. 
 Or flitting from brier to brier by day, 
 I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the 
 
 he-bird. 
 The solitary guest from Alabama. 
 
 Yes, when the stars glisten'd, 
 
 All night long on the prong of a moss-scallop'd 
 
 stake, 
 Down almost amid the slapping waves. 
 Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears. 
 He call'd on his mate. 
 He pour'd forth the meanings which I of all men 
 
 know. 
 
 WALT Vl'HlTMAN.
 
 GRASS FROM THE BATTLEFIELD 1 69 
 
 From 
 "GRASS FROM THE BATTLEFIELD" 
 
 And as some moorland bird 
 
 Whom die sdll hunter's stalking steps have stirred, 
 
 When he stands mute, and nothing more is heard, 
 
 With slow succession and reluctant art 
 
 Grows upward from her bed, 
 
 Each move a mufifled start, 
 
 And thro' the silent autumn covert red 
 
 Uplifts a throbbing head 
 
 That times the ambushed hunter's thudding heart : 
 
 As when a bird, fast by the fowler's net, 
 
 A moment doth forget 
 
 His fetters, and with desperate wings 
 
 A-sudden springs and falls. 
 
 And (while from happy clouds the skylark calls) 
 
 Still feebler springs 
 
 And fainter falls. 
 
 And still untamed upon the gory ground 
 
 With failing strength renews his deadly wound. 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL.
 
 170 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE ELM TREE" 
 
 Alone he works— his ringing blows 
 Have banish'd bird and beast ; 
 
 The Hind and Fawn have canter'd off 
 A hundred yards at least ; 
 
 And on the maple's lofty top, 
 The linnet's song has ceased. 
 
 No eye his labour overlooks, 
 Or when he takes his rest ; 
 
 Except the timid thrush that peeps 
 Above her secret nest, 
 
 Forbid by love to leave the young 
 Beneath her speckled breast. 
 
 The tall abounding Elm that grows 
 In hedgerows up and down ; 
 
 In field and forest, copse and park. 
 And in the peopled town, 
 
 With colonies of noisy rooks 
 That nestle on its crown.
 
 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY 171 
 
 The Thrush's mate beside her sits 
 
 And pipes a merry lay ; 
 The Dove is in the evergreens ; 
 
 And on the Larch's spray 
 The Fly-bird flutters up and down, 
 
 To catch its tiny prey. 
 
 The gentle Hind and dappled Fawn 
 
 Are coming up the glade ; 
 Each harmless furr'd and feather'd thing 
 
 Is glad, and not afraid — 
 But on my sadden'd spirit still 
 
 The Shadow leaves a shade. 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 From "RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY" 
 
 THE RHYME. 
 II. 
 
 And the little birds sang east, and the little birds 
 sang west, — • 
 
 Toll slowly. 
 And but little thought was theirs, of the silent 
 antique years, 
 
 In the building of their nest.
 
 172 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And you let the goldfinch sing, in the alder near, 
 in spring, — 
 
 Toll slowly. 
 Let her build her nest and sit all the three weeks 
 out on it, 
 
 Murmuring not at anything. 
 
 Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds 
 sang west, 
 
 Toll slowly. 
 And I said in underbreath, — all our life is mixed 
 with death, 
 
 And who knoweth which is best? 
 
 Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds 
 sang west, — 
 
 Toll slowlv. 
 And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed 
 around our incompleteness, — 
 
 Round our restlessness. His rest. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
 
 QUEEN MARY 173 
 
 From "THE RING AND THE BOOK" 
 
 / 
 
 So when the she-dove breeds, strange yearnings 
 
 come 
 For the unknown shelter by undreamed-of shores, 
 And there is born a blood-pulse in her heart 
 To fight if needs be, though with flap of wing, 
 For the wool-flock or the fur-tuft, though a hawk 
 Contest the prize,- — wherefore, she knows not yet. 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 / 
 
 From "QUEEN MARY" / 
 
 / 
 
 The lion needs but roar to guard his young ; 
 
 The lapwing lies, says ' here ' when they are there. 
 
 TENNYSON.
 
 174 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From 
 /"THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI." 
 / 
 
 J ACT II. SCENE II. 
 
 Clifford. ..... 
 
 The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on ; 
 And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 / 
 
 From "ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA" 
 
 ACT III. SCENE XI. 
 
 Enobarbiis To be furious, 
 
 Is to be frightened out of fear ; and in that mood. 
 The dove will peck the estridge. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE.
 
 A DARK MONTH 1/5 
 
 From «A DARK MONTH" 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I AM only my love's 
 
 True lover, 
 With a nestful of songs, like doves 
 
 Under cover. 
 That I bring in my cap 
 
 Fresh caught, 
 To be laid on my small king's lap — 
 
 Worth just nought. 
 
 SWINBURNE.
 
 V. 
 
 SWALLOWS - SUMMER— GARDEN
 
 From "PARACELSUS" 
 
 / 
 
 I GO to prove my soul ! 
 I see my way as birds their trackless way. 
 I shall arrive ! what time, what circuit first, 
 I ask not : but unless God send his hail 
 Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow. 
 In some time, his good time, I shall arrive : 
 He guides me and the bird. In his good time! 
 
 BROWNING- '^ 
 
 / 
 
 From "PARACELSUS" 
 
 / 
 
 What should delight me like the news of friends 
 
 Whose memories were a solace to me oft, 
 
 As mountain-baths to wild fowls in their flight ? 
 
 BROWNING.
 
 l8o BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 IN VOLHYNIA 
 
 In Volhynia the peasant mothers, 
 
 When spring-time brings back the leaves, 
 
 And the first swallows dart and twitter 
 Under the cottage eaves, — 
 
 Sit mute at their windows, and listen, 
 With eyes brimming over with tears. 
 
 To the broken sounds which are wafted 
 To their eager watching ears. 
 
 And throw out bread and honey 
 To the birds as they scintillate by ; 
 
 And hearts full of yearning and longing, 
 Borne out on the wings of a sigh. 
 
 For they think that their dear lost children, 
 
 The little ones who are gone. 
 Come back thus to the heartsick mothers 
 
 Who are toiling and sorrowing on.
 
 IN VOLHYNIA l8l 
 
 And those sunlit-wings and flashing 
 
 White breasts, to their tear-dimmed eyes 
 
 Bring visions of white child-angels 
 Floating in Paradise. 
 
 And again to the sounds they hearken, 
 Which grew silent while incomplete, 
 
 The music of childish laughter, 
 The patter of baby feet. 
 
 Till the hearts which are barren and childless, 
 The homes which are empty and cold : 
 
 The nests, whence the young have departed, 
 Are filled with young life as of old. 
 
 Thus each spring, to those peasant mothers, 
 Comes the old Past again and again ; 
 
 And those sad hearts quicken and blossom 
 In a rapture of sorrowless pain. 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS.
 
 l82 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From « EVANGELINE " 
 
 Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests 
 
 on the rafters, 
 Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which 
 
 the swallow 
 Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the 
 
 sight of its fledglings ; 
 Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of 
 
 the swallow ! 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 From "UNDER THE WILLOWS" 
 The thin-winged swallow skating on the air." 
 
 LOWELL.
 
 'The thin-winged Swallow skating on the air." 
 
 Lowell.
 
 POSTHUMOUS TALES 183 
 
 From "AURORA LEIGH" 
 
 So silent, that you heard a young bird fall 
 From the top-nest in the neighbouring rookery 
 Through edging over-rashly toward the light. 
 The old rooks had already fled too far, 
 To hear the screech they fled with, though you saw 
 Some flying on still, hke scatterings of dead leaves 
 In autumn-gusts, seen dark against the sky. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 From "POSTHUMOUS TALES." No. 10. 
 
 . . . lead me to the west, 
 Where grew the elm-trees thick and tall, 
 
 Where rooks unnumber'd build their nest — 
 Deliberate birds, and prudent all : 
 
 Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude, 
 
 But they're a social multitude. 
 
 CRABBE.
 
 184 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 / 
 
 From '<ROKEBY " 
 
 / 
 
 / " Hoarse into middle air arose 
 
 The vespers of the roosting crows." 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 / 
 From "MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM" 
 
 ACT III. SCENP: II. 
 
 Puck. . . .... 
 
 As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, 
 Or russet-pa ted choughs, many in sort, 
 Rising and cawing at the gun's report, 
 Sever themselves, and madly sweep the sky ; 
 So, at his sight, away his fellows fly. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE,
 
 MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM 185 
 
 From 
 "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL" 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE I. 
 
 First Lord. . . . chough's language, gabble 
 enough, and good enough. shakespeare. 
 
 From "MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM" 
 
 ACT III. SCENE I. 
 
 Bottom (sings). 
 
 " The ousel-cock, so black of hue. 
 With orange-tawny bill. 
 The throstle with his note so true, 
 The wren with little quill : " 
 
 " The finch, the sparrow, and the lark. 
 The plain-song cuckoo gray, 
 Whose note full many a man doth mark, 
 And dares not answer, nay ; — " 
 for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a 
 bird? who would give a bird the lie, though he 
 cry "cuckoo" never so? shakespeare.
 
 l86 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "CRAIGCROOK CASTLE" 
 
 The Birds low-crooning o'er their sweet Spring-tunes 
 
 Still touch them with a riper luxury \ 
 
 That Blackbird with the wine of joy is mellow, 
 
 And in his song keeps laughing, he's so jolly, 
 
 To think how summer pulps the fruit for him. 
 
 His Apple-tree hath felt the ruddying breath 
 
 Of May upon her yielding leafy lips, 
 
 Look how she flushes over ! warm in white ! 
 
 GERALD MASSEY. 
 
 From "UNDER THE WILLOWS" 
 
 Frank-hearted hostess of the field and wood, 
 Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading tree, 
 June is the pearl of our New England year. 
 Still a surprisal, though expected long, 
 Her coming startles. Long she lies in wait, 
 Makes many a feint, peeps forth, draws coyly back, 
 Then, from some southern ambush in the sky, 
 With one great gush of blossom storms the world.
 
 MY GARDEN 187 
 
 A week ago the sparrow was divine : 
 
 The bluebird, shifting his light load of song 
 
 From post to post along the cheerless fence, 
 
 Was as a rhymer ere the poet conae ; 
 
 But now, O rapture ! sunshine winged and voiced. 
 
 Pipe blown through by the warm wild breath of 
 
 the West 
 Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy cloud, 
 Gladness of woods, skies, waters, all in one. 
 The bobolink has come, and, like the soul 
 Of the sweet season vocal in a bird. 
 Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what 
 SsiVe. June! Dear June ! Naw God be praised for 
 
 June. 
 
 LOWELL. 
 
 MY GARDEN 
 
 O MY Garden, full of roses. 
 Red as passion and as sweet, 
 
 Failing not when summer closes. 
 Lasting on through cold and heat ! 
 
 O my Garden, full of lilies, 
 White as peace, and very tall. 
 
 In your midst my heart so still is 
 I can hear the least leaf fall !
 
 l88 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 O my Garden, full of singing 
 
 From the birds that house therein, 
 
 Sweet notes down the sweet day ringing 
 Till the nightingales begin ! 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 From "PROMETHEUS UNBOUND" 
 
 There the voluptuous nightingales 
 
 Are awake through all the broad noonday. 
 When one with bliss or sadness fails. 
 And through the windless ivy-boughs, 
 Sick with sweet love, droops dying away 
 On its mate's music-panting bosom ; 
 Another, from the swinging blossom, 
 Watching to catch the languid close 
 Of the last strain, then lifts on high 
 The wings of the weak melody, — 
 Till some new strain of feeling bear 
 
 The song, and all the woods are mute ; 
 When there is heard through the dim air 
 The rush of wings, and, rising there 
 
 Like many a lake-surrounded flute, 
 Sounds overflow the listener's brain 
 So sweet that joy is almost pain. 
 
 SHELLEY.
 
 THE king's QUHAIR 189 
 
 From "THE KING'S QUHAIR" 
 
 "And on the smalle greene twistis ^ sat 
 The little sweete nightingale, and sung 
 So loud and clear the hymnes consecrat 
 Of Love's use ; now soft, now loud among, 
 That all the gardens and the walles rung 
 Right of their song. . , . 
 
 " Worship, ye that lovers been, this May, 
 For of your bliss the kalends are begun ; 
 And sing with us, ' Away, winter, away ! 
 Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun ! ' 
 Awake, for shame, that have your heavens won. 
 
 And amorously lift up your heades all ; 
 
 Thank Love, that list you to his mercy call." 
 
 When they this song had sung a little thraw,^ 
 They stent ^ awhile, and therewith unaffrayed. 
 As I beheld and cast mine eyne alaw,* 
 From bough to bough they hipped,'' and they 
 played, 
 
 1 Twigs. - A little time. 3 Rested quiet. 
 
 •* Below. •'' Hopped.
 
 190 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And freshly in their birdes kind arrayed 
 
 Their feathers new, and fret them in the sun, 
 And thanked Love that had their mates won. 
 
 TAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE LOVER AND THE NIGHTINGALE 
 
 Another while the little Nightingale 
 That sat upon the twiggis would I chide, 
 And say right thus, " Where are thy notes small, 
 That thou of love hast sung this morrow-tide? 
 Seest thou not her that sitteth thee beside ? 
 For Venus' sake, the blissful goddess clear. 
 Sing on again, and make my Lady cheer ! . . . 
 
 " O little wretch, alas ! mayst thou not see 
 
 Who Cometh yond ? Is it now time to 
 wring ? ^ 
 
 What sorry thought is fallen upon thee ? 
 
 Open thy throat ; hast thou no list to sing ? 
 
 Alas ! if thou of reason have feeling. 
 
 Now, sweete bird, say ones to me, ' Peep ! ' 
 I die for woe ; methinks thou 'ginnes sleep. 
 
 1 Grieve.
 
 THE LOVER AND NIGHTINGALE I9I 
 
 " Hast thou no mind of love ? Where is thy 
 make ? ^ 
 
 Or art thou sick, or smit with jealousy ? 
 
 Or is she dead, or hath she thee forsake ? 
 
 What is the cause of thy melancholy, 
 
 That thou no more list maken "-^ melody ? 
 
 Sluggard, for shame ! lo, here thy golden hour. 
 That worth were hailly ^ all thy life's labour." . . . 
 
 I thought eke thus ; " Gif I my handes clap. 
 
 Or gif I cost,'* then will she flee away ; 
 
 And, gif I hold my peace, then will she nap ; 
 
 And, gif I cry, she wot not what I say. 
 
 Thus what is best I wot not by this day ; 
 
 But blow, wind, blow, and do the leaves shake, 
 That some twig may wag, and make her to 
 wake." 
 
 With that anon right he took up a song, 
 Where came anon more birdes and alight. 
 But then to hear the mirth was them among, 
 Over that too ^ to see the sweete sight 
 Of her image, my spirit was so light, 
 
 Methought I flew for joy without arrest ; 
 
 So were my wittes bounden all so fest.*^ . . . 
 
 1 Mate. - To make. ■- Wholly. 
 
 * Cough. 5 Moreover, also. " Fast.
 
 192 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 This was their song, as seemed me full high, 
 With many uncouth ^ sweete note and shill ; ^ 
 And therewithal that Fair upward her eye 
 Would cast among, as it was Goddes will. 
 Where I might see, standing alone full still. 
 The fair faiture ^ that Nature, for maistry. 
 In her visage had wrought full lovingly. 
 
 And, when she walked had a little throw '* 
 Under the sweete greene boughes bent, 
 Her fair fresh face, as white as any snow. 
 She turned has, and forth her wayes went ; 
 But then began mine access and torment : 
 To seen her part, and follow I ne might, 
 Methought the day was turned into night. 
 
 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 1 Strange. - Shrill. 
 
 " Fashioning, workmanship. ■* Space.
 
 BALDER 193 
 
 From "BALDER" 
 
 Yonder pensive thrush 
 Singing his rhythmic cadence, and, below, 
 The blackbird, earnest in the flowering thorn, 
 Chanting his mellow prose as tho' he told 
 A wonted story, ever old and new ! 
 The fitful chaffinch, like a bashful youth 
 That hurries forth his love in sudden speech 
 And blushing pause, the loud and cheerful wren. 
 The sparrow's chirp, the swallow on the wall — 
 The swallow that pours out her liquid joy 
 Upon the morning flood of happiness, 
 Wherein it falls with silver sound and sweet 
 As water into water ; these, and all 
 The warbling voices breathing of the South, 
 The slender treble of the tuneful year 
 With throbbing throats that chorus sunshine thro' 
 The vocal world, dainty, and soft, and low ! 
 And high o'er all a languid noise of rooks. 
 Lost in bright air, circling in sunny calm. 
 Or cawing from the haunt of oaken green 
 The leafy rest of June I 
 
 SVDXKY DOBELL.
 
 194 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES" 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Come thoti — thou never knewest 
 
 A grief, that thou shouldst fear one ; 
 Thou wearest still the happy look 
 
 That shines beneath a dear one ! 
 Thy humming-bird is in the sun, 
 
 Thy cuckoo in the grove ; ^ 
 And all the three broad worlds, for thee 
 
 Are full of wandering love." 
 
 The river fioweth on. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 From "HIAWATHA" 
 
 Pleasant was the journey homeward, 
 All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
 Songs of happiness and heart's-ease : 
 Sang the blue- bird, the Owaissa, 
 
 ' Hamadeva, the Indian god of love, is imagined to wander 
 through the three worlds, accompanied by the humming-bird, 
 cuckoo, and gentle breezes.
 
 A VOICE FROM THE NILE I95 
 
 " Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
 Having such a wife to love you ! " 
 Sang the Opechee, the robin, 
 " Happy are you, Laughing Water, 
 Having such a noble husband I " 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 From " RICHARD FOREST'S MID- 
 SUMMER NIGHT" 
 
 When deep in fern we lie 
 
 With golden gorse above ; 
 Deep sapphire sea and sky, 
 Ringing of larks on high, 
 
 Our whole world breathing love. 
 
 Oh, how the nights are short 
 
 These heavenly nights of June ! 
 The long hot day amort 
 With toil, the time to court 
 So stinted in its boon !
 
 196 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 But three or four brief hours 
 
 Between the afterglow 
 And dawnlight ; while the flowers 
 Are dreaming in their bowers, 
 And birds their song forego ; 
 
 And in the noon of night, 
 As in the noon of day. 
 
 Flowers close on their delight. 
 
 Birds nestle from their flight, 
 Deep stillness holdeth sway : 
 
 Only the nightingales 
 
 Yet sing to moon and stars, 
 
 Although their full song fails ; 
 
 The corn-crake never quails. 
 But through the silence jars. . . 
 
 JAMES THOMSON.
 
 VI. 
 
 SUMMER— WOODS
 
 From "ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF 
 GISBORNE" 
 
 (old ballad.) 
 
 When shaws ^ beene sheene, and shradds - full 
 fayre, 
 
 And leaves both large and longe, 
 Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest 
 
 To heare the small birdes songe. 
 
 The woodweele sang and wold not cease, 
 
 Sitting upon the spraye, 
 So lowde, he wakened Robin Hood, 
 
 In the greenwood where he lay. 
 
 From "THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD" 
 (an early ballad.) 
 
 These pretty babes, with hand in hand, 
 Went wandering up and downe ; 
 
 But never more could see the man 
 Approaching from the town ; 
 
 1 Woods. - Shades.
 
 200 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Their prettye lippes with black-berries, 
 Were all besmear'd and dyed, 
 
 And when they sawe the darksome night, 
 They sat them downe and cryed. 
 
 Thus wandered these poor innocents, 
 
 Till deathe did ende their grief. 
 In one anothers amies they dyed, 
 
 As wanting due relief: 
 No burial this pretty pair 
 
 Of any man receives, 
 Till robin-red-breast, piously 
 
 Did cover them with leaves. 
 
 THE EAGLE AND THE ROBIN RED- 
 BREAST 
 
 The Prince of all the fethert kind 
 That with spread wings outflees the wind, 
 And tou'rs far out of human sicht 
 To view the schynand orb of licht : 
 This ryall bird, tho' braif and great, 
 And armit Strang for stern debait, 
 Nae tyrant is, but condescends 
 Aftymes to treit inferiour friends. 
 
 Ane day, at his command did flock 
 To his hie palace, on a rock,
 
 THE EAGLE AND ROBIN REDBREAST 20I 
 
 The courtiers of ilk various syze 
 That swiftly swim in christal skyis. 
 Thither the valiant Tersals doup, 
 And heir rapacious Corbies croup, 
 With greidy Glads- and she Gormahs, 
 And dinsome Pyis, and clatterin Daws ; 
 Proud Pecocks, and a hundred mae, 
 Bruscht up their pens that solemn day, 
 Bowd first submissive to my lord, 
 Then tuke thair places at his borde. 
 
 Mein tyme, quhile feisting on a fawn. 
 And drinking blude frae lammies drawn, 
 A tunefull Robin trig an zung, 
 Hard by upon a bour-tree sung. 
 He sang the Eagle's ryall lyne, 
 His persing ee and richt divyne 
 To sway out owre the fetherit thrang, 
 Quha dreid his martial bill and fang ; 
 His flicht sublime, and eild renewit, 
 His mynd with clemencie endewit. 
 In safter notes, he sang his luve ; 
 Mair hie, his beiring bolts for Jove. 
 
 The monarch bird, with blythness, heard 
 The chaunting litil silvan bard, 
 Calit up a Buzart quha was then 
 His favourite and chamberlane.
 
 202 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 "Swith to my treasury," quod he, 
 
 " And to zon canty Robin gie 
 
 As meikle of our currant geir 
 
 As may mentain him throw the zeir ; 
 
 We can weil spair't, and it's his due." 
 
 He bad, an furth the Judas flew 
 
 Straight to the bench quhair Robin sung, 
 
 And with a wickit Ueand tung, 
 
 Said — " Ah ! ze sing sae dull and ruch, 
 
 Ze half deift our lugs mair than enuch. 
 
 His majestie hes a nyse eir, 
 
 And nae mair of zour stuff can beir ; 
 
 Poke up zour pypes, be nae mair sene 
 
 At court ; I warn ze as a frien." 
 
 He spak, quhyle Robinis swelling breist. 
 And drouping wings, his greif exprest ; 
 The teirs ran happing doun his cheik, 
 Grit grew his hairt, he could nocht speik. 
 No for the tinsell of rewaird. 
 But that his notis met nae regaird. 
 Straicht to the schaw he spred his wing, 
 Resolvit again nae mair to sing, 
 Quhair princelie bountie is supprest 
 By sic with quhome they ar opprest, 
 Quha cannot beir, because they want it, 
 That ocht suld be to merit grantit. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAV.
 
 EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-RFiDBREAST 203 
 
 "TO ROBIN REDBREAST" 
 
 Laid out for dead, let thy last kindness be 
 With leaves and moss-work for to cover me ; 
 And while the wood-nymphs my cold corpse inter, 
 Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister ! 
 For epitaph, in foliage, next write this : 
 Here, here the tomb of Robin Herrick is. 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 AN EPrrAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST 
 
 Tread lightly here, for here 'tis said. 
 When piping winds are hushed around, 
 A small note wakes from underground, 
 Where now his tiny bones are laid. 
 No more in lone and leafless groves, 
 With ruffled wing and faded breast. 
 His friendless, homeless spirit roves ; 
 
 — Oone to the world where birds are blest ! 
 Where never cat glides o'er the green, 
 Or school-boy's giant form is seen ; 
 But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring 
 Inspire their little souls to sing ! 
 
 ROGERS.
 
 204 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "VACATION ODE" 
 
 And let the genial note 
 That through green woods doth float 
 From viewless cuckoo, win your rapt ear's wise 
 regard, 
 
 More than the cunning chime 
 Of curious-builded rhyme 
 From craft of smooth -lipped Greek, or deep- 
 mouthed Roman bard. 
 
 Let roar of foaming floods. 
 And breath of growing woods, 
 Wave round you with more joy than flags of 
 conquering kings ! 
 
 Nor let your dull thought go 
 With painful pace and slow, 
 When every bursting grove with twittering gladness 
 rings ! 
 
 JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
 
 EARTH S VOICES 2O5 
 
 From "BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD" 
 
 The green leaves they look'd greener still, 
 And the thrush, renewing his tune, 
 
 Shook a loud note from his gladsome bill 
 Lnto the bright blue noon. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 From "EARTH'S VOICES" 
 
 THE SONG OF THE THRUSH. 
 
 When the beech-trees are green in the woodlands 
 
 x\nd the thorns are whitened with may, 
 And the meadow-sweet blows and the yellow 
 gorse blooms 
 
 I sit on a wind-waved spray, 
 And I sing through the livelong day 
 From the golden dawn till the sunset comes and 
 the shadows of gloaming grey.
 
 206 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And I sing of the joy of the woodlands, 
 
 And the fragrance of wild-wood flowers, 
 And the song of the trees and the hum of the bees 
 In the honeysuckle bowers, 
 And the rustle of showers 
 And the voice of the west-wind calling as through 
 glades and green branches he scours. 
 
 When the sunset glows over the woodlands 
 
 More sweet rings my lyrical cry 
 With the pain of my yearning to be 'mid the burning 
 And beautiful colours that lie 
 'Midst the gold of the sun-down sky, 
 Where over the purple and crimson and amber the 
 rose-pink cloud-curls fly. 
 
 Sweet, sweet swells my voice thro' the woodlands, 
 
 Repetitive, marvellous, rare : 
 And the song-birds cease singing as my music goes 
 ringing 
 
 And eddying echoing there, 
 Now wild and now debonair, 
 Now fill'd with a tumult of passion that throbs 
 like a pulse in the hush'd warm air ! 
 
 WII.I^IAM SHARP.
 
 ESSAYS IN CLASSICAL METRES 20/ 
 
 From "ESSAYS IN CLASSICAL METRES" 
 
 ELEGIAC H. 
 
 Trunks the forest yielded with gums ambrosial 
 oozing, 
 Boughs with apples laden beautiful, Hesperian, 
 Golden, odoriferous, perfume exhaling about them. 
 Orbs in a dark umbrage luminous and radiant ; 
 To the palate grateful, more luscious were not in 
 Eden, 
 Or in that fabled garden of Alcinoiis ; 
 Out of a dark umbrage sounds also musical issued, 
 Birds their sweet transports uttering in melod y : 
 Thrushes clear piping, wood -pigeons cooing, 
 arousing 
 Loudly the nightingale, loudly the sylvan echoes : 
 Waters transpicuous flowed under, flowed to the 
 list'ning 
 Ear with a soft murmur, softly soporiferous ; 
 Nor, with ebon locks too, there wanted, circling, 
 attentive 
 Unto the sweet fluting, girls, of a swarthy shepherd; 
 Over a sunny level their flocks are lazily feeding. 
 They of Amor musing rest in a leafy cavern. 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CEOUGH.
 
 308 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From 
 "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON" 
 
 Carried by winds about the beechwood dense, 
 The scent of HUes rose up in the air, 
 And store of Juno's fowl was roosting there. 
 Or moving lazily across the grass. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 From "PLEASURES OF MEMORY" 
 
 Led by what chart, transports the timid dove 
 The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love ? 
 Say, thro' the clouds what compass points her 
 
 flight ? 
 Monarchs have gazed, and nations blessed the sight. 
 Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise, 
 Eclipse her native shades, her native skies : — 
 'Tis vain ! thro' Ether's pathless wilds she goes. 
 And lights at last where all her cares repose. 
 
 Sweet bird! thy truth shall Harlem's walls attest, 
 And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. 
 
 ROGERS.
 
 THE WINGS OF THE DOVE 20g 
 
 From "SACRED SONGS" 
 
 THE BIRD LET LOOSE. 
 
 The bird, let loose in Eastern skies/ 
 
 \Vhen hastening fondly home, 
 Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 
 
 \Vhere idle warblers roam. 
 But high she shoots through air and light, 
 
 Above all low delay. 
 Where nothing earthly bounds her flight. 
 
 Nor shadow dims her way. 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 THE WINGS OF THE DOVE 
 
 "Oh I that I had wings like a clove, fur then would I Hy 
 away, and be at rest." — Psalm Iv. 
 
 Oh ! for thy wings, thou dove ! 
 Now saiUng by with sunshine on thy breast ; 
 
 That, borne like thee above, 
 I too might flee away, and be at rest ! 
 
 1 The carrier-piyeon.
 
 2IO BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 ^Vhere wilt thou fold those plumes, 
 Bird of the forest- shadows, holiest bird? 
 
 In what rich leafy glooms, 
 By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirr'd ? 
 
 Over what blessed home, 
 What roof with dark, deep Summer foliage crown'd, 
 
 O ! fair as ocean's foam ! 
 Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around ? 
 
 Or seek'st thou some old shrine 
 Of nymph or saint, no more by votary woo'd, 
 
 Though still, as if divine. 
 Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude ? 
 
 Yet wherefore ask thy way ? 
 Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art ! 
 
 Unto the greenwood spray, 
 Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart ! 
 
 No echoes that will blend 
 A sadness with the whispers of the grove ; 
 
 No memory of a friend 
 Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove ! 
 
 Oh ! to some cool recess 
 Take, take me with thee on the summer wind, 
 
 Leaving the weariness 
 And all the fever of this life behind :
 
 THE WINGS OF THE DOVE 211 
 
 The aching and the void 
 Within the heart, whereunto none reply, 
 
 The young bright hopes destroy'd — 
 Bird ! bear me with thee through the sunny sky I 
 
 Wild wish, and longing vain. 
 And brief upspringing to be glad and free ! 
 
 Go to thy woodland reign : 
 My soul is bound and held — I may not fiee. 
 
 For even by all the fears 
 And thoughts that haunt my dreams — untold, un- 
 known. 
 
 And burning woman's tears 
 Pour'd from mine eyes in silence and alone ; 
 
 Had I thy wings, thou dove ! 
 High 'midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar. 
 
 Soon the strong cords of love 
 ^\'ould draw me earthwards — homewards — yet once 
 more. 
 
 MRS. HEMANS.
 
 212 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "PARADISE AND THE PERI" 
 
 Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks 
 
 Of golden melons on their banks. 
 
 More golden where the sun-light falls ; — 
 
 Gay lizards, glittering on the walls 
 
 Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright. 
 
 As they were all alive with light ; — 
 
 And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks 
 
 Of pigeons, settling on the rocks. 
 
 With their rich restless wings, that gleam 
 
 Variously in the crimson beam 
 
 Of the warm west, — as if inlaid 
 
 With brilliants from the mine, or made 
 
 Of tearless rainbows, such as span 
 
 Th' unclouded skies of Peristan ! 
 
 And then, the mingling sounds that come, 
 
 Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum 
 
 Of the wild bees of Palestine, 
 
 Banqueting through the flowery vales ; — 
 And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine. 
 
 And woods, so full of nightingales ! 
 
 MOORE.
 
 VII. 
 WOOD — SOLITUDE -STREAM
 
 From "LADY LAURA" 
 
 At emerald palace-portals peer 
 
 Quick eyes of Birds that sing i' the sun ; 
 
 Their hearts with music overrun ; 
 Listens each leafy forest-ear. 
 
 GERALD MASSEV. 
 
 From "MISCELLANEOLTS POEMS" 
 
 Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop 
 From low-hung branches : little space they stop ; 
 But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek ; 
 Then off at once, as in a wanton freak : 
 Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, 
 Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. 
 
 KEATS.
 
 2l6 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE SPANISH GYPSY" 
 
 A FOUNTAIN near, vase-shapen and broad-lipped, 
 Where timorous birds alight with tiny feet. 
 And hesitate and bend wise listening ears, 
 And fly away again with undipped beak. 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 From "AN ISLAND" 
 
 XVI. 
 
 One dove is answering in trust 
 
 The water every minute, 
 Thinking so soft a murmur must 
 
 Have her mate's cooing in it ; 
 So softly doth earth's beauty round 
 Infuse itself in ocean's sound. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
 
 LANCELOT AND ELAINE 21/ 
 
 From "MAIDEN-SONG" 
 
 Love-noted like the wood-pigeoii 
 
 Who hides herself for love, 
 Yet cannot keep her secret safe, 
 
 But coos and coos thereof. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 From "LANCELOT AND ELAINE" 
 
 Then as a little helpless innocent bird. 
 That has but one plain passage of few notes, 
 Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er 
 For all an April morning, till the ear 
 Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid 
 Went half the night repeating, ' Must I die ? ' 
 
 TENNYSON.
 
 2l8 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE HAUNTED TREE" 
 
 Around, in all the joy of spring, 
 The sinless birds were carolling. 
 
 W. M. PRAED. 
 
 THE YELLOW-HAMMER'S SONG 
 
 Out on the waste, a little lonely bird, I flit and I 
 
 sing : 
 My breast is yellow as sunshine, and light as the 
 
 wind my wing. 
 
 The golden gorse me shelters, in the tufted grass is 
 
 my nest, 
 And s-iveet, siveet, stveet the worlds though the wind 
 
 blow east or west. 
 
 The harebells chime their music, the canna floats 
 
 white in the breeze, 
 But as for me, I flit to and fro and I sing at my 
 
 ease.
 
 THE YELLOW^ -HAMMERS SONG 219 
 
 When the thyme is dripping with dew, and the hill- 
 wind beareth along 
 
 The pungent scent of the gale, loudly I sing my 
 morning song. 
 
 When the sun beats on the gorse, the broom, and 
 
 the budding heather, 
 I flit from spray to spray and my song is of the 
 
 golden weather. 
 
 When the moor-fowl sink to their rest, and the sky 
 
 is soft rose-red, 
 I sing of the crescent-moon and the single star 
 
 overhead. 
 
 Out on the waste, out on the waste, I flit all day as 
 
 I sing 
 Szveef, sweet, sweet is the ivorld — dear world — how 
 
 beautiful everything I 
 
 Only a little lonely bird that loveth the moorland 
 
 waste. 
 And little perhaps of the joy of the world is that 
 
 which I taste, 
 
 But out on the wild free moorlands, on the gold 
 
 gorse-boughs I swing. 
 And sweet, s%veet, szveet the world : oh sweet, ah 
 
 sweet ! the song that I sing. 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP.
 
 2 20 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "ENDYMION" 
 
 " Why must such desolation betide 
 As that thou speakest of? Are not these green 
 
 nooks 
 Empty of all misfortune ? Do the brooks 
 Utter a gorgon voice ? Does yonder thrush, 
 Schooling its half-fledged little ones to brush 
 About the dewy forest, whisper tales ? — 
 
 Speak not of grief " 
 
 Keats. 
 
 From "SLEEP AND POETRY" 
 
 Yet I rejoice : a myrtle fairer than 
 E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds 
 Lifts its sweet heap into the air, and feeds 
 A silent space with ever-sprouting green. 
 All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, 
 Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering. 
 Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. 
 
 KEATS.
 
 LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON 221 
 
 From "IMITATION OF SPENSER" 
 
 There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright, 
 Vying with fish of brilHant dye below ; 
 Whose silken fins' and golden scales' light 
 Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow 
 There saw the swan his neck of arched snow, 
 And oar'd himself along with majesty : 
 Sparkled his jetty eyes ; his feet did show 
 Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony. 
 And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously. 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 From 
 "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON" 
 
 O THE sweet valley of deep grass, 
 Where-through the summer stream doth pass, 
 In chain of shallow, and still pool. 
 From misty morn to evening cool ; 
 Where the black ivy creeps and twines 
 O'er the dark-armed, red-trunked pines, 
 
 /
 
 222 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Whence clattering the pigeon flits, 
 Or, brooding o'er her thin eggs, sits, 
 And every hollow of the hills 
 With echoing song the mavis fills. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 From 
 "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF .lASON" 
 
 Along whose bank a flickering shade and cool, 
 Grey willows made, and all about they heard 
 The warble of the small brown river-bird. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 / 
 
 / From "PARACELSUS" 
 / 
 
 I Festus. And scarce it pushes 
 
 Its gentle way through strangling rushes 
 Where the glossy kingfisher 
 Flutters when noon-heats are near, 
 Glad the shelving banks to shun, 
 Red and steaming in the sun.
 
 JOCHANAN HAKKADOSH 223 
 
 Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat 
 
 Burrows, and the speckled stoat : 
 
 Where the quick sandpipers flit 
 
 In and out the marl and grit 
 
 That seems to breed them, brown as they : 
 
 Nought disturbs its quiet way. 
 
 Save some lazy stork that springs. 
 
 Trailing it with legs and wings. 
 
 Whom the shy fox from the hill 
 
 Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "JOCHANAN HAKKADOSH" 
 
 Og's thigh-bone — if ye deem its measure strange. 
 Myself can witness to much length of shank 
 Even in birds. Upon a water's bank 
 Once halting, I was minded to exchange 
 Noon heat for cool. Quoth I " On many a grange 
 I have seen storks perch — legs both long and lank : 
 Yon stork's must touch the bottom of this tank. 
 Since on its top doth wet no plume derange 
 Of the smooth breast. I'll bathe there ! " " Do 
 not so ! " 
 Warned me avoice from heaven "A man let drop
 
 224 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 His axe into that shallow rivulet — 
 As thou accountest — seventy years ago : 
 It fell and fell and still without a stop 
 
 Keeps falling, nor has reached the bottom yet." 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "BALDER" 
 
 On the bank 
 The nodding moor-hen lands to preen her quills. 
 The trout hath left the alders of the pool 
 And basks. Her beak the brooding kingfisher 
 Shows, breathless, at her callow hole above 
 The brook ; within the eddies of the brook 
 The water-mouse dissolves and reappears ; 
 Therefore 'tis halcyon weather. 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL.
 
 FRAGMENT 22$ 
 
 From 
 "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON" 
 
 So still she stood, that the quick water-hen 
 Noted her not, as through the blue mouse-ear 
 He made his way ; the conies drew anear, 
 Nibbling the grass, and from an oak-twig nigh 
 A thrush poured forth his song unceasingly. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 At her step the water-hen 
 Springs from her nook, and skimming the clear 
 
 stream. 
 Ripples its waters in a sinuous curve. 
 And dives again in safety. 
 
 D. G. ROSSETTl.
 
 226 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "ENDYMION" 
 
 Diving swans appear 
 Above the crystal circlings white and clear ; 
 And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise, 
 How they can dive in sight and unseen rise. 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 From "A VISION OF POETS" 
 
 A HARMONY sublime and plain 
 Which cleft (as flying swan, the rain, — 
 Throwing the drops oft' with a strain 
 
 Of her white wing) those undertones 
 Of perplext chords, and soared at once, 
 And struck out from the starry thrones 
 
 Their several silver octaves, as 
 It passed to God ! . . . 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
 
 A BOOK OF DREAMS 22/ 
 
 From "A BOOK OF DREAMS" 
 
 PART II. 
 
 I. 
 
 Old earth is rich with many a nest 
 
 Of softness ever new, 
 Deep, dehcate, and full of rest — 
 
 But loveliest there are two : 
 I may not tell them but to minds 
 
 That are as white as they ; 
 But none will hear, of other kinds — 
 
 They all are turned away. 
 
 On foamy mounds betwixt the wings 
 
 Of a white, sailing swan — 
 A flaky bed of shelterings — 
 
 There you will find the one. 
 The other — . Well, it will not out, 
 
 Nor need I tell it you : 
 I've told you one, and can you doubt, 
 
 When there are only two ? 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD.
 
 228 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From " FINGAL " 
 
 " Beside the murmur of Branno thou didst often 
 
 sit, O maid ! thy white bosom rose frequent, like 
 
 the down of the swan when slow she swims on 
 
 the lake, and side-long winds blow on her ruffled 
 
 wing." 
 
 OssiAN. 
 
 From "LEWTI" 
 
 Hush ! my heedless feet from under 
 Slip the crumbling banks for ever : 
 
 Like echoes to a distant thunder, 
 They plunge into the gentle river. 
 
 The river-swans have heard my tread. 
 
 And startle from their reedy bed. 
 
 O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure 
 Your movements to some heavenly tune ! 
 
 beauteous birds ! 'tis such a pleasure 
 To see you move beneath the moon, 
 
 1 would it were your true delight 
 To sleep by day and wake all night. 
 
 I know the place where Lewti lies, 
 When silent night has closed her eyes :
 
 ODE LIX. 229 
 
 It is a breezy jasmine-bower, 
 The nightingale sings o'er her head : 
 
 Voice of the night ! had I the power 
 That leafy labyrinth to thread, 
 And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, 
 I then might view her bosom white 
 Heaving lovely to my sight, 
 As these two swans together heave 
 On the gently-swelling wave. 
 
 Oh ! that she saw me in a dream. 
 And dreamt that I had died for care. 
 
 S. T. COLERIDGE. 
 
 From "ODE LIX." 
 
 Then wake thee from thy magic slumbers, 
 Breathe to the soft and Phrygian numbers. 
 Which, as my trembling lips repeat, 
 Thy chords shall echo back as sweet. 
 The cygnet thus, with fading notes, 
 As down Cayster's tide he floats. 
 Plays with his snowy plumage fair 
 Upon the wanton murmuring air, 
 Which amorously lingers round, 
 And sighs responsive sound for sound 1 
 
 MOORE.
 
 230 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "PAULINE" 
 And clouds float white above like broods of swans. 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "THE LIGHT OF ASIA" 
 
 BOOK THE FIRST. 
 
 But it befell 
 In the Royal garden on a day of spring, 
 A flock of wild swans passed, voyaging north 
 To their nest-places on Himala's breast. 
 Calling in love-notes down their snowy line 
 The bright birds flew, by fond love piloted ; 
 And Devadatta, cousin of the Prince, 
 Pointed his bow, and loosed a wilful shaft 
 Which found the wide wing of the foremost swan 
 Broad-spread to glide upon the free blue road, 
 So that it fell, the bitter arrow fixed. 
 Bright scarlet blood-gouts staining the pure plumes. 
 Which seeing, Prince Siddartha took the bird 
 Tenderly up, rested it in his lap —
 
 THE LIGHT OF ASIA 23I 
 
 Sitting with knees crossed, as Lord Buddha sits — 
 And, soothing with a touch the wild thing's fright. 
 Composed its ruffled vans, cahiied its quick heart, 
 Caressed it into peace with light kind palms 
 As soft as plantain-leaves an hour unrolled ; 
 And while the left hand held, the right hand drew 
 The cruel steel forth from the wound and laid 
 Cool leaves and healing honey on the smart. 
 Yet all so little knew the boy of pain 
 That curiously into his wrist he pressed 
 The arrow's barb, and winced to feel its sting. 
 And turned with tears to soothe his bird again. 
 Then some one came who said, " My Prince 
 hath shot 
 A swan, which fell among the roses here, 
 He bids me pray you send it. Will you send ? " 
 "Nay," quoth Siddartha, "if the bird were dead 
 To send it to the slayer might be well, 
 But the swan lives ; my cousin hath but killed 
 The god-like speed which throbbed in this white 
 
 wing." 
 And Devadatta answered, " The wild thing, 
 Living or dead, is his who fetched it down ; 
 'Twas no man's in the clouds, but fall'n 'tis mine. 
 Give me my prize, fair Cousin." Then our Lord 
 Laid the swan's neck beside his own smooth cheek 
 And gravely spake, " Say no ! the bird is mine, 
 The first of myriad things which shall be mine
 
 232 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 By right of mercy and love's lordliness. 
 
 For now I know, by what within me stirs, 
 
 That I shall teach compassion unto men 
 
 And be a speechless world's interpreter, 
 
 Abating this accursed flood of woe. 
 
 Not man's alone ; but, if the Prince disputes, 
 
 Let him submit this matter to the wise 
 
 And we will wait their word." So was it done ; 
 
 In full divan the business had debate. 
 
 And many thought this thing and many that, 
 
 Till there arose an unknown priest who sa:id, 
 
 " If life be aught, the saviour of a life 
 
 Owns more the living thing than he can own 
 
 Who sought to slay — the slayer spoils and wastes, 
 
 The cherisher sustains, give him the bird : " 
 
 Which judgment all found just ; but when the King 
 
 Sought out the sage for honour, he was gone. 
 
 And some one saw a hooded snake glide forth,— 
 
 The gods come ofttimes thus ! So our Lord Buddh 
 
 Began his works of mercy. 
 
 Yet not more 
 Knew he as yet of grief than that one bird's, 
 Which, being healed, went joyous to its kind. 
 
 SIR EDW'IN ARNOLD.
 
 THE LAND EAST OF THE SUN 233 
 
 From "THE LAND EAST OF THE SUN" 
 
 He started up, for through the trees 
 A mighty rushing sound he heard, 
 As of the wings of many a bird ; 
 And, stark awake, with beating heart, 
 He put the hawthorn twigs apart. 
 And yet saw no more wondrous thing 
 Than seven white swans, who on wide wing 
 Went circUng round, till one by one 
 They dropped the dewy grass upon. 
 He smiled thereat, and thought to shout 
 And scare them off; but yet a doubt 
 Clung to him, as he gazed on those, 
 And in the brake he held him close, 
 And watched them bridle there, and preen 
 Their snowy feathers well beseen : 
 So near they were, that he a stone 
 Might have cast o'er the furthest one 
 With his left hand, as there he lay. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS.
 
 234 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From " PROMETHEUS UNBOUND " 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 I CANNOT tell my joy when o'er a lake, 
 Upon a drooping bough with nightshade twined, 
 I saw two azure halcyons clinging downward, 
 And thinning one bright bunch of amber berries 
 With quick long beaks, and in the deep there lay 
 Those lovely forms imaged as in a sky. 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 From "HIAWATHA" 
 
 To a lake with many islands 
 Came the breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
 Where among the water-lilies 
 Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing ; 
 Through the tufts of rushes floating, 
 Steering through the reedy islands. 
 Now their broad black beaks they lifted, 
 Now they plunged beneath the water,
 
 WATERFOWL IN LOCH-TURIT 235 
 
 Now they darkened in the shadow, 
 Now they brightened in the sunshine. 
 " Pishnekuh ! " cried Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
 " Pishnekuh, my brothers ! " said he, 
 " Change me to a brant with plumage. 
 With a shining neck and feathers, 
 Make me large and make me larger, 
 Ten times larger than the others." 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ON SCARING SOME WATERFOWL IN 
 LOCH-TURIT 
 
 Why, ye tenants of the lake. 
 For me your watery haunt forsake ? 
 Tell me, fellow creatures, why 
 At my presence thus you fly? 
 Why disturb your social joys, 
 Parent, filial, kindred ties ? 
 Common friend to you and me, 
 Nature's gifts to all are free : 
 Peaceful keep your dimpling wave. 
 Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
 Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
 Bide the surging billow's shock.
 
 236 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Conscious, blushing for our race, 
 Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
 Man, your proud usurping foe, 
 Would be lord of all below : 
 Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
 Tyrant stern to all beside. 
 
 The eagle, from the cliffy brow. 
 Marking you his prey below, 
 In his breast no pity dwells, 
 Strong necessity compels. 
 But man, to whom alone is given 
 A ray direct from pitying Heaven, 
 Glories in his heart humane — 
 And creatures for his pleasure slain. 
 
 In these savage, liquid plains, 
 Only known to wand'ring swains, 
 Where the mossy riv'let strays ; 
 Far from human haunts and ways ; 
 All on Nature you depend. 
 And life's poor season peaceful spend. 
 
 Or, if man's superior might, 
 Dare invade your native right. 
 On the lofty ether borne, 
 Man with all his powers you scorn ;
 
 CALIDORE 237 
 
 Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
 Other lakes and other springs ; 
 And the foe you cannot brave. 
 Scorn at least to be his slave. 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 From "DONICA" 
 
 The fisher in the lake below 
 
 Durst never cast his net, 
 Nor ever swallow in its waves 
 
 Her passing wings would wet. 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 From "CALIDORE" 
 
 Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight follow 
 The freaks and dartings of the black-wing'd swallow. 
 Delighting much, to see it half at rest. 
 Dip so refreshingly its wings and breast 
 'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, 
 The widening circles into nothing gone. 
 
 KEATS.
 
 238 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 "THE PROLOGUE" 
 
 O SWALLOW, with resistless wing, that hold'st the 
 
 air in fee, 
 O swallow, with thy joyous sweep o'er earth and 
 sunlit sea, 
 O swallow, who, if night were thine, would'st 
 wheel amongst the stars. 
 
 Why linger round the eaves ? 
 Unhappy ! free of all the world, hast knit thy 
 
 soul to clay ? 
 And glued thy heart upon the wall, thou swiftest 
 child of day ? 
 Claim, glorious wing, thy heritage ; break, break 
 thy prison bars, 
 
 Nor linger round the eaves. 
 
 Sweep, glorious wings, adown the wind ; fly, 
 
 swallow, to the west ; 
 Before thee, life and liberty; behind, a ruined 
 nest. 
 Blow, freshening breeze, sweep, rapid wing, for all 
 the winds are thine. 
 
 The nest is only clay.
 
 ITYLUS 239 
 
 The rapid wings were stretched in flight, the 
 
 swallow sped away, 
 And left its nest beneath the eaves, the much- 
 loved bit of clay, 
 Turned with the sun, to go where'er the happy sun 
 might shine. 
 
 And passed into the day. 
 
 EDWARD THRING. 
 (From " The Borth Lyrics.") 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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 ?
 
 240 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 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, 
 
 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, 
 
 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, 
 
 1 know not how thou hast heart to sing. 
 
 Hast thou the heart ? is it all past 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 ?
 
 ITYLUS 241 
 
 O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow, 
 My heart in me is a molten ember 
 
 Andover 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? 
 
 U sister, sister, thy first-begotten ! 
 
 The hands that cHng and the feet that follow. 
 The voice of the child's blood crying yet 
 IV/io hath remembered me ? who hath forgotten ? 
 Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow. 
 But the world shall end when I forget. 
 
 SWINBURNE.
 
 242 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From 
 "THE SAILING OF THE SWALLOW" 
 
 So went she musing down her thoughts ; but he, 
 Sweet-hearted as a bird that takes the sun 
 With clear strong eyes, and feels the glad god run 
 Bright through his blood and wide rejoicing wings, 
 And opens all himself to heaven and sings, 
 Made her mind light and full of noble mirth 
 With words and songs the gladdest grown on earth. 
 Till she was blithe and high of heart as he. 
 So swam the Swallow through the springing sea. 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 From "KILDROSTAN" 
 
 What has come over the sunshine ? 
 
 It is like a dream of bliss. 
 What has come over the pine-woods ? 
 
 Was ever a day like this ?
 
 KILDROSTAN 243 
 
 O white-throat swallow flicking 
 
 The loch with long wing-tips, 
 Hear you the low sweet laughter 
 
 Comes rippling from its lips ? 
 
 What has come over the waters ? 
 
 What has come over the trees ? 
 Never were rills and fountains 
 
 So merrily voiced as these. 
 
 throstle softly piping 
 
 High on the topmost bough, 
 
 1 hear a new song singing, 
 
 Is it my heart, or thou ? 
 
 WALTER C. SMITH. 
 
 From "KILDROSTAN" 
 
 . . . On many a knoll, 
 Silent the golden plovers kept their seat, 
 
 And in the stream 
 
 That lapsed as in a dream 
 The heron slumbered, cooling breast and feet. 
 And you could see the air all tremulous with heat. 
 
 WALTER C. SMITH.
 
 244 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 From " IN MEMORIAM " 
 
 Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
 The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
 And drown'd in yonder living blue 
 
 The lark becomes a sightless song. 
 
 TENNYSON.
 
 VIII. 
 MOORLAND - SKYLARK — SEA
 
 From "THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL " 
 
 And what is so rare as a day in June ? 
 
 Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
 Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 
 
 And over it softly her warm ear lays : 
 Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
 We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
 Every clod feels a stir of might. 
 
 An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
 And, groping blindly above it for light, 
 
 Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
 The flush of life may well be seen 
 
 Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
 The cowslip startles in meadows green. 
 
 The buttercup catches the sun in its chaHce, 
 And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 
 
 To be some happy creature's palace ; 
 The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
 
 Atilt like a blossom among the leaves. 
 And lets his illumined being o'errun 
 
 With the deluge of summer it receives ;
 
 248 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
 And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; 
 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
 In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? 
 
 We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
 That skies are clear and grass is growing ; 
 The breeze comes whispering in our ear. 
 That dandelions are blossoming near, 
 
 That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing. 
 That the river is bluer than the sky, 
 That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 
 And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
 For other couriers we should not lack ; 
 
 We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — 
 And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. 
 Warmed with the new wine of the year, 
 
 Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 
 
 T.OWEI.L. 
 
 From "WHAT MAKES SUMMER" 
 
 'Tis the sun that rises early, 
 Shining, shining all day rarely; 
 Drawing up the larks to meet him. 
 Earth's bird-angels, wild to greet him. 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD.
 
 ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK 249 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK 
 
 O, STAY, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, 
 Nor quit me for the trembling spray ; 
 A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
 Thy soothing, fond complaining. 
 
 Again, again that tender part. 
 That I may catch thy melting art ; 
 For surely that wad touch her heart 
 Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 
 
 Say, was thy little mate unkind. 
 And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
 O, nocht but love and sorrow joined, 
 Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 
 
 Thou tells o' never-ending care, 
 O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; 
 For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! 
 Or my poor heart is broken ! 
 
 BURNS.
 
 250 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 / TO A SKY-LARK 
 
 Up with me ! up with me, into the clouds ! 
 / For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 Singing, singing, 
 With all the heavens about thee ringing. 
 
 Lift me, guide me till I find 
 That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 
 I have walked through wildernesses dreary. 
 And to-day my heart is weary ; 
 Had I now the wings of a fairy. 
 Up to thee would I fly. 
 There is madness abont thee, and joy divine 
 
 In that song of thine ; 
 Up with me, up with me, high and high, 
 To thy banqueting-place in the sky ! 
 
 Joyous as morning. 
 Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
 Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest: 
 And, though little troubled with sloth, 
 Drunken Lark ! thou wouldst be loath 
 To be such a traveller as I. 
 Happy, happy liver !
 
 THE WAKING OF THE LARK 25 I 
 
 With a soul as strong as a mountain river, 
 Pouring out praise to th' Almighty Giver, 
 
 Joy and jollity be with us both ! 
 Hearing thee, or else some other, 
 
 As merry a brother, 
 I on the earth will go plodding on, 
 By myself, cheerfully, till the day is done. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE WAKING OF THE LARK 
 
 I. 
 
 O BONNIE bird, that in the brake, exultant, dost 
 
 prepare thee — 
 As poets do whose thoughts are true, for wings that 
 will upbear thee — 
 
 Oh ! tell me, tell me, bonnie bird, 
 Canst thou not pipe of hope deferred ? 
 Or canst thou sing of naught but Spring among 
 the golden meadows ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Methinks a bard (and thou art one) should suit 
 
 his song to sorrow. 
 And tell of pain, as well as gain, that waits us on 
 
 the morrow ;
 
 252 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 But thou art not a prophet, thou, 
 If naught but joy can touch thee now ; 
 If, in thy heart, thou hast no vow that speaks of 
 Nature's anguish. 
 
 Oh ! I have held my sorrows dear, and felt, tho' 
 
 poor and slighted. 
 The songs we love are those we hear when love is 
 unrequited. 
 
 But thou art still the slave of dawn, 
 And canst not sing till night be gone, 
 Till o'er the pathway of the fawn the sunbeams 
 shine and quiver. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thou art the minion of the sun that rises in his 
 
 splendour, 
 And canst not spare for Dian fair the songs that 
 should attend her. 
 
 The moon, so sad and silver-pale, 
 Is mistress of the nightingale ; 
 And thou wilt sing on hill and dale no ditties in 
 the darkness.
 
 THE WAKING OF THE LARK 253 
 
 V, 
 
 For Queen and King thou wilt not spare one note 
 
 of thine outpouring ; 
 Thou art as free as breezes be on Nature's velvet 
 flooring. 
 
 The daisy, with its hood undone, 
 The grass, the sunlight, and the sun — 
 These are the joys, thou holy one, that pay thee 
 for thy singing. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh, hush ! Oh, hush ! how wild a gush of rapture 
 
 in the distance, — 
 A roll of rhymes, a toll of chimes, a cry for love's 
 assistance ; 
 
 A sound that wells from happy throats, 
 A flood of song where beauty floats, 
 And where our thoughts, like golden boats, do 
 seem to cross a river. 
 
 VII. 
 
 This is the advent of the lark — the priest in gray 
 
 apparel — 
 Who doth prepare to trill in air his sinless Summer 
 
 carol ;
 
 254 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 This is the prelude to the lay 
 The birds did sing in Ctesar's day, 
 And will again, for aye and aye, in praise of God's 
 creation. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O dainty thing, on wonder's wing, by life and love 
 
 elated. 
 Oh ! sing aloud from cloud to cloud, till day be 
 consecrated ; 
 
 Till from the gateways of the morn, 
 The sun, with all his light unshorn, 
 His robes of darkness round him torn, doth scale 
 the lofty heavens ! 
 
 ERIC MACKAY. 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK 
 
 Hail to thee, bhthe spirit ! 
 
 Bird thou never wert, 
 That from heaven or near it 
 Pourest thy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
 
 TO A SKY-LARK 255 
 
 II. 
 
 Higher still and higher 
 
 From the earth thou springest : 
 Like a cloud of fire 
 
 The blue deep thou wingest, 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 
 
 III. 
 In the golden lightning 
 
 Of the sunken sun, 
 O'er which clouds are brightening, 
 Thou dost float and run, 
 Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts around thy flight ; 
 Like a star of heaven 
 
 Li the broad daylight, 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight — 
 
 V. 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 
 Of that silver sphere 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 
 In the white dawn clear. 
 Until we hardly see, we feel, that ii is there.
 
 256 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 VI, 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud, 
 As, when night is bare, 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is 
 overflowed. 
 
 vii. 
 What thou art we know not ; 
 
 What is most like thee ? 
 From rainbow clouds there flow not 
 Drops so bright to see 
 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody : — 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 In the light of thought, 
 Singing hymns unbidden, 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 
 
 IX. 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 
 In a palace tower, 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love which overflows her 
 bower :
 
 TO A SKY-LARK 257 
 
 X. 
 
 Like a glow-worm golden 
 
 In a dell of dew, 
 Scattering unbeholden 
 Its aerial hue 
 Among the flowers and grass which screen it from 
 the view : 
 
 XI. 
 
 Like a rose embowered 
 
 In its own green leaves, 
 By warm winds deflowered, 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy- 
 winged thieves. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 On the twinkling grass, 
 Rain awakened flowers, — 
 All that ever was, 
 Joyous and clear and fresh, — thy music doth surpass. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Teach us, sprite or bird. 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine : 
 
 I have never heard 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 
 
 R
 
 258 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Chorus hymeneal 
 
 Or triumphal chant, 
 Matched with thine, would be all 
 
 But an empty vaunt — 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 
 
 XV. 
 
 ^^^lat objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain ? 
 What fields, or waves, or mountains? 
 What shapes of sky or plain ? 
 What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of 
 pain ? 
 
 XVI. 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be : 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 
 Never came near thee : 
 Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Waking or asleep, 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 
 Things more true and deep 
 Than we mortals dream, 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
 
 TO A SKY-LARK 259 
 
 XVIII. 
 We look before and after, 
 
 And pine for what is not : 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught ; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddes 
 thought. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Yet, if we could scorn 
 
 Hate and pride and fear, 
 If we were things born 
 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound, 
 Better than all treasures 
 
 That in books are found, 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 That thy brain must know : 
 
 Such harmonious madness 
 From my lips would flow 
 The world should listen then as 1 am listening now. 
 
 SHELLEY.
 
 26o BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 THE SKYLARK 
 
 Bird of the wilderness, 
 Blithesome and cumberless, 
 
 Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea 
 Emblem of happiness, 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
 
 Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! 
 
 Wild is thy lay and loud. 
 
 Far in the downy cloud, 
 Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 
 
 Where, on thy dewy wing, 
 
 Where art thou journeying ? 
 Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 
 
 O'er i'ell and fountain sheen, 
 
 O'er moor and mountain green. 
 O'er the red streamer that heralds the day. 
 
 Over the cloudlet dim, 
 
 Over the rainbow's rim, 
 Musical cherub, soar, singing, away !
 
 SONNET 261 
 
 Then, when the gloaming comes, 
 
 Low in the heather blooms 
 Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 
 
 Emblem of happiness, 
 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
 Oh to abide in the desert with thee 1 
 
 HOGG. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 FALSE POETS AND TRUE. 
 
 Look how the lark soars upward and is gone, 
 
 Turning a spirit as he nears the sky ! 
 His voice is heard, but body there is none 
 
 To fix the vague excursions of the eye. 
 
 So, poets' songs are with us, tho' they die 
 Obscured, and hid by death's oblivious shroud, 
 
 And Earth inherits the rich melody. 
 Like raining music from the morning cloud. 
 Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud, 
 
 Their voices reach us through the lapse of space 
 The noisy day is deafen'd by a crowd 
 
 Of undistinguish'd birds, a twittering race ; 
 But only lark and nightingale forlorn 
 Fill up the silences of night and morn. 
 
 HOOD.
 
 262 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 ECSTASY 
 
 I CANNOT sing to thee as I would sing 
 
 If I were quickened like the holy lark 
 With fire from Heaven and sunlight on his wing, 
 
 Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark 
 Renewed in rapture in the reddening air. 
 
 A thing of splendour do I deem him then, 
 A feather'd frenzy with an angel's throat, 
 A something sweet that somewhere seems to float 
 
 'Twixt earth and sky, to be a sign to men. 
 He fills me with such wonder and despair ! 
 
 I long to kiss thy locks, so golden bright, 
 As he doth kiss the tresses of the sun. 
 Oh ! bid me sing to thee, my chosen one, 
 
 And do thou teach me, Love, to sing aright ! 
 
 ERIC MACKAV.
 
 THE LARK 263 
 
 THE LARK 
 
 I HEAR the lark to-day ; he sings 
 
 Against a hazy April cloud — 
 The glorious little soul with wings ! 
 
 Who sings so sweet and clear and loud, 
 That all the fields that lie around 
 Are tingling with melodious sound. 
 
 Thou poet of heaven ! for of this earth 
 We deem thee not : I stand to-day 
 
 With all the ripple of thy mirth 
 Around, and daily thoughts away, 
 
 Hearing thy glorious music fall 
 In one continuous madrigal. 
 
 And as I listen in this mood 
 I leap to feel thy minstrel strain 
 
 Draw the street-fever from the blood. 
 The city from the weary brain, 
 
 Till I am left such boon to bless. 
 
 Full of unthinking happiness. 
 
 ALEXANDER ANDERSON 
 
 ("Surfaceman ").
 
 264 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Frnm "EARLY POEMS" 
 
 . . . Oft with patient ear 
 Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note 
 (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
 Gleaming on sunny wing) — "and such," I said, 
 "The inobtrusive song of happiness — 
 Unearthly minstrelsy ! then only heard 
 When the soul seeks to hear ; when all is hushed 
 And the heart listens ! " 
 
 S. T. COLERIDGE. 
 
 From "BLACK-EYED SUSAN" 
 
 " So sweet the lark, high-poised in air, 
 Shuts close his pinions to his breast 
 
 (If, chance his mate's shrill call he hear) 
 And drops at once into her nest." 
 
 JOHN GAY, 1732.
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY 265 
 
 From "KILDROSTAN" 
 
 . the bird of heaven — 
 A lark full-throated up in the blue heavens, 
 That all day singeth to his love below, 
 And only can be silent by her side. — 
 
 WALTER C. SMITH. 
 
 From "TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY" 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
 Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem : 
 To spare thee now is past my power. 
 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
 The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 
 
 VVi' speckled breast, 
 When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 
 
 The purpling east. 
 
 BURNS.
 
 266 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From 
 "LEADER-HAUGHS AND YARROW" 
 
 A MILE below wha lists to ride, 
 
 They'll hear the mavis singing ; 
 Into St. Leonard's banks she'll bide, 
 
 Sweet birks her head o'erhinging ; 
 The Untwhite loud and Progne proud, 
 
 With tuneful throats and narrow. 
 Into St. Leonard's banks they sing 
 
 As sweetly as in Yarrow. 
 
 The lapwing lilteth o'er the lea, 
 
 With nimble wing she sporteth : 
 But vows she'll flee far frae the tree 
 
 Where Philomel resorteth ; 
 By break of day the lark can say, 
 
 I'll bid you a good-morrow, 
 I'll streek ' my wing, and, mounting, sing 
 
 O'er Leader-Haughs and Yarrow. 
 
 NICOL BURN. 
 [An old Border Minstrel.) 
 
 1 Stretch.
 
 FEARS IN SOLITUDE 267 
 
 From "FEARS IN SOLITUDE" 
 
 A GREEN and silent spot, amid tlie hills, 
 A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place 
 No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! 
 Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he, 
 The humble man, who, in his youthful years. 
 Knew just so much of folly, as had made 
 His early manhood more securely wise I 
 Here he might lie on fern or withered heath, 
 While from the singing-lark (that sings unseen 
 The minstrelsy that solitude loves best,) 
 And from the sun, and from the breezy air. 
 Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
 And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, 
 Made up a meditative joy, and found 
 Religious meanings in the forms of nature ! 
 And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
 In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds, 
 And dreaming hears thee still, O singing-lark : 
 That singest like an angel in the clouds ! 
 
 S. T. COLKRIDGK.
 
 268 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE PILGRIMS OF THE SUN" 
 
 No sound was heard, except the lonely rail 
 Harping his ordinal adown the dale. 
 
 HOGG. 
 
 From 
 "EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE" 
 
 I SEE the lark down-dropping to his nest, 
 And the broad-wing'd sea-gull never at rest ; 
 For when no more he spreads his feathers free, 
 His breast is dancing on the restless sea. 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 / 
 
 From "HYPERION" 
 
 / I . . . . 
 
 ' ... sat me down, and took a mouthed shell 
 And murmur'd into it, and made melody — 
 O melody no more ! for while I sang, 
 And with poor skill let pass into the breeze
 
 HOME WOUNDED 269 
 
 The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand 
 
 Just opposite, an island of the sea, 
 
 There came enchantment with the shifting wind 
 
 That did both drown and keep alive my ears. 
 
 I threw my shell away upon the sand. 
 
 And a wave fill'd it, as my sense was fill'd 
 
 With that new blissful golden melody. 
 
 A living death was in each gush of sounds, 
 
 Each family of rapturous hurried notes, 
 
 That fell, one after one, yet all at once, 
 
 Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string : 
 
 And then another, then another strain, 
 
 Each like a dove leaving its olive perch. 
 
 With music wing'd instead of silent plumes. 
 
 To hover round my head; and make me sick 
 
 Of joy and grief at once. 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 From « HOME WOUNDED " 
 
 Among the thicket hazels of the brake 
 
 Perchance some nightingale doth shake 
 
 His feathers, and the air is full of song ; 
 
 In those old days when I was young and strong 
 
 He used to sing on yonder garden tree, 
 
 Beside the nursery.
 
 270 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Ah, I remember how 1 loved to wake, 
 
 And find him singing on the self-same bough — 
 
 (1 know it even now) 
 
 Where, since the flit of bat, 
 
 In ceaseless voice he sat, 
 
 Trying the spring night over, like a tune, 
 
 Beneath the vernal moon ; 
 
 And while I listed long. 
 
 Day rose, and still he sang, 
 
 And all his stanchless song, 
 
 As something falling unaware. 
 
 Fell out of the tall trees he sang among. 
 
 Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang — 
 
 Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair. 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL. 
 
 From "THE ANCIENT MARINER" 
 
 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 
 I heard the sky-lark sing ; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are, 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
 With their sweet jargoning ! 
 
 S. T. COLERIDGE. 
 
 /
 
 UNDERWOODS 27I 
 
 From "PARACELSUS" 
 
 Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark f 
 Soars up and up, shivering for very joy ; 
 Afar the ocean sleeps ; white fishing-gulls 
 Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe 
 Of nested limpets ,; savage creatures seek 
 Their loves in wood and plain — and God renews 
 His ancient rapture. 
 
 BROWNING 
 
 From "UNDERWOODS " 
 
 VI. A VISIT FROM THE SEA. 
 
 Far from the loud sea beaches 
 Where he goes fishing and crying 
 
 Here in the inland garden 
 AV hy is the sea-gull flying ? 
 
 Here are no fish to dive for ; 
 
 Here is the corn and lea ; 
 Here are the green trees rustling. 
 
 Hie away home to sea ! 
 
 /
 
 72 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Fresh is the river water 
 
 And quiet among the rushes ; 
 
 This is no home for the sea-gull 
 But for the rooks and thrushes. 
 
 Pity the bird that has wandered ! 
 
 Pity the sailor ashore ! 
 Hurry him home to the ocean, 
 
 Let him come here no more I 
 
 High on the sea-cliff ledges 
 
 The white gulls are trooping and crying, 
 Here among rooks and roses, 
 
 Why is the sea-gull flying ? 
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. 
 
 From "SKERRYVORE" 
 
 THE PARALLEL, 
 f 
 / 
 
 * ... and when the truant gull 
 
 Skims the green level of the lawn, his wing 
 Dispetals roses ; . 
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. 
 
 /
 
 TO A SEA-BIRD 273 
 
 TO A SEA-BIRD 
 
 SANTA CRUZ, 1 869. 
 
 Sauntering hither on listless wings, 
 
 Careless vagabond of the sea. 
 Little thou heedest the surf that sings, 
 The bar that thunders, the shale that rings,— 
 
 Give me to keep thy company. 
 
 Little thou hast, old friend, that's new ; 
 
 Storms and wrecks are old things to thee ; 
 Sick am I of these changes too ; 
 Little to care for, little to rue. — 
 
 I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 
 
 All of thy wanderings, far and near. 
 
 Bring thee at last to shore and me ; 
 All of my journeyings end them here, 
 This our tether must be our cheer, — 
 I on the shore, and thou on the sea.
 
 274 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, 
 
 Something in common, old friend, have we 
 Thou on the shingle seek'st'thy nest, 
 I to the waters look for rest, — 
 
 I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 
 
 BRET HARTE. 
 
 Frotti 
 
 "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON" 
 
 Across the which the white-winged fowl did flit 
 From cliff to cliff, and on the sandy bar, 
 The fresh waves and the salt waves were at war 
 At turning of the tide. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 From "LALLA ROOKH" 
 
 — -Lilla's dancing feet, that gleam and shoot 
 Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the deep ! 
 
 MOORE.
 
 OFF SHORE 275 
 
 From "LALLA ROOKH" 
 
 Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 
 That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept.^ 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 From "OFF SHORE" 
 
 White glories of wings 
 As of seafaring birds 
 That flock from the springs 
 Of the sunrise in herds 
 With the wind for a herdsman, and hasten or halt 
 at the change of his words : 
 
 At the charge of his word 
 
 Bidding pause, bidding haste. 
 When the ranks are stirred 
 And the lines displaced, 
 They scatter as wild swans parting adrift on the 
 wan green waste. 
 
 1 Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concretion 
 of the tears of birds.
 
 2/6 BARDS AND THE EIRDS 
 
 But the sun stands fast, 
 
 And the sea burns bright, 
 And the flight of them past 
 Is no more than the flight 
 Of the snow-soft swarm of serene wings poised and 
 afloat in the Ught. 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 From "THE LORD OF THE ISLES" 
 
 " Merrily, merrily, goes the bark 
 
 On a breeze from the Northward free ; 
 
 So shoots through the morning sky the lark 
 Or the swan through the summer sea." 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 From " ON THE VERGE " 
 
 Sail on sail along the sea-line fades and flashes ; 
 
 here on land 
 Flash and fade the wheeling wings on wings of 
 
 mews that plunge and scream. 
 
 SWINBURNE.
 
 RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 27/ 
 
 From "THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT 
 MARINER" 
 
 " At length did cross an Albatross, 
 Through the fog it came ; 
 As if it had been a Christian soul, 
 We hailed it in God's name. 
 
 It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
 And round and round it flew, 
 The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
 The helmsman steered us through ! 
 
 And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 
 
 The Albatross did follow, 
 
 And every day, for food or play. 
 
 Came to the mariners' hollo ! 
 
 In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. 
 
 It perched for vespers nine ; 
 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
 
 Glimmered the white moon-shine."
 
 2/8 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 " God save thee, ancient Mariner, 
 From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 
 Why look'st thou so?" — "With my cross-bow 
 I shot the Albatross." 
 
 S. T. COLERIDGE. 
 
 THE SEA-DIVER 
 
 My way is on the bright blue sea, 
 My sleep upon the rocky tide : 
 
 And many an eye has followed me, 
 Where billows clasp the worn sea-side. 
 
 My plumage bears the crimson blush. 
 When ocean by the sun is kissed ! 
 
 \Vhen fades the evening's purple flush. 
 My dark wing cleaves the silver mist. 
 
 Full many a fathom down beneath 
 The bright arch of the splendid deep. 
 
 My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe 
 O'er living myriads in their sleep. 
 
 They rested by the coral throne. 
 
 And by the pearly diadem, 
 Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown 
 
 The glorious dwelling made for them.
 
 THE SEA-DIVER 279 
 
 At night upon my storm-drenched wing, 
 
 I poised above a helmless bark, 
 And soon I saw the shattered thing 
 
 Had passed away and left no mark. 
 
 And when the wind and storm had done, 
 " A ship that had rode out the gale, 
 Sunk down without a signal-gun. 
 And none was left to tell the tale. 
 
 I saw the pomp of day depart — 
 The cloud resign its golden crown. 
 
 When to the ocean's beating heart 
 The sailor's wasted corse went down. 
 
 Peace be to those whose graves are made 
 Beneath the bright and silver sea ! 
 
 Peace that their relics there were laid, 
 With no vain pride and pageantry. 
 
 LONGFELLOW.
 
 28o BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 TO THE MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD 
 
 / 
 / Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm, 
 
 Waking renew'd on thy prodigious pinions, 
 
 (Burst the wild storm ! above it thou ascended'st, 
 
 And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee,) 
 
 Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating, 
 
 As to the light emerging here on deck I watch thee, 
 
 (Myself a speck, a point on the world's floating 
 
 vast.) 
 
 Far, far at sea, 
 
 After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore 
 
 with wrecks. 
 With reappearing day as now so happy and serene, 
 The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun, 
 The limpid spread of air cerulean, 
 Thou also reappearest. 
 
 Thou born to match the gale (thou art all wings), 
 To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurri- 
 cane, 
 Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails, 
 Days, even weeks untired and onward, through 
 spaces, realms gyrating,
 
 THE NIGHT BIRD 28 I 
 
 At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn America, 
 That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder- 
 cloud, 
 In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my soul, 
 What joys ! what joys were thine ! 
 
 WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 THE NIGHT BIRD 
 
 A MYTH. 
 
 A FLOATING, a floating 
 Across the sleeping sea, 
 All night I heard a singing bird 
 Upon the topmost tree. 
 
 ' Oh came you off the isles of Greece, 
 Or off the banks of Seine ; 
 Or off some tree in forests free, 
 Which fringe the western main ?' 
 
 ' I came not off the old world 
 Nor yet from off the new — 
 But I am one of the birds of God 
 Which sing the whole night through.'
 
 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 ' Oh sing, and wake the dawning — 
 Oh whistle for the wind ; 
 The night is long, the current strong, 
 My boat it lags behind.' 
 
 ' The current sweeps the old world, 
 The current sweeps the new ; 
 The wind will blow, the dawn will glow 
 Ere thou hast sailed them through.' 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 From "ISEULT AT TINTAGEL " 
 
 As the sea loves a sea-bird loved he me, 
 
 To foster and uphold my tired life's wing, 
 
 And bounteously beneath me spread forth spring, 
 
 A springtide space whereon to float or fly, 
 
 A world of happy water, whence the sky 
 
 Glowed goodlier, lightening from so glad a glass, 
 
 Than with its own light only. . . . 
 
 SWINBURNE.
 
 AT A month's end 283 
 
 From "THE MAIDEN MARRIAGE" 
 
 And as the sea-gull hovers high, and turns 
 
 With eyes wherein the keen heart glittering yearns 
 
 Down toward the sweet green sea whereon the 
 
 broad noon burns, 
 And suddenly, soul-stricken with delight, 
 Drops, and the glad wave gladdens, and the light 
 Sees wing and wave confuse their fluttering white. 
 So Tristram one brief breathing-space apart 
 Hung, and gazed down. . . . 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 From "AT A MONTH'S END" 
 
 Across, aslant, a scudding sea-mew 
 
 Swam, dipped, and dropped, and grazed the 
 sea : 
 
 And one with nie I could not dream you ; 
 And one with you I could not be.
 
 284 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 As the white wing the white waves fringes 
 Touched and slid over and flashed past — 
 
 As a pale cloud a pale flame tinges 
 
 From the moon's lowest lia;ht and last — 
 
 So once with fiery breath and flying 
 
 Your winged heart touched mine and went, 
 
 And the swift spirits kissed, and sighing, 
 Sundered and smiled and were content. 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 From "MY BEAUTIFUL LADY" 
 
 A HAWK high poised in air, whose nerved wing-tips 
 Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips, 
 In vigilance, hangs less intense 
 Than I ; when her voice holds my sense 
 Contented in .suspense. 
 
 THOMA.S WOOLNER, R.A.
 
 FRAGMENT FROM A SONG 285 
 
 From "TALES OF THE HALL" 
 
 (book IV.) 
 
 Pleasant it was to view the sea-gulls strive 
 Against the storm, or in the ocean dive, 
 With eager scream, or when they dropping gave 
 Their closing wings, to sail upon the wave ; 
 Then as the winds and waters raged around, 
 And breaking billows mix'd their deafening sound, 
 They on the rolling deep securely hung. 
 And calmly rode the restless waves among. 
 
 CRABBE.- 
 
 FRAGMENT FROM A SONG 
 
 " Beloved the fertile Drumhome, 
 Beloved are Sorgs and Kells ! 
 But sweeter and fairer to me 
 The salt sea where the sea-gulls cry 
 When I come to Derry from far, 
 It is sweeter and dearer to me — 
 Sweeter to me." 
 
 SAINT COLUMBA.
 
 286 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From 
 "ON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARDS" 
 
 Ev'n gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes 
 With all the darling field-flowers in their prime, 
 And gardens haunted by the nightingale's 
 Long trills and gushing ecstasies of song, 
 For these wild headlands, and the sea-mew's clang. 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 From 
 "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON" 
 
 Castor and Pollux, who thought not to rest — 
 In woody Lacedaemon, where the doves 
 Make summer music in the beechen groves, 
 But rather chose to hear the sea-fowl sing. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS.
 
 THE SEA-MEM' 287 
 
 From "THE SEA-MEW" 
 
 How joyously the young sea-mew 
 Lay dreaming on the waters blue, 
 Whereon our little bark had thrown 
 A forward shade, the only one, 
 (But shadows ever man pursue.) 
 
 II. 
 
 Familiar with the waves and free, 
 As if their own white foam were he, 
 His heart, upon the heart of ocean. 
 Lay learning all its mystic motion. 
 And throbbing to the throbbing sea. 
 
 III. 
 
 And such a brightness in his eye, 
 As if the ocean and the sky, 
 Within him had lit up and nurst 
 A soul, God gave him not at first. 
 To comprehend their majesty.
 
 288 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 IV. 
 
 We were not cruel, yet did sunder 
 
 His white wing from the blue waves under, 
 
 And bound it, while his fearless eyes 
 
 Shone up to ours in calm surprise, 
 
 As deeming us some ocean wonder ! 
 
 V. 
 
 We bore our ocean bird unto 
 A grassy place, where he might view 
 The flowers that curtsey to the bees, 
 The waving of the tall green trees. 
 The falling of the silver dew. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But flowers of earth were pale to him 
 Who had seen the rainbow fishes swim ; 
 And when earth's dew around him lay, 
 He thought of ocean's winged spray, 
 And his eye waxed sad and dim. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The green trees round him only made 
 A prison, with their darksome shade : 
 And drooped his wing, and mourned he 
 For his own boundless glittering sea — 
 Albeit he knew not they could fade.
 
 A DEAD SEA-GULL 289 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then One her gladsome face did bring, 
 Her gentle voice's murmuring, 
 In ocean's stead his heart to move, 
 And teach him what was human love — 
 He thought it a strange, mournful thing. 
 
 IX, 
 
 He lay down in his grief to die, 
 (First looking to the sea-like sky, 
 That hath no waves !) because, alas ! 
 Our human touch did on him pass, 
 And with our touch, our agony. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 A DEAD SEA-GULL 
 
 NEAR LIVERPOOL. 
 
 Lack-lustre eye, and idle wing, 
 And_^smirched breast that skims no mure. 
 White as the foam itself, the wave — 
 Hast thou not even a grave 
 Upon the dreary shore, 
 Forlorn, forsaken thing ? 
 
 T
 
 290 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Thou whom the deep seas could not drown, 
 Nor all the elements affright, 
 Flashing like thought across the main. 
 Mocking the hurricane, 
 Screaming with shrill delight 
 ^^'hen the great ship went down. 
 
 Thee not thy beauty saved, nor mirth. 
 Nor daring, nor thy humble lot. 
 One among thousands — in quick haste 
 Fate clutched thee as she passed ; 
 Dead — how, it matters not : 
 Corrupting, earth to earth. 
 
 And not a league from where it lies 
 Lie bodies once as free from stain, 
 And hearts as gay as this sea-bird's, 
 Whom all the preachers' words 
 Will ne'er make white again, 
 Or from the dead to rise. 
 
 Rot, pretty bird, in harmless clay : — 
 We sing too much poetic woes ; 
 Let us be doing while we can : 
 Blessed the Christian man 
 Who on life's shore seeks those 
 Dying of soul decay. 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.
 
 RING-PLOVER FOUND DEAD IN TYREE 29 I 
 
 ON A RING-PLOVER FOUND DEAD 
 IN TYREE 
 
 AUGUST, 1884. 
 
 In a hollow of the dunes 
 
 Its wings were closed in rest, 
 
 And the florets of the eyebright 
 Stood guard around its breast. 
 
 The glorious light and sun 
 
 Were on it where it lay, 
 And the sound of ocean murmurs 
 
 Passed o'er it from the bay. 
 
 No more its easy pinions 
 
 Would gleam along the sand, 
 
 No more in glancing courses 
 Sweep all the pleasant land. 
 
 No more its tuneful whistle 
 Would mingle with the surf ; 
 
 Its busy feet were idle. 
 Once nimble on the turf.
 
 292 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 No ruffle marred its plumage, 
 No struggle stretched its head ; 
 
 It lay in perfect slumber, 
 The happiest of the dead. 
 
 So could I wish that Death 
 ^Vould make his lair for me 
 
 Among the list'ning pastures 
 And margins of the sea. 
 
 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 
 (From " Good Words," January 18 
 
 From "HIAWATHA" 
 
 Then he heard a clang and flapping. 
 As of many wings assembling. 
 Heard a screaming and confusion, 
 As of birds of prey contending. 
 Saw a gleam of light above him. 
 Shining through the ribs of Nahma, 
 Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, 
 Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering. 
 Gazing at him through the opening. 
 Heard them saying to each other, 
 " 'Tis our brother, Hiawatha ! " 
 
 And he shouted from below them.
 
 lONA 293 
 
 Cried exulting from the caverns, 
 
 " O ye sea-gulls ! O my brothers ! 
 
 I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma ; 
 
 Make the rifts a little larger, 
 
 With your claws the openings widen, 
 
 Set me free from this dark prison, 
 
 And henceforward and for ever 
 
 Men shall speak of your achievements, 
 
 Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, 
 
 Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers ! " 
 
 And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls 
 Toiled with beak and claws together. 
 Made the rifts and openings wider 
 In the mighty ribs of Nahma, 
 And from peril and from prison, 
 From the body of the sturgeon, 
 From the peril of the water. 
 Was released my Hiawatha. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 From "lONA" 
 
 O'er tangled and shell-paved rocks 
 The white sea-gulls are flying ; 
 And in the sunny coves brown flocks 
 Of wistful seals are lying ;
 
 294 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 The waves are breaking low, 
 Hardly their foam you trace ; 
 All hushed and still, as if they know 
 This is a sacred place. 
 
 WALTER C. SMITH. 
 
 From "FLORA MACDONALD'S 
 FAREWELL " 
 
 The muircock that craws on the brows of Ben- 
 
 Connal, 
 He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame ; 
 The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald, 
 Unawed and unhunted, his eyry can claim ; 
 The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore, 
 The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea, 
 But ah ! there is one whose hard fate I deplore. 
 Nor house, ha', nor hame, in this country has he — 
 The conflict is past, and our name is no more — 
 There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and 
 
 me ! 
 
 HOGG.
 
 BY THE NORTH SEA 295 
 
 From " BY THE NORTH SEA " 
 
 The pastures are herdless and sheepless, 
 No pasture or shelter for herds : 
 
 The wind is relentless and sleepless, 
 And restless and songless the birds ; 
 
 Their cries from afar fall breathless, 
 Their wings are as lightnings that flee ; 
 
 For the land has two lords that are deathless 
 Death's self, and the sea. 
 
 As the souls of the dead men disburdened 
 And clean of the sins that they sinned, 
 
 With a lovelier than man's life guerdoned 
 And delight as a wave's. in the wind. 
 
 And delight as the wind's in the billow, 
 Birds pass, and deride with their glee 
 
 The flesh that has dust for its pillow 
 As wrecks have the sea. 
 
 When the ways of the sun wax dimmer, 
 Wings flash through the dusk like beams ; 
 
 As the clouds in the lit sky glimmer, 
 The bird in the graveyard gleams ;
 
 296 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 As the cloud at its wing's edge whitens 
 
 When the clarions of sunrise are heard, 
 The graves that the bird's note brightens 
 Grow bright for the bird. 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 From "OVER THE HILLSIDE" 
 
 {Reichip, 1864.) 
 
 Within the unknown country 
 
 Where some lost footsteps pass, 
 
 What beauty decks the heavens 
 And clothes the grass ! 
 
 Over the mountain shoulder 
 What glories may unfold ! 
 
 Though I see but the mountain 
 Bleak, bare and cold, — 
 
 And the pale road, slow winding 
 To where, each after each, 
 
 They slipped away — ah, whither ? 
 I cannot reach.
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH 297 
 
 And if I call, what answers ? 
 
 Only 'twixt earth and sky, 
 Like wail of parting spirit, 
 
 The curlew's cry. . . . 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 From "HEAVEN AND EARTH" 
 
 Noah. Hark, hark ! the sea-birds cry ! 
 In clouds they overspread the lurid sky, 
 And hover round the mountain, where before 
 Never a white wing, wetted by the wave, 
 
 Yet dared to soar. 
 Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to 
 brave. 
 Soon it shall be their only shore. 
 And then, no more ! 
 
 BYRON.
 
 IX. 
 
 MOUNTAINS — EAGLES — AFTER- 
 NOON — EVENING
 
 From "KILMAHOE" 
 
 All along these jagged heights 
 Many are the wild delights, 
 Goats, that grass on scant ledge crop, 
 Or poise them on some skiey top ; 
 Marten-cat, up smooth rock-face 
 Climbing to his crannied place ; 
 Falcons paired, that wheel and wheel 
 High o'er splintered pinnacle ; — 
 Sights to feed the children's eyes 
 With an ever new surprise. 
 Now they seaward gaze — for spring 
 Hath unloosed the gannet's wing, 
 And sent them to their hunting grounds 
 There to wheel unwearied rounds. 
 Sudden as a lightning flash. 
 Falling sheer, one cleaves the main ; 
 One with heavy-pinioned plash 
 On the weltering surge again 
 Re-appears, and, flapping wings. 
 Gulps his prey, and skyward springs 
 Buoyant to his own domain. 
 
 J. C. SHAIRP.
 
 302 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "ROKEBY" 
 
 On Brignall cliffs and Scargill brake 
 The owlet's homilies awake, 
 The bittern scream'd from rush and flag, 
 The raven slumber'd on his crag, 
 Forth from his den the otter drew, — 
 Grayling and trout their tyrant knew, 
 As between reed and sedge he peers. 
 With fierce round snout and sharpen'd ears, 
 Or, prowling by the moonbeam cool, 
 Watches the stream or swims the pool ; — 
 Perch'd on his wonted eyrie high. 
 Sleep seal'd the tercelet's wearied eye, 
 That all the day had watch'd so well 
 The cushat dart across the dell. 
 
 SCOTT.
 
 BALDER 303 
 
 From "CHAMOUNI" 
 
 . . . this peak, like a grey pinnacle 
 Of the towered earth piercing the cloudless skies. 
 To us, how calm and lonely, tenantless 
 And silent as the still and empty air, 
 But to that height the seldom mountaineer 
 Looks from the extremest footing of some ridge 
 Incredible, three times beyond our ken, 
 And to his keen and upward-straining eyes 
 Round it midway the circling eagles sail, 
 As daws that round some thin and distant spire 
 On English hill, scarce seen thro' lucent air, 
 Are motes in the evening sun. 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL. 
 
 From "BALDER" 
 
 Like a sailing eagle old 
 Which with unwavering wings outspread and wide 
 Makes calm horizons in the slumbrous air 
 Of cloudless noon and fills the silent heaven
 
 / 
 
 304 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 With the slow circulation of a course 
 More placid than repose, this shining still 
 And universal day revolves serene 
 Around me, hasting not and uncompelled. 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL. 
 
 / 
 
 / From "THE LADY OF THE LAKE" 
 
 Such glance the mountain eagle threw, 
 As, from the cliffs of Benvenue, 
 She spread her dark sails on the wind, 
 And, high in middle heaven, reclined. 
 With her broad shadow on the lake. 
 Silenced the warblers of the brake. 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 From "THE DEATH OF MOSES" 
 
 Heaven led the people forth. 
 E'en as the eagle's parent care 
 Hangs o'er the lofty nest.
 
 'There niiglit men the royall l'".i;le find, 
 That with his sharpe looke perseth the Sunne. 
 
 Ckaucer.
 
 PIETRO OF ABANO 305 
 
 And flutters fondly o'er her young, 
 And spreads her guardian wings, 
 
 And leads them from the eyry forth, 
 And bids them face the sun. 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 From "LOVE'S LABOUR LOST" 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE III. 
 
 A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From "PIETRO OF ABANO" 
 
 . . . Shell chipped, the eaglet callow 
 
 Needs a parent's pinion-push to quit the eyrie's 
 
 edge : 
 But once fairly launched forth, denizen of aether, 
 While each effort sunward bids the blood more 
 
 freely through each limb pulse, 
 Sure the parent feels, as gay they soar together. 
 Fully are all pains repaid when love redeems its 
 
 pledge ! 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 u
 
 306 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "TITUS ANDRONICUS" 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE IV. 
 
 Tamora. . . . 
 
 The eagle suffers little birds to sing, 
 And is not careful what they mean thereby ; 
 Knowing that with the shadow of his wing 
 He can at pleasure stint their melody. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Frnm "THE VOICES" 
 
 The mountain pine looks calmly on 
 The fires that scourge the plains below, 
 
 Nor heeds the eagle in the sun 
 
 The small birds piping in the snow ! 
 
 WHITTIER.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY 307 
 
 From " THE CHURCH " 
 
 Each creature has a wisdome for his good. 
 The pigeons feed their tender off-spring, crying, 
 When they are callow \ but withdraw their food, 
 When they are fledged, that need may teach 
 them flying. 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT. 
 
 From "THE SPANISH GYPSY" 
 
 Lay the young eagle in what nest you will. 
 The cry and swoop of eagles overhead 
 Vibrate prophetic in its kindred frame. 
 And make it spread its wings and poise itself 
 For the eagle's flight. 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT.
 
 308 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE CLOUD" 
 
 The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread, 
 Leaps on the back of my saihng rack. 
 
 When the morning star shines dead : 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings 
 An eagle alit one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings. 
 And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea 
 beneath, 
 
 Its ardours of rest and of love, 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From the depth of heaven above, 
 With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 SHELLEY.
 
 ALASTOR 309 
 
 From "ALASTOR" 
 
 As an eagle, grasped 
 In folds of the green serpent, feels her breast 
 Burn with the poison, and precipitates, 
 Through night and day, tempest and calm and 
 
 cloud, 
 Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind flight 
 O'er the wide aery wilderness : thus, driven 
 By the bright shadow of that lovely dream. 
 Beneath the cold glare of the desolate night, 
 Through tangled swamps and deep precipitous dells, 
 StartUng with careless step the moonlight snake, 
 He fled. 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 From "ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH 
 REVIEWERS" 
 
 So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain. 
 No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
 View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
 And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart ;
 
 3IO BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, 
 He nurs'd the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 
 While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest. 
 Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 From "BALAUSTION'S ADVENTURE" 
 
 And we were just about 
 To turn and face the foe, as some tired bird 
 Barbarians pelt at, drive with shouts away 
 From shelter in what rocks, however rude. 
 She makes for, to escape the kindled eye, 
 Split beak, crook'd claw o' the creature, cormorant 
 Or ossifrage, that, hardly baffled, hangs 
 Afloat i' the foam, to take her if she turn. 
 
 Like some dread heapy blackness, ruffled wing. 
 Convulsed and cowering head that is all eye, 
 Which proves a ruined eagle who, too blind 
 Swooping in quest o' the quarry, fawn or kid. 
 Descried deep down the chasm 'twixt rock and rock, 
 Has wedged and mortised, into either wall 
 O' the mountain, the pent earthquake of his powtr ;
 
 THE DEAD EAGLE 3II 
 
 So lies, half hurtless, yet still terrible, 
 
 Just when who stalks up, who stands front to front, 
 
 But the great lion-guarder of the gorge. 
 
 Lord of the ground, a stationed glory there ! 
 
 Yet he too pauses ere he try the worst 
 
 O' the frightful unfamiliar nature, new 
 
 To the chasm, indeed, but elsewhere known enough. 
 
 Among the shadows and the silences 
 
 Above i' the sky : so, each antagonist 
 
 Silently faced his fellow and forbore. 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "THE DEAD EAGLE" 
 
 WRITTEN AT ORAN. 
 
 There's such a charm in natural strength and 
 power, 
 That human fancy has for ever paid 
 Poetic homage to the bird of Jove. 
 Hence, 'neath his image, Rome array'd her turms 
 And cohorts for the conquest of the world. 
 And figuring his flight, the mind is fiU'd 
 With thoughts that mock the pride of wingless 
 man. . . . 
 
 CAMPBELL.
 
 312 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "JULIUS C^SAR" 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 
 
 Cassius. . . . Now I change my mind, 
 And partly credit those that do presage. 
 Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign 
 Two mighty eagles fell ; and there they perch'd, 
 Gorging and feeding from our soldiers' hands ; 
 Who to Philippi here consorted us : 
 This morning are they fled away and gone ; 
 And in their stead do ravens, crows, and kites, 
 Fly o'er our heads, and downward look on us. 
 As we were sickly prey : their shadows seem 
 A canopy most fatal, under which , 
 
 Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE,
 
 THE HYMN OF THE EAGLE 3 I 3 
 
 From "SIR ALDINGAR" 
 
 (time of henry II.) 
 
 " I DREAMT in my sweven on Thursday eve 
 In my bed wheras I lay 
 I dreamt a grype ^ and a grimly beast 
 Had carried my crown away ; 
 
 " My gorget and my kirtle of gold, 
 And all my fair head-gear ; 
 And he would worry me with his tush,^ 
 And to his nest y-bear : 
 
 " Saving there came a little gray hawk, 
 A merlin him they call. 
 Which until the ground did strike the grype, 
 That dead he down did fall." 
 
 THE HYMN OF THE EAGLE 
 
 Upon a sheer-sloped mountain height 
 My eyrie is ; from thence my sight 
 Looks down o'er the wide lands below : 
 I watch the wild winds swoop and blow 
 
 1 Griflin. - 'lusk.
 
 314 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 In savage violence — but here 
 They howl in vain ; I have no fear 
 "Who am the lord of this high sphere. 
 
 iVt sunrise on this peak I stand, 
 
 And watch the glory flood the land ; 
 
 And then on mighty wings I speed 
 
 Far hence for lowland prey to feed 
 
 My clamorous young — though when night falls 
 
 Still echo loud their fledgling calls 
 
 About these gloomy mountain walls. 
 
 I watch the moon rise o'er the sea 
 
 xVnd inland sail mysteriously, 
 
 A globe of silver fire on high ; 
 
 Then pulse the planets in the sky, 
 
 And flash the stars, and meteors stream : 
 
 And then I drowse, to wake with dream 
 
 Of prey, and thro' the stillness scream. 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP.
 
 FERISHTAH S FANCIES 
 
 J'O 
 
 From "FERISHTAH'S FANCIES" 
 
 I. THE EAGLE. 
 
 Dervish — (though yet un-dervished, call him so 
 No less beforehand : while he trudged our way, 
 Other his worldly name was : when he wrote 
 Those versicles we Persians praise him for, 
 — True fairy-work — Ferishtah grew his style) — 
 Dervish Ferishtah walked the woods one eve, 
 i\nd noted on a bough a raven's nest. 
 Whereof each youngling gaped with callow beak 
 Widened by want ; for why ? beneath the tree 
 Dead lay the mother bird. "A piteous chance ! 
 How shall they 'scape destruction?" sighed the sage 
 — Or sage about to be, though simple still. 
 Responsive to which doubt, sudden there swooped 
 An eagle downward, and behold he bore 
 (Great-hearted) in his talons flesh wherewith 
 He stayed their craving, then resought the sky. 
 " Ah, foolish, faithless me ! " the observer smiled, 
 " Who toil and moil to eke out life, when lo 
 Providence cares for every hungry mouth ! " 
 To profit by which lesson, home went he. 
 And certain days sat musing, — neither meat
 
 3l6 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Nor drink would purchase by his handiwork. 
 Then, — for his head swam and his limbs grew 
 
 faint,— 
 Sleep overtook the unwise one, whom in dream 
 God thus admonished : " Hast thou marked my 
 
 deed? 
 Which part assigned by providence dost judge 
 Was meant for man's example ? Should he play 
 The helpless weakling, or the helpful strength 
 That captures prey and saves the perishing ? 
 Sluggard, arise : work, eat, then feed who lack ! " 
 
 Waking, " I have arisen, work I will, 
 
 Eat, and so following. Which lacks food the more, 
 
 Body or soul in me ? I starve in soul : 
 
 So may mankind : and since men congregate 
 
 In towns, not woods, — to Ispahan forthwith ! " 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "PARADISE AND THE PERI 
 
 Thence, over Egypt's palmy groves, 
 Her grots, and sepulchres of kings 
 
 The exiled Spirit sighing roves ; 
 
 And now hangs listening to the doves 
 
 In warm Rosetta's vale — now loves 
 To watch the moonlight on the wings
 
 LALLA ROOKH 317 
 
 Of the white pelicans that break 
 The azure calm of Mceris' Lake. 
 Twas a fair scene — a land more bright 
 Never did mortal eye behold ! 
 
 Amid whose fairy loneliness 
 Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard. 
 Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting 
 Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam) 
 Some purple-wing'd Sultana ^ sitting 
 
 Upon a column, motionless 
 And glittering, like an idol bird ! 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 From " LALLA ROOKH " 
 
 . . . javelins, that fly 
 Enwreathedwith smoky flames through the dark sky 
 And red-hot globes that, opening as they mount. 
 Discharge, as from a kindled naphtha fount, 
 Showers of consuming fire o'er all below ; 
 Looking, as through th' illumined night they go. 
 Like those wild birds that by the Magians oft, 
 At festivals of fire, were sent aloft 
 Into the air, with blazing faggots tied 
 To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide ! 
 
 MOORE. 
 ^ A stately and brilliant bird.
 
 3l8 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA- 
 VUOLTCH " 
 
 . . . like to hawk of the hill which ranges and 
 soars in its hunting, 
 
 Seen and unseen by turns, now here, now in ether 
 eludent, 
 Wherefore, as cloud of Benmore or hawk over- 
 ranging the mountains, 
 
 Wandereth he. . . . 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 From "MARMION" 
 
 " Let the wild falcon soar her swing, 
 She'll stoop when she has tired her wing." 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT,
 
 THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS 319 
 
 From " PAULINE " 
 
 . . . I'll sit with thee while thou dost sing 
 Thy native songs, gay as a desert bird 
 Who crieth as it flies, for perfect joy. 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "PAULINE" 
 
 And I was borne away, 
 As Arab birds float sleeping in the wind, 
 O'er deserts, towers, and forests. . . . 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS" 
 
 A ROCKY mountain, o'er the Sea 
 Of Oman beetling awfully, 
 
 While, on its peak, that braved the sky,
 
 320 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 A ruin'd temple tower'd so high 
 
 That oft the sleeping albatross ^ 
 Struck the wild ruins with her wing, 
 And from her cloud-rock'd slumbering 
 Started — to find man's dwelling there 
 In her own silent fields of air ! 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 From "THE LIGHTHOUSE" 
 
 The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din 
 Of wings and winds and solitary cries, 
 
 Blinded and maddened by the light within, 
 Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 From » AMOUR DE VOYAGE " 
 
 CANTO in. 
 IV. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your 
 helpless faces. 
 Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary pro- 
 cessions, 
 
 1 They sleep in the air.
 
 PROMETHEIA 321 
 
 Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is 
 whence we discern not, 
 
 Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on 
 the crested billow. 
 
 Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands 
 that the tide shall return to, 
 
 Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagi- 
 nation ! 
 
 Let us not talk of growth ; we are still in our 
 i\queous Ages. 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 From " PROMETHEIA " 
 
 For this, from Zeus I craved, 
 What he denies me still, the gift of wings — 
 For birds — birds only — that in some sweet bird 
 Life's sweetest voice, from Earth's loud hubbub 
 
 saved. 
 Might soar in song to Heaven, and there be heard. 
 
 ROBERT, EARL OF LYTTON.
 
 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From 
 "LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP" 
 
 Ay, and sometimes on the hill-side, while we sate 
 
 down in the gowans, 
 With the forest green behind us, and its shadow 
 
 cast before ; 
 And the river running under ; and across it, from 
 
 the rowans, 
 A brown partridge whirring near us, till we felt the 
 
 air it bore. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 From 
 
 "LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP" 
 
 And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if 
 
 she always thought them — 
 She had sympathies so rapid, open, free as bird on 
 
 branch,
 
 A VISION OF POETS 323 
 
 Just as ready to fly east as west, whichever way 
 
 besought them, 
 In the birchen-wood a chirrup, or a cock-crow in 
 
 the grange. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 From ''TO JANE— THE RECOLLECTION" 
 
 / 
 
 How cahii It was I — The silence there ■ 
 
 By such a chain was bound * 
 
 That even the busy woodpecker 
 
 Made stiller with her sound 
 The inviolable quietness ; 
 
 The breath of peace we drew 
 With its soft motion made not less 
 
 The calm that round us grew. 
 
 SHELLEV. 
 
 From "A VISION OF POETS" 
 
 . and now and then 
 The birds sang and brake off again 
 
 To shake their pretty feathers dry 
 Of the dew sliding droppingly 
 From the leaf-edges, and apply 
 
 /
 
 324 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Back to their song. 'Twixt dew and bird 
 So sweet a silence ministered, 
 God seemed to use it for a word. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 From "POEMS BY A PAINTER" 
 
 Still, where the slanting sunhght gilds 
 The boles of cedar and of pine. 
 
 Chants the lone blackbird from the brake 
 With melancholy voice divine. 
 
 SIR NOiiL PATON. 
 
 From "OLRIG GRANGE" 
 
 Look, how the slanting sunbeams long 
 Gird with light-rings the grey birch trees ; 
 
 And from his unseen place of song 
 The sky-lark on the evening breeze 
 Shakes down his fluttering melodies. . . 
 
 WALTER C. SMITH.
 
 AN EVENING WALK 325 
 
 From "AN EVENING WALK" 
 
 Sweetly ferocious, round his native walks, 
 Pride of his sister wives, the monarch stalks ; 
 Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread ; 
 A crest of purple tops his warrior head. 
 Bright sparks his black and rolling eyeball hurls 
 Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls ; 
 On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion throat, 
 Threatened by faintly answering farms remote. 
 
 WORD.SWORTH. 
 
 / 
 
 From "AN EVENING WALK" 
 
 Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail. 
 On red slow-waving pinions, down the vale : 
 How pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray 
 Where winds a road along a secret bay, 
 In all the majesty of ease divides, 
 And glorying looks around the silent tides ; 
 Along the "wild meandering shore" to view, 
 Obsequious grace the winding swan pursue ;
 
 326 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 He swells his lifted chest and backward flings 
 His bridling neck between his towering wings ; 
 By rills that tumble down the woody steeps, 
 And run in transports to the dimpling deeps ; 
 On as he floats, the silvered waters glow, 
 Proud of the varying arch and moveless form of 
 
 snow, 
 While tender cares and mild domestic loves 
 With furtive watch pursue her as she moves, 
 The female with a meeker charm succeeds, 
 And her brown little ones around her leads. 
 Nibbling the water-lilies as they pass. 
 Or playing wanton with the floating grass. 
 She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride 
 Forgets, unwearied watching every side ; 
 She calls them near, and with affection sweet, 
 Alternately relieves their weary feet. 
 Alternately they mount her back, and rest, 
 Close by her mantling wings' embraces pressed. 
 
 WORDSWORTH.
 
 KILMENY 327 
 
 From "GARETH AND LYNETTE" 
 
 Nigh upon that hour 
 When the lone hern forgets his melancholy, 
 Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams 
 Of goodly supper in the distant pool. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 From "KILMENY" 
 
 And when at eve the woodlands rung. 
 
 When hymns of other worlds she sung 
 
 In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 
 
 O, then the glen was all in motion ! 
 
 The wild beasts of the forest came. 
 
 Broke from their boughts and faulds the tame, 
 
 And goved around, charmed and amazed ; 
 
 Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed. 
 
 And murmured and looked with anxious pain 
 
 For something the mystery to explain. 
 
 The buzzard came with the throstle-cock ; 
 
 The corby left her houf in the rock ;
 
 328 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew ; 
 
 The hind came tripping o'er the dew ; 
 
 The wolf and the kid their raike began, 
 
 And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret 
 
 ran ; 
 The hawk and the hern attour them hung, 
 And the merle and the mavis forhooyed ^ their 
 
 young ; 
 And all in a peaceful ring were hurled : — 
 It was like an eve in a sinless world I 
 
 HOGG. 
 
 From "THE BIRDS" 
 
 SONG. 
 (The Hoopoe calls the Nightingale.^ 
 
 Awake ! Awake ! 
 Sleep no more, my gentle mate I 
 With your tiny tawny bill, 
 Wake the tuneful echo shrill. 
 
 On vale or hill ; 
 Or in her airy rocky seat. 
 Let her listen and repeat 
 
 1 Forsook.
 
 INVOCATION TO THE NIGHTINGALE 329 
 
 The tender ditty that you tell, 
 
 The sad lament, 
 
 The dire event, 
 To luckless Itys that befell. 
 
 Thence the strain 
 
 Shall rise again, 
 
 And soar amain, 
 Up to the lofty palace gate, 
 Where mighty Apollo sits in state 
 In Jove's abode, with his ivory lyre. 
 Hymning aloud to the heavenly quire ; 
 While all the Gods shall join with thee 
 
 In a celestial symphony. 
 
 ARISTOPHANES, 
 Translated hy John Hookham Frekk. 
 
 THE HOOPOE'S INVOCATION TO THE 
 NIGHTINGALE 
 
 (From " The Birds'" of Aristophanes, i. 209.) 
 
 Waken, dear one, from thy slumbers ; 
 Pour again those holy numbers, 
 Which thou warblest there alone 
 In a heaven-instructed tone,
 
 330 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Mourning from this leafy shrine 
 
 Lost — lost Itys, mine and thine, 
 
 In the melancholy cry 
 
 Of a mother's agony. 
 
 Echo, ere the murmurs fade. 
 
 Bear them from the yew tree's shade 
 
 To the throne of Jove ; and there, 
 
 Phcjebus with his golden hair 
 
 Listens long, and loves to suit 
 
 To his ivory-mounted lute 
 
 Thy sad music ; at the sound 
 
 All the gods come dancing round. 
 
 And a sympathetic song 
 
 Peals from the immortal throng. 
 
 \V. M. PRAED. 
 
 SUNSET WINGS 
 
 To-night this sunset spreads two golden wings 
 
 Cleaving the western sky ; 
 Winged too with wind it is, and winnowings 
 Of birds ; as if the day's last hour in rings 
 
 Of strenuous flight must die.
 
 SUNSET ■U'INGS 331 
 
 Sun-Steeped in fire, the homeward pinions sway 
 
 Above the dovecote-tops ; 
 And clouds of starhngs, ere they rest with day, 
 Sink, clamorous like mill-waters, at wild play, 
 
 By turns in every copse : 
 
 Each tree heart-deep the wrangling rout receives, — 
 
 Save for the whirr within. 
 You could not tell the starlings from the leaves ; 
 Then one great puff of wings, and the swarm heaves 
 
 Away with all its din. 
 
 Even thus Hope's hours, in ever-eddying flight. 
 
 To many a refuge tend ; 
 With the first light she laughed, and the last fight 
 Glows round her still ; who natheless in the night 
 
 At length must make an end. 
 
 And now the mustering rooks innumerable 
 
 Together sail and soar, 
 While for the day's death, like a tolling knell, 
 Unto the heart they seem to cry. Farewell, 
 
 No more, farewell, no more ! 
 
 Is Hope not plumed, as 'twere a fiery dart ? 
 
 And oh ! thou dying day, 
 Even as thou goest must she too depart. 
 And Sorrow fold such pinions on the heart 
 
 As will not fly away? 
 
 D. G. RCSSETTI.
 
 332 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 "TWILIGHT CALM" 
 
 Oh, pleasant eventide ! 
 
 Clouds on the western side 
 Grow grey and greyer, hiding the warm sun : 
 The bees and birds, their happy labours done, 
 
 Seek their close nests and bide. 
 
 Screened in the leafy wood 
 The stock-doves sit and brood : 
 The very squirrel leaps from bough to bough 
 But lazily ; pauses ; and settles now 
 Where once he stored his food. 
 
 One by one the flowers close, 
 
 Lily and dewy rose 
 Shutting their tender petals from the moon : 
 The grasshoppers are still ; but not so soon 
 
 Are still the noisy crows. 
 
 The dormouse squats and eats 
 
 Choice little dainty bits 
 Beneath the spreading roots of a broad lime ; 
 Nibbling his fill he stops from time to time 
 
 And listens where he sits.
 
 TWILIGHT CALM 333 
 
 From far the lowings come 
 
 Of cattle driven home : 
 From farther still the wind brings fitfully 
 The vast continual murmur of the sea, 
 
 Now loud, now almost dumb. 
 
 The gnats whirl in the air, 
 
 The evening gnats ; and there 
 The owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sail 
 For prey ; the bat wakes ; and the shell-less snail 
 
 Comes forth, clammy and bare. 
 
 Hark ! that's the nightingale. 
 
 Telling the self-same tale 
 Her song told when this ancient earth was young : 
 So echoes answered when her song was sung 
 
 In the first wooded vale. 
 
 We call it love and pain 
 
 The passion of her strain ; 
 .And yet we little understand or know : 
 Why should it not be rather joy that so 
 
 Throbs in each throbbing vein ? 
 
 In separate herds the deer 
 
 Lie ; here the bucks, and here 
 The does, and by its mother sleeps the fawn : 
 Through all the hours of night until the dawn 
 
 They sleep, forgetting fear.
 
 334 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 The hare sleeps where it hes, 
 
 With wary half-closed eyes ; 
 The cock has ceased to crow, the hen to 
 
 cluck : 
 Only the fox is out, some heedless duck 
 
 Or chicken to surprise. 
 
 Remote, each single star 
 
 Comes out, till there they are 
 All shining brightly : how the dews fall damp ! 
 While close at hand the glow-worm lights her 
 lamp. 
 
 Or twinkles from afar. 
 
 But evening now is done 
 
 As much as if the sun 
 Day-giving had arisen in the East : 
 For night has come; and the great calm has 
 ceased. 
 
 The quiet sands have run. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
 
 JOAN OF ARC 335 
 
 From "JOAN OF ARC" 
 
 'TwAS now the hour 
 When o'er the plain the pensive hues of eve 
 Shed their meek radiance ; when the lowing herd, 
 Slow as they stalk to shelter, draw behind 
 The lengthening shades ; and seeking his high nest 
 As heavily he flaps the dewy aii', 
 The hoarse rook pours his not unpleasing note. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY.
 
 X. 
 
 EVENING — NIGHT
 
 From "BALDER" 
 
 In the spring twilight, in the coloured twilight, 
 
 Whereto the latter primroses are stars, 
 
 And early nightingale 
 
 Letteth her love adown the tender wind, 
 
 That thro' the eglantine 
 
 In mixed delight the fragrant music bloweth 
 
 On to me. 
 
 Where in the twilight, in the coloured twilight. 
 
 I sit beside the thorn upon the hill. 
 
 The mavis sings upon the old oak tree 
 
 Sweet and strong. 
 
 Strong and sweet, 
 
 Soft, sweet, and strong, 
 
 And with his voice interpreteth the silence 
 
 Of the dim vale when Philomel is mute ! 
 
 The dew lies like a light upon the grass. 
 
 The cloud is as a swan upon the sky, 
 
 The mist is as a bridevveed on the moon. 
 
 SYDNEY DOIJELL.
 
 340 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "TO THE SETTING SUN" 
 
 Stay, O sweet day, nor fleet so fast away ; 
 For now it is that life revives again, 
 As the red tyrant sinks beneath the hill : 
 And now soft dews refresh the arid plain ; 
 And now the fair bird's voice begins to thrill, 
 With hidden dolours making sweet her strain, 
 And wakes the woods that all day were so still. 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. 
 
 From 
 "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON" 
 
 While now the sun had sunk behind the hill, 
 And from a white-thorn nigh a thrush did fill 
 The balmy air with echoing minstrelsy, 
 And cool the night-wind blew across the sea, 
 And round about the soft-winged bats did sweep. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS,
 
 HE HEARD HER SING 34I 
 
 From " ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
 CHURCHYARD " . 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, 
 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 / 
 
 From " HE HEARD HER SING " 
 
 And a certain copse we knew, where never in 
 
 Maytime fails, 
 While the night distils sweet dew, the song of the 
 
 nightingales :
 
 342 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And there together we heard the lyrical drama of 
 
 love 
 Of the wonderful passionate bird which swelleth 
 
 the heart so above 
 All other thought of this life, all other care of this 
 
 earth, 
 Be it of pleasure or strife, be it of sorrow or mirth, 
 Saving the one intense imperious passion supreme. 
 Kindling the soul and the sense, making the world 
 
 but a dream, 
 The dream of an aching delight and a yearning 
 
 afar and afar, 
 While the music thrills all the void night to the 
 
 loftiest pulsating star : — • 
 " Love, love only, for ever ; love with its torture 
 
 and bliss ; 
 All the world's glories can never equal two souls 
 
 in one kiss." 
 
 JAMES THOMSON.
 
 THE SENSITIVE PLANT 343 
 
 From "PRINCE ATHANASE" 
 
 PART II. 
 
 O SUMMER eve I with power divine, bestowing 
 
 On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm 
 
 Which overflows in notes of H(]uid gladness, 
 Fining the sk)' hke Hght ! How many a spasm 
 
 Of fevered brains oppressed with grief and mad- 
 ness 
 ^V'ere lulled by thee, delightful nightingale I 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 From "THE SENSITIVE PLANT" 
 
 PART I. / 
 
 / 
 
 (Only overhead the sweet nightingale ' 
 
 Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, 
 And snatches of its elysian chant 
 Were mixed with the dream of the Sensitive Plant.) 
 
 SHELLEY,
 
 344 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE AZIOLA" 
 
 Sad Aziola ! many an eventide 
 
 Thy music I had heard 
 By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side, 
 
 And fields and marshes wide, — 
 Such as nor voice nor lute nor wind nor bird 
 
 The soul ever stirred ; 
 Unlike and far sweeter than they all. 
 Sad Aziola ! from that moment I 
 
 Loved thee and thy sad cry. 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 From "THE PILGRIMS OF THE SUN" 
 
 The night wind is still, and the moon in the wane, 
 The river-lark sings on the verge of the plain ; 
 So lonely his plaint by the motionless reed 
 It sounds like an omen or tale of the dead ; 
 Like a warning of death it falls on the ear 
 Of those who are wandering the woodlands in fear. 
 
 HOGG.
 
 SPINDRIFT 345 
 
 From "SPINDRIFT" 
 
 While the white-owl flitted, the beetle whirred, 
 And Hesper blazed o'er the shadowy Ben, 
 
 And the curlew's wail from the shore was heard, 
 And the mist came creeping down the glen. 
 
 SIR NOEL PATON. 
 
 From "SPINDRIFT" 
 
 At length a bird 
 Far in the odorous cedar-gloom burst forth 
 In sudden song, that through the aching hush 
 Pulsed for two troubled heart-beats, and then died, 
 Leaving its echoes all about the dells. 
 
 SIR NOEL PATON.
 
 346 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "POEMS BY A PAINTER" 
 
 Where sits the nightingale on hawthorn spray, 
 Witching the dark with lovelorn roundelay, 
 That echoes far the bosky vistas through, 
 With sweet reverberations ever new. 
 
 SIR NOEL PATOX. 
 
 From "HERO AND LEANDER" 
 
 A NIGHTINGALE, in transport, seem'd to fling 
 His warble out, and then sit listening. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 From "EVANGELINE" 
 
 Then from a neighbouring thicket the mocking- 
 bird, wildest of singers. 
 
 Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the 
 water,
 
 IL PENSEROSO 347 
 
 Shook from his Httle throat such floods of dehrious 
 
 music, 
 That the whole air and the woods and the waves 
 
 seemed silent to listen. 
 Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then 
 
 soaring to madness 
 Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied 
 
 Bacchantes. 
 Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low 
 
 lamentation ; 
 Till, having gathered them all, he flung them 
 
 abroad in derision. 
 As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the 
 
 tree-tops 
 Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower 
 
 on the branches. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 From "IL PENSEROSO" 
 
 And the mute silence hist along, 
 'Less Philomel will deign a song, 
 In her sweetest, saddest plight, 
 Smoothing the rugged brow of night, 
 While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke. 
 Gently o'er the accustom'd oak :
 
 348 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, 
 Most musical, most melancholy ! 
 Thee, chantress, oft the woods among 
 I woo to hear thy even-song ; 
 And, missing thee, I walk unseen 
 On the dry smooth-shaven green. 
 To behold the wandering moon. 
 Riding near her highest noon. 
 Like one that had been led astray 
 Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 
 And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 Oft on a plat of rising ground, 
 I hear the far-off curfew sound. 
 Over some wide-water'd shore, 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 From "PARADISE LOST" 
 
 To the nuptial bower 
 
 I led her blushing like the morn : all heaven, 
 And happy constellations, on that hour 
 Shed their selectest influence ; the earth 
 Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill ; 
 Joyous the birds ; fresh gales and gentle airs
 
 "... Nor then the solemn Nightingale 
 Ceased warhling, but all night tuned her soft lays.' 
 
 Milton.
 
 SONNET 349 
 
 Whisper'd it to the woods, and from their wings 
 Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub, 
 Disporting, till the amorous bird of night 
 Sung spousal, and bid haste the evening star 
 On his hill top, to light the bridal lamp. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 SONNET 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 
 Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, 
 Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, 
 
 While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. 
 
 Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, 
 First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill. 
 Portend success in love ; O if Jove's will 
 
 Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay. 
 
 Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 
 
 Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ; 
 
 As thou from year to year hast sung too late 
 For my relief, yet hadst no reason why : 
 
 Whether the muse or love call thee his mate, 
 Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 
 
 MILTON, 
 
 /
 
 350 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 / 
 
 From "POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION" 
 
 NIGHTINGALE ! thou surely art 
 A creature of ebullient heart : 
 
 These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce ; 
 
 Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
 
 Thou singest as if the god of wine 
 
 Had helped thee to a valentine ; 
 
 A song in mockery and despite 
 
 Of shades, and dews, and silent night, 
 
 And steady bliss, and all the loves 
 
 Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 
 
 1 heard a stock-dove sing or say 
 His homely tale, this very day, 
 His voice was buried among trees, 
 Yet to be come at by the breeze ; 
 
 He did not cease, but cooed — and cooed : 
 And somewhat pensively he wooed : 
 He sang of love with quiet blending ; 
 Slow to begin, and never ending ; 
 Of serious faith and inward glee ; 
 That was the song — the song for me ! 
 
 WORDSWORTH.
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE 351 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE 
 
 How passing sad ! Listen, it sings again ! 
 
 Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs, 
 The Hvelong day dost chaunt that wondrous strain, 
 
 Making wan Dian stoop her silver brows 
 Out of the clouds to hear thee ? Who shall say, 
 Thou lone one ! that thy melody is gay, 
 Let him come listen now to that one note, 
 
 That thou art pouring o'er and o'er again 
 Thro' the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat. 
 
 With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain. 
 I prithee cease thy song ! for from my heart 
 Thou hast made memory's bitter waters start. 
 
 And filled my weary eyes with the soul's rain. 
 
 FRANCES ANNP^ BUTLER. 
 
 From "THE NIGHTINGALE" 
 
 A CONVERSATION POEM. APRIL 1 798. 
 
 No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 
 Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 
 Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 
 Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge !
 
 352 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 
 
 But hear no murmuring : it flows silently 
 
 O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 
 
 A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim, 
 
 Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 
 
 That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 
 
 A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
 
 And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 
 
 " Most musical, most melancholy " bird ! ^ 
 
 A melancholy bird ! Oh ! idle thought ! 
 
 In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 
 But some night-wandering man whose heart was 
 
 pierced 
 With the remembrance of a grievous wrong. 
 Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
 (And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with himself, 
 And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
 Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he, 
 First named these notes a melancholy strain. 
 And many a poet echoes the conceit ; 
 Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
 When he had better far have stretched his limbs 
 Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell. 
 By sun or moon-light, to the influxes 
 Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
 Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
 And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 
 
 1 Milton.
 
 THFi NIGH'f'INGALE 353 
 
 Should share in Nature's immortahty, 
 A venerable thing ! and so his song 
 Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
 Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
 And youths and maidens most poetical, 
 Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring 
 In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
 Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
 O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 
 
 My Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learn 
 A different lore : we may not thus profane 
 Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
 And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
 That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
 With fast thick warble his delicious notes. 
 As he were fearful that an April night 
 Would be too short for him to utter forth 
 His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
 Of all its music ! 
 
 And I know a grove 
 Of large extent, hard by a castle huge. 
 Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
 This grove is wild with tangling underwood, 
 And the trim walks are broken up, and grass. 
 Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 
 But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
 So many nightingales ; and far and near,
 
 354 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, 
 
 They answer and provoke each other's song, 
 
 With skirmish and capricious passagings. 
 
 And murmurs musical and swift jug jug. 
 
 And one low piping sound more sweet than all — 
 
 Stirring the air with such a harmony, 
 
 That should you close your eyes, you might 
 
 almost 
 Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes, 
 Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, 
 You may perchance behold them on the twigs. 
 Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright 
 
 and full, 
 Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
 Lights up her love-torch. 
 
 S. T. COLERIDGE. 
 
 CERTAINE SONNETS 
 
 (3) 
 
 The nightingale, as soon as Aprill bringeth 
 
 Unto her rested sense a perfect waking. 
 While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, 
 springeth. 
 Sings out her woes, a thorne her song-booke 
 making.
 
 LADY GERALDINE S COURTSHIP 355 
 
 And mournfully bewailing, 
 Her throat in tunes expresseth 
 What griefe her breast oppresseth 
 
 For Thereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. 
 O Philomela faire, O take some gladnesse, 
 That here is juster cause of plaintfuU sadnesse : 
 Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth ; 
 Thy thorne without, my thorne my heart invadeth. 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNKY. 
 
 Frrj7n 
 
 "LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP" 
 
 And there evermore was music, both of instrument 
 
 and singing, 
 Till the finches of the shrubberies grew restless in 
 
 the dark ; 
 But the cedars stood up motionless, each in a 
 
 moonlight ringing, 
 And the deer, half in the glimmer, strewed the 
 
 hollows of the park. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNINO.
 
 356 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From 
 "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON" 
 
 As when through half-shut casements the brown bird 
 AVe hearken when the night is come in June, 
 And thick-leaved woods are 'twixt us and his tune. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 ROSES AND THE NIGHTINGALE 
 
 In my garden it is night-time, 
 But a still time and a bright time : 
 For the moon rains down her splendour. 
 And my garden feels the wonder 
 Of the spell which it lies under 
 In that light so soft and tender. 
 
 While the moon her watch is keeping, 
 
 All the Blossoms here are sleeping. 
 
 And the Roses sigh for dreaming 
 Of the bees that love to love them 
 When the warm sun shines above them, 
 
 And the butterflies pass gleaming.
 
 ROSES AND THE NIGHTINGALE 357 
 
 Could one follow Roses' fancies 
 
 When the night the garden trances, 
 
 Oh, what fair things we should chance on ! 
 
 For to Lilies and to Roses, 
 
 As to us, soft sleep discloses 
 What the waking may not glance on. 
 
 But hark ! now across the moonlight, 
 Through the warmness of the June night, 
 From the tall Trees' listening branches, 
 
 Comes the sound, sustained and holy, 
 
 Of the passionate melancholy, 
 Of a wound which singing stanches. 
 
 Oh, the ecstasy of sorrow 
 Which the music seems to borrow 
 From the thought of some past lover 
 Who loved vainly all his lifetime, 
 Till death ended peace and strife-time. 
 And the darkness clothed him over ! 
 
 Ol), the passionate, sweet singing, 
 
 Aching, gushing, throbbing, ringing, 
 
 Dying in divine, soft closes, 
 
 Recommencing, waxing stronger. 
 Sweet notes, ever sweeter, longer, 
 
 Till the singing wakes the Roses !
 
 58 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Quoth the Roses to the Singer : 
 
 " Oh, thou dearest music-bringer, 
 
 Now our sleep so sweetly endeth, 
 Tell us why thy song so sad seems, 
 When the air is full of glad dreams, 
 
 And the bright moon o'er us bendeth." 
 
 Sang the Singer to the Roses : 
 
 '' Love for you my song discloses ; 
 
 Hence the note of grief it borrows." 
 
 Quoth the Roses : " Love means pleasure.' 
 Quoth the Singer : " Love's best measure 
 
 Is its pure attendant sorrows." 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 From "THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS " 
 
 CANTO XXVIII. 
 
 Within the place of thousand tombs 
 
 That shine beneath, while dark above 
 'I'he sad but living cypress glooms 
 
 And withers not, though branch and leaf 
 Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, 
 
 Like early unrequited Love, 
 One spot exists, which ever blooms, 
 
 Ev'n in that deadly grove —
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS 359 
 
 A single rose is sliedding there 
 
 Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 
 It looks as planted by Despair — 
 
 So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
 Might whirl the leaves on high ; 
 
 And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
 And hands more rude than wintry sky 
 
 May wring it from the stem — in vain — 
 
 To-morrow sees it bloom again : 
 The stalk some spirit gently rears. 
 And waters with celestial tears : 
 
 For well may maids of Helle deem 
 That this can be no earthly flower. 
 Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
 And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
 Nor droops though Spring refuse her shower, 
 
 Nor woos the summer beam : 
 To it the livelong night there sings 
 
 A bird unseen — but not remote : 
 Invisible his airy wings, 
 But soft as harp that Houri strings 
 
 His long entrancing note I 
 It were the Bulbul ; but his throat, 
 
 Though mournful, pours not such a 
 strain : 
 For they who listen cannot leave 
 The spot, but linger there and grieve, 
 
 As if they loved in vain !
 
 360 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
 'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread, 
 They scarce can bear the morn to break 
 
 That melancholy spell, 
 And longer yet would weep and wake, 
 
 He sings so wild and well ! 
 But when the day-blush burs s from high 
 Expires that m.igic melody. 
 
 And some have been who could believe 
 (So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 
 
 Yet harsh be they that blame,) 
 That note so piercing and profound 
 Will shape and syllable its sound 
 
 Into Zuleika's name. 
 
 BYRON, 
 
 From "LALLA ROOKH" 
 
 And when she sung to her lute's touching strain, 
 'Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain, 
 The bulbul utters ere her soul depart. 
 When, vanquished by some minstrel's powerful art, 
 She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her 
 heart. 
 
 MOORE.
 
 LALLA ROOKH 361 
 
 From "LALLA ROOKH" 
 
 Oh 1 sooner shall the rose of May 
 Mistake her own sweet nightingale, 
 
 And to some meaner minstrel's lay 
 Open her bosom's glowing veil, 
 
 Than love shall ever doubt a tone, 
 
 A breath of the beloved one ! 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 From "LALLA ROOKH" 
 
 There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, 
 
 And the nightingale sings round it all the day 
 long ; 
 In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet 
 dream, 
 
 To sit in the roses and hear the birds' song. 
 That bower and its music I never forget. 
 
 But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, 
 I think — is the nightingale singing there yet? 
 
 Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer ? 
 
 MOORE.
 
 ^62 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 XXXI. SONNET 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Sad songstress of the night, no more I hear 
 Thy soften'd warbHngs meet my pensive ear, 
 
 As by thy wonted haunts again I rove. 
 Why art thou silent ? Wherefore sleeps thy lay ? 
 For faintly fades the sinking orb of day, 
 
 And yet thy music charms no more the grove. 
 The shrill bat flutters by ; from yon dark tower 
 The shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour ; 
 
 Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along, 
 The hour of love is flown ! thy full-fledg'd brood 
 No longer need thy care to cull their food, 
 
 And nothing now remains to prompt the song : 
 But drear and sullen seems the silent grove, 
 No more responsive to the lay of love. 
 
 SOUTH EY.
 
 TO LYCON ^6^ 
 
 From "TO LYCON" 
 
 Oft when my steps have trac'd the secret glade, 
 What time the pale moon, glimmering on the 
 plain, 
 Just mark'd where deeper darkness dyed the 
 shade, 
 Has contemplation lov'd the night-bird's 
 strain : 
 Still have I stood, or silent mov'd and slow, 
 Whilst o'er the copse the thrilling accents flow. 
 Nor deemed the pensive bird might pour the notes 
 of woe. 
 
 Yet sweet and lovely is the night-bird's lay, 
 
 The passing pilgrim loves her notes to hear, 
 When mirth's rude reign is sunk with parted day, 
 
 And silence sleeps upon the vacant ear ; 
 For staid reflection loves the doubtful light. 
 When sleep and stillness lull the noiseless night. 
 And breathes the pensive song a soothing sad 
 delight. 
 
 SOUTHEV.
 
 / 
 
 364 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
 
 My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
 
 One minute passed, and Lethe-wards had sunk 
 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
 
 But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
 In some melodious plot 
 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
 
 Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
 
 O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 
 
 Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
 Tasting of Flora and the country-green. 
 
 Dance, and Provenc^al song, and sun-burnt mirth 
 O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
 And purple-stained mouth ; 
 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
 
 And with thee fade away into the forest dim :
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 365 
 
 III. 
 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 
 What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 
 Here, where men sit and hear each other 
 groan ; 
 Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs. 
 Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and 
 dies ; 
 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
 And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
 Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 
 
 Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 
 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
 Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
 
 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
 Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ; 
 But here there is no light. 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
 ways.
 
 366 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 V. 
 
 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the 
 boughs, 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
 
 Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
 ^Vhite hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
 Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
 And mid-May's eldest child, 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 
 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer 
 eves. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 
 
 I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
 Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 
 
 To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
 To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
 While thou art pouring forth thy soul 
 abroad 
 In such an ecstasy ! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod.
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 367 
 
 VII. 
 
 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 
 
 No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
 The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
 Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for 
 home, 
 She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
 The same that oft-times hath 
 Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
 
 To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
 Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
 
 Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
 Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
 In the next valley-glades : 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
 
 Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep? 
 
 KEATS.
 
 T,6S BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 From "ENDYMION" 
 
 O Sorrow ! 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue ?— 
 
 To give at evening pale 
 
 Unto the nightingale, 
 That thou mayst listen the cold dews among? 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 / 
 
 From "THE EVE OF ST. AGNES" 
 
 No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide ! 
 But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
 As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell 
 
 KEATS.
 
 earth's voices 369 
 
 From "EARTH'S VOICES" 
 SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Keen, through supremest music, 
 My song is fiU'd with pain : 
 Hark ! 'tis the same sad strain 
 That with pathetic cadence thrilled 
 The Thracian plain, 
 When after Procne's flight I sang alone. 
 And thro' my deathless music sent a dying moan. 
 
 What moonlit glades, what seas 
 Foam-edged have I not known ! 
 Through ages hath not flown 
 Mine ancient song with gather'd music sweet — 
 By fanes o'erthrown, 
 By cities known of old and classic woods, 
 And, strangely sad, in deep-leaved northern soli- 
 tudes ? 
 
 Nightly my song swells forth. 
 
 When the grey stock-dove broods
 
 
 370 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And whirling bat eludes 
 The forest boughs, and rings and pants and thrills 
 In passionate interludes — 
 Too sweet, too sad, O sorrow and old-time pain, 
 The love, the glory I see, that will not come again. 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP. 
 
 "SONNETS" 
 
 My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in 
 
 seeming ; 
 I love not less, though less the show appear : 
 That love is merchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming 
 The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere. 
 Our love was new, and then but in the spring, 
 When I was wont to greet it with my lays ; 
 As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, 
 And stops her pipe in growth of riper days : 
 Not that the summer is less pleasant now 
 Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night. 
 But that wild music burthens every bough, 
 And sweets grown comm.on lose their dear delight. 
 Therefore, like her, I sometimes hold my tongue. 
 Because I would not dull you with my song. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE.
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 37I 
 
 From "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE", 
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 
 
 Portia. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the 
 lark, 
 When neither is attended ; and I think 
 The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 
 When every goose is cackling, w^ould be thought 
 No better a musician than the wren. 
 How mai'iy things by season season'd are 
 To their right praise and true perfection ! 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From "THE TAMING OF THE SHREWy 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE III. / 
 
 Petrnchio. ..... 
 
 For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich : 
 And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds. 
 So honour peereth in the meanest habit. 
 What, is the jay more precious than the lark. 
 Because his feathers are more beautiful ? 
 
 SHAKESPEARE.
 
 372 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "PROVERBIAL WISDOM" 
 
 " Beautiful the Koil seemeth for the sweetness of 
 his song." 
 
 SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. 
 
 TO THE OWL 
 
 Sad bird of night, what sorrows call thee forth, 
 To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour ? 
 
 Is it some blast that gathers in the north, 
 
 Threatening to nip the verdure of thy bower? 
 
 Is it, sad owl, that iVutumn strips the shade, 
 And leaves thee here, unsheltered and forlorn ? 
 
 Or fear that Winter will thy nest "invade ? 
 Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn ? 
 
 Shut out, lone bird, from all the feathered train. 
 To tell thy sorrows to the unheeding gloom ; 
 
 No friend to pity when thou dost complain, 
 Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home.
 
 TOTHEOWL 373 
 
 Sing on, sad mourner ! I will bless thy strain, 
 And pleased in sorrow listen to thy song : 
 
 Sing on, sad mourner ! to the night complain. 
 While the lone echo wafts thy notes along. 
 
 Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek 
 Sad, piteous tears, in native sorrows fall ? 
 
 Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break ? 
 Less happy he who lists to pity's call? 
 
 Ah, no, sad Owl ! nor is thy voice less sweet, 
 That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there ; 
 
 That Spring's gay notes, unskilled, thou canst 
 repeat ; 
 That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair. 
 
 Nor that the treble songsters of the day 
 
 Are quite estranged, sad bird of night ! from 
 thee ; 
 
 Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray. 
 When darkness calls thee from thy reverie. 
 
 From some old tower, thy melancholy dome. 
 While the grey walls, and desert solitudes, 
 
 Return each note, responsive to the gloom 
 Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods.
 
 374 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee 
 Than ever lover to the nightingale ; 
 
 Or drooping wretch, oppressed with misery, 
 Lending his ear to some condoling tale. 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 From " WITH SA'DI IN THE GARDEN " 
 
 Mirza. Aye '. and to cry of yonder little owl 
 Who, Mirza-like, mid all your heedless notes 
 Hoots " hoo-hoo-hoo I " ^ as who should say " He ! 
 
 He! 
 The Highest ! only God is Beautiful ! " 
 
 SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. 
 
 From "HIAWATHA" 
 
 When he heard the owls at midnight, 
 Hooting, laughing in the forest, 
 " What is that ? " he cried in terror ; 
 "What is that?" he said, "Nokomis?" 
 And the good Nokomis answered : 
 " That is but the owl and owlet, 
 
 1 Hii, i.e., "He," God.
 
 MIDSUMMER-NIGHT S DREAM 375 
 
 Talking in their native language, 
 Talking, scolding at each other." 
 
 Then the little Hiawatha 
 Learned of every bird its language. 
 Learned their names and all their secrets, 
 How they built their nests in Summer, 
 Where they hid themselves in \\'inter, 
 Talked with them whene'er he met them. 
 Called them " Hiawatha's Chickens." 
 
 LONGFF.LLOW. 
 
 From "MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM" 
 
 ACT V. SCENE II. 
 
 Puck. Now the hungry lion roars, 
 
 And the wolf behowls the moon ; 
 Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, 
 
 All with weary task fordone. 
 Now the wasted brands do glow. 
 
 Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud 
 Puts the wretch that lies in woe, 
 
 In remembrance of a shroud. 
 
 .SHAKESPEARE.
 
 376 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From " /KLLA" 
 
 Hark ! the raven Haps his wing 
 
 In the briery dell below ; 
 Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing 
 To the night-mares as they go. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow-tree ! 
 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 From "THE MISER'S MANSION" 
 
 Deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl. 
 The shrill bat flits around her dark retreat ; 
 
 And the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests howl, 
 Screams as the wild winds shake her secret seat. 
 
 SOUTHEV.
 
 PHILOMEL 377 
 
 From "THE EVE OF ST. AGNES" 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
 The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold. 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 PHILOMEL 
 
 Lo, as a minstrel at the court of Love, 
 
 The nightingale, who knows his mate is nigh, 
 Thrills into rapture ; and the stars above 
 
 Look down, affrighted, as they would reply. 
 
 There is contagion, and I know not why, 
 In all this clamour, all this fierce delight. 
 
 As if the sunset, when the day did swoon, 
 
 Had drawn some wild confession from the moon. 
 Have wrongs been done ? Have crimes enacted 
 
 been 
 To shame the weird retirement of the night ? 
 
 O clamorous bird ! O sad, sweet nightingale ! 
 Withhold thy voice, and blame not Beauty's queen. 
 
 She may be pure, though dumb : and she is pale. 
 And wears a radiance on her brow serene. 
 
 ERIC M.ACKAY.
 
 378 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 /. 
 
 / 
 
 TO A NIGHTINGALE 
 
 / 
 
 Sweet Bird, that sing'st away the early Hours, 
 Of Winters past, or coming, void of Care, 
 Well pleased with Delights which present are, 
 Fair seasons, budding Sprays, sweet - smelling 
 
 Flow'rs. 
 To Rocks, to Springs, to Rills, from leavy Bow'rs, 
 Thou thy Creator's Goodness dost declare, 
 And what dear Gifts on thee he did not spare, 
 A Stain to human Sense in Sin that low'rs. 
 What Soul can be so sick, which by thy Songs 
 (Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven 
 Quite to forget Earth's Turmoils, Spites and Wrongs, 
 And lift a reverend Eye and Thought to Heaven ? 
 Sweet, artless Songster, thou my Mind doest raise 
 To Ayres of Spheres, yea, and to Angels' Layes. 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 1649.
 
 HYPERION 379 
 
 From "THE LAND EAST OF THE SUN" 
 
 As slowly the short night went by, 
 'Midst bittern's boom and fern-owl's cry ; 
 Then the moon sank, the stars grew pale, 
 And the first dawn 'gan show the veil 
 The night had drawn from tree to tree, 
 A light wind rose, and suddenly 
 A thrush drew head from under wing. 
 And through the cold dawn 'gan to sing, 
 And one by one about hini woke 
 The minstrels of the feathered folk. 
 Long ere the first gleam of the sun. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 From "HYPERION" 
 
 The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars 
 Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush 
 Began calm-throated. 
 
 KEATS.
 
 380 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE PRINCESS" 
 
 ... a bird. 
 That early woke to feed her Httle ones, 
 Sent from a dewy breast a cry for Hght. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 From 
 "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON" 
 
 With that she murmured words of joy and love, 
 No louder than the grey pink-footed dove, 
 When at the dawn he first begins his tale, 
 Not knowing if he means a song or wail. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 From "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS" 
 
 The nightingale now bends her flight 
 From the high trees, where all the night 
 She sung so sweet, with none to listen ;
 
 THE prince's progress 381 
 
 And hides her from the morning star 
 Where thickets of pomegranate glisten 
 
 In the clear dawn, — bespangled o'er 
 
 With dew, whose night-drops would not stain 
 
 The best and brightest scimitar 
 
 That ever youthful Sultan wore 
 On the first morning of his reign ! 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 From "THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS" 
 
 At the death of night and the birth of day, 
 When the owl left off his sober play. 
 And the bat hung himself out of the way. 
 
 Woke the song of mavis and merle, 
 And heaven put off its hodden grey 
 For mother-o'-pearl. 
 
 Peeped up daisies here and there. 
 Here, there, and everywhere ; 
 Rose a hopeful lark in the air, 
 
 Spreading out towards the sun his breast ; 
 While the moon set solemn and fair 
 Away in the West.
 
 382 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 " Up, up, up," called the watchman lark, 
 In his clear reveilee : " Hearken, oh hark ! 
 Press to the high goal, fly to the mark. 
 Up, O sluggard, new morn is born ; 
 If still asleep when the night falls dark, 
 Thou must wait a second morn." 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 BIRD RAPTURES 
 
 The sunrise wakes the lark to sing, 
 The moonrise wakes the nightingale. 
 
 Come darkness, moonrise, everything 
 That is so silent, sweet, and pale, 
 Come, so ye wake the nightingale. 
 
 Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon, 
 Make haste to wake the nightingale : 
 
 Let silence set the world in tune 
 To hearken to that wordless tale 
 Which warbles from the nightingale. 
 
 O herald skylark, stay thy flight 
 One moment, for a nightingale 
 
 Floods us with sorrow and delight. 
 To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail ; 
 Leave us to-night the nightingale. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
 
 THE BOAT ON THE SERCHIO 383 
 
 From "THE BOAT ON THE SERCHIO" 
 
 The stars burnt out in the pale blue air, 
 And the thin white moon lay withering there ; 
 To tower and cavern and rift and tree 
 The owl and the bat fled drowsily. 
 Day had kindled the dewy woods, 
 
 And the rocks above and the stream below, 
 And the vapours in their multitudes, 
 
 And the Apennines' shroud of summer snow, 
 And clothed with light of aery gold 
 The mists in their eastern caves uprolled. 
 Day had awakened all things that be ; — 
 The lark and the thrush and the swallow free. 
 
 And the milkmaid's song, and the mower's scythe, 
 And the matin-bell, and the mountain bee. 
 Fireflies were quenched on the dewy corn ; 
 Glow-worms went out on the river's brim. 
 Like lamps which a student forgets to trim ; 
 The beetle forgot to wind his horn ; 
 The crickets were still in the meadow and hill. 
 Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun. 
 Night's dreams and terrors, every one, 
 Fled from the brains which are their prey 
 From the lamp's death to the morning ray. 
 
 SHELLEY.
 
 XI. 
 
 MORNING— AUTUMN 
 
 2 B
 
 From "PARADISE REGAINED" 
 
 And now the sun with more effectual beams 
 Had cheer'd the face of earth, and dried thS wet 
 From drooping plant, or drooping tree ; the birds. 
 Who all things now behold more fresh and green, 
 After a night of storm so ruinous, 
 Clear'd up their choicest notes in bush and spray, 
 To gratulate the sweet return of morn. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 From "THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH" 
 
 . . . rainbow-feathered birds that bloom 
 A moment on some autumn bough 
 That, with the spurn of their farewell, 
 Sheds its last leaves. 
 
 LOWELL. 
 
 387
 
 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "AUTUMN" 
 
 . . . Through the trees 
 The golden robin moves. The purple finch, 
 That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, 
 A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, 
 And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud 
 From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings. . 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 From "THE LAND EAST OF THE SUN" 
 
 Most fair to peaceful heart was all. 
 Windless the ripe fruit down did fall, 
 The shadows of the large grey leaves 
 Lay grey upon the oaten sheaves. 
 By the garth-wall as he past by ; 
 The startled ousel-cock did cry 
 As from the yew-tree by the gate 
 He flew ; the speckled hen did wait 
 With outstretched neck his coming in. 
 The March-hatched cockerel gaunt and thin 
 Crowed shrilly, while his elder thrust 
 His stiff wing-feathers in the dust
 
 THE DUMB ORATORS 389 
 
 That grew aweary of the sun : 
 The old and one-eyed cart-horse dun 
 The middenstead went hobbUng round 
 Blowing the light straw from the ground. 
 With curious e}'es the drake peered in 
 O'er the barn's dusk, where dust and din 
 Were silent now a little space. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 From "THE DUMB ORATORS" 
 
 As a male turkey straggling on the green, 
 When by fierce harriers, terriers, mongrels seen. 
 He feels the insult of the noisy train 
 And skulks aside, though moved by much dis- 
 dain ; 
 But when that turkey, at his own barn-door, 
 Sees one poor straying puppy and no more, 
 (A foolish puppy who had left the pack, 
 Thoughtless what foe was threat'ning at his back,) 
 He moves about, as ship prepared to sail. 
 He hoists his proud rotundity of tail. 
 The half-seal'd eyes and changeful neck he shows, 
 Where, in its quick'ning colours, vengeance 
 glows ;
 
 390 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From red to blue the pendent wattles turn, 
 Blue mix'd with red, as matches when they burn ; 
 And thus th'intruding snarler to oppose, 
 Urged by enkindling wrath, he gobbling goes. 
 So look'd our hero in his wrath. . . . 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 From 
 
 "HILDA AMONG THE BROKEN GODS" 
 
 O SHE knew that she was stupid ; how I ever came 
 to wed 
 Such a silly girl as she was, she never could 
 make out ; 
 But she could not keep the garden, if I would 
 have every bed 
 Free for birds and beasts and creatures to write 
 poetry about. 
 
 It was nice to hear the throstles answering on the 
 evening breeze. 
 And to watch the short, sharp rushes of the 
 blackbird on the lawn ; 
 But there would not be a cherry left upon the 
 loaded trees, 
 And the pease were black with cawing rooks 
 about the early dawn. 
 
 WALTER C. SMITH.
 
 ARISTOPHANES APOLOGY 39I 
 
 From "ARISTOPHANES' APOLOGY" 
 
 As well expect, should Pheidias carve Zeus' self 
 
 And set him up, some half a mile away, 
 
 His frown would frighten sparrows from your field 
 
 Eagles may recognise their lord, belike, 
 
 But as for vulgar sparrows, — change the god. 
 
 And plant some big Pria]3:)S with a pole ! 
 
 BROWNING.
 
 XTI. 
 HUMAN
 
 THE OWL AND THE LARK 
 
 A GRIZZLED owl at midnight moped 
 Where thick the ivy glistened ; 
 
 So I, who long have vainly groped 
 For wisdom, leaned and listened. 
 
 Its perch was firm, its aspect staid, 
 
 Its big eyes gleamed and brightened ; - 
 
 Now, now at last will doubt be laid, 
 Now yearning be enlightened. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Tu-whit ! Tu-whoo ! " the bird discoursed, 
 " Tu-whoo ! Tu-whit ! " repeated : 
 
 Showing how matter was, when forced 
 Through space, condensed and heated ;
 
 396 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 IV. 
 
 How rent, but spinning still, 'twas sphered 
 
 In star, and orb, and planet, 
 Where, as it cooled, live germs appeared 
 
 In lias, sand, and granite : 
 
 And, last, since nothing 'neath the sun 
 
 Avoids material tether. 
 How life must end, when once begun. 
 
 In scale, and hoof, and feather. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then, flapping from the ivy-tod, 
 It slouched around the gable, 
 
 And, perching there, discussed if God 
 Be God, or but a fable. 
 
 VII. 
 
 In pompous scales Free Will and Fate 
 Were placed, and poised, and dangled. 
 
 And riddles small from riddles great 
 Expertly disentangled.
 
 THE OWL AND THE LARK 397 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It drew betwixt "Tu-whit," "Tu-whoo," 
 
 Distinctions nice and nicer : 
 The bird was very wise, I knew, 
 
 But I grew no whit wiser. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then, letting metaphysics sHp, 
 It mumbled moral thunder ; 
 
 Showing how Virtue's self will trip 
 If Reason chance to blunder. 
 
 X. 
 
 Its pleated wings adown its breast 
 Were like a surplice folded ; 
 
 And, if the truth must be confessed, 
 It threatened me and scolded. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I thought the lecture somewhat long, 
 
 Impatient for its ending ; 
 When, sudden, came a burst of song ! 
 
 It was the lark ascending.
 
 398 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 XII. 
 
 Dew gleamed in many a jewelled cup, 
 The air was bright and gracious ; 
 
 And away the wings and the song went up, 
 Up through the ether spacious. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 They bubbled, rippled, up the dome. 
 In sprays of silvery trilling ; 
 
 Like endless fountain's lyric foam. 
 Still falling, still refiUing. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And when I could no more descry 
 The bird, I still could hear it ; 
 
 For sight, but not for soul, too high, 
 Unseen but certain Spirit. 
 
 All that the perched owl's puckered brow 
 
 Had vainly bid me ponder. 
 The lark's light wings were solving now 
 
 In the roofless dome up yonder.
 
 THE OWL AND THE LARK 399 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Then brief as lightning-flash, — no more, — 
 
 I passed beyond the Finite ; 
 And, borne past Heaven's wide-open door, 
 
 Saw everything within it. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Slow showering down from cloudless sphere, 
 
 The wanderer Elysian 
 Dropped nearer, clearer, to the ear, 
 
 Then back into the vision. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 On his own song he seemed to swim ; 
 
 Diving through song, descended : 
 Since I had been to Heaven with him. 
 
 Earth now was apprehended. 
 
 O souls perplexed by hood and cowl. 
 Fain would you find a teacher, 
 
 Consult the lark and not the owl, 
 The poet, n(jt the preacher.
 
 400 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 XX. 
 
 While brains mechanic vainly weave 
 The web and woof of thinking, 
 
 Go, mount up with the lark, and leave 
 The bird of wisdom blinking. 
 
 ALFRED AUSTIN. 
 
 THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS 
 
 The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair ! 
 
 Bishop and abbot, and prior were there ; 
 
 Many a monk, and many a friar, 
 
 Many a knight, and many a squire. 
 With a great many more of lesser degree, — 
 In sooth a goodly company ; 
 And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. 
 
 Never, I ween. Was a prouder seen, 
 Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, 
 Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims ! 
 
 In and out Through the motley rout. 
 That little Jackdaw kept hopping about ; 
 Here and there Like a dog in a fair, 
 Over comfits and cates, And dishes and plates,
 
 THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS 40 1 
 
 Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, 
 Mitre and crosier ! he hopp'd upon all ! 
 
 With saucy air, He perch'd on the chair 
 Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat 
 In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat ; 
 And he peer'd in the face Of his Lordship's Grace, 
 With a satisfied look, as if he would say, 
 ' We two are the greatest folks here to-day ! ' 
 
 And the priests, with awe, As such freaks they 
 saw, 
 Said, 'The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw ! ' 
 
 The feast was over, the board was clear'd, 
 The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd, 
 And six little Singing-boys, — dear little souls ! 
 In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles. 
 
 Came, in order due, Two by two. 
 Marching that grand refectory through ! 
 A nice little boy held a golden ewer, 
 Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure 
 As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, 
 Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch 
 In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. 
 Two nice little boys, rather more grown, 
 Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne ; 
 And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap. 
 Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. 
 
 One little boy more A napkin bore, 
 
 2 c
 
 402 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, 
 And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in ' permanent ink.' 
 The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight 
 Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white : 
 
 From his finger he draws His costly turquoise ; 
 And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, 
 
 Deposits it straight By the side of his plate. 
 While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait ; 
 Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing. 
 That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring ! 
 
 There's a cry and a shout. And a deuce of a 
 rout, 
 x\nd nobody seems to know what they're about. 
 But the monks have their pockets all turn'd inside 
 out. 
 The friars are kneeling. And hunting, and feeling 
 The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. 
 The Cardinal drew Off each plum-colour'd 
 shoe. 
 And left his red stockings exposed to the view ; 
 
 He peeps, and he feels In the toes and the heels ; 
 They turn up the dishes, — they turn up the plates, — 
 They take up the poker and poke out the grates, 
 — They turn up the rugs. They examine the 
 
 mugs : — 
 But, no ! — no such thing ; — They can't fmd the 
 
 RING !
 
 THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS 403 
 
 And the Abbot declared that, 'when nobody 
 
 twigg'd it, 
 Some rascal or other had popp'd in, and prigg'd it!' 
 The Cardinal rose with a dignified look. 
 He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book ! 
 In holy anger, and pious grief, 
 He solemnly cursed that rascally thief ! 
 He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed ; 
 From the sole of his foot to the crown of his 
 
 head; 
 He cursed him in sleeping, that every night 
 He should dream of the devil, and wake in a 
 
 fright ; 
 He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in 
 
 drinking. 
 He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in 
 
 winking ; 
 He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying ; 
 He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying ; 
 He cursed him in living, he cursed him dying ! — 
 Never was heard such a terrible curse ! ! 
 
 But what gave rise To no little surprise. 
 Nobody seem'd one penny the worse ! 
 
 The day was gone, The night came on. 
 The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn ; 
 
 When the Sacristan saw. On crumpled claw, 
 Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw !
 
 404 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 No longer gay, As on yesterday ; 
 His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong 
 
 way ; — 
 His pinions droop'd — he could hardly stand, — 
 His head was as bald as the palm of your hand ; 
 
 His eye so dim, So wasted each limb. 
 That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, ' That's 
 
 HIM ! — 
 That's the scamp that has done this scandalous 
 
 thing ! 
 That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's 
 Ring ! ' 
 The poor little Jackdaw, J^When the monks he 
 saw, 
 Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw ; 
 And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say, 
 ' Pray, be so good as to walk this way ! ' 
 
 Slower and slower He limp'd on before, 
 Till they came to the back of the belfry door, 
 Where the first thing they saw. Midst the sticks 
 and the straw. 
 Was the ring in the nest of that little Jackdaw ! 
 
 Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book. 
 And off that terrible curse he took ; 
 
 The mute expression Served in lieu of confession. 
 And, being thus coupled with full restitution, 
 The Jackdaw got plenary absolution !
 
 THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS 40 5 
 
 — When those words were heard, That poor 
 little bird 
 Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd, 
 
 He grew sleek, and fat ; In addition to that, 
 A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat ! 
 
 His tail waggled more Even than before ; 
 But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air. 
 No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair. 
 
 He hopp'd now about With a gait devout ; 
 At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out ; 
 And, so far from any more pilfering deeds. 
 He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads. 
 If any one lied, — or if any one swore,— 
 Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happen'd to snore, 
 
 That good Jackdaw Would give a great ' Caw ! ' 
 As much as to say, ' Don't do so any more ! ' 
 While many remark'd, as his manners they saw. 
 That they ' never had known such a pious Jack- 
 daw ! ' 
 
 He long lived the pride Of that country side. 
 And at last in the odour of sanctity died ; 
 
 When, as words were too faint His merits to paint. 
 The Conclave determined to make him a Saint ; 
 And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know. 
 It's the custom, at Rome, new names to l)estow. 
 So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow ! 
 
 THOMAS INGOLDSBV (K. H. HAKHAm).
 
 406 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 THE JACKDAW 
 
 There is a bird, who by his coat, 
 And by the hoarseness of his note. 
 
 Might be supposed a crow ; 
 A great frequenter of the church, 
 Where bishop-hke he finds a perch, 
 
 And dormitory too. 
 
 Above the steeple shines a plate, 
 That turns and turns, to indicate 
 
 From what point blows the weather 
 Look up — your brains begin to swim, 
 'Tis in the clouds — that pleases him. 
 
 He chooses it the rather. 
 
 Fond of the speculative height, 
 Thither he wings his airy flight. 
 
 And there securely sees 
 The bustle and the raree show, 
 That occupy mankind below, 
 
 Secure and at his ease.
 
 THE JACKDAW 407 
 
 You think, no doubt, he sits and muses 
 On future broken bones and bruises, 
 
 If he should chance to fall. 
 No ; not a single thought like that 
 Employs his philosophic pate, 
 
 Or troubles it at all. 
 
 He sees, that this great roundabout 
 The world, with all its motley rout. 
 
 Church, army, physic, law. 
 Its customs and its bus'nesses. 
 Is no concern at all of his. 
 
 And says — what says he ? — Caw. 
 
 Thrice happy bird ! I too have seen 
 Much of the vanities of men ; 
 
 And, sick of having seen 'em. 
 Would cheerfully these limbs resign 
 For such a pair of wings as thine 
 
 And such a head between 'em. 
 
 COWPER.
 
 408 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From 
 "ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE" 
 
 Meanwhile the bees are chaunting a low hymn ; 
 And lost to sight th' ecstatic lark above 
 Sings, like a soul beatified, of love, — 
 With, now and then, the coo of the wild 
 pigeon ; — 
 
 O Pagans, Heathens, Infidels, and Doubters ! 
 If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion, 
 
 Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters? 
 
 A man may cry Church ! Church ! at ev'ry 
 word, 
 
 With no more piety than other people — 
 A daw's not reckon'd a religious bird 
 
 Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple. 
 
 there be on earth 
 A host of prides, some better and some worse ; 
 But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint. 
 The proudest swells a self-elected Saint.
 
 ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE 409 
 
 To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, 
 Fancy a peacock in a poultry yard. 
 Behold him in conceited circles sail, 
 Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff, 
 In all his pomp of pageantry, as if 
 He felt " the eyes of Europe " on his tail ! 
 As for the humble breed retain'd by man, 
 He scorns the whole domestic clan — 
 
 He bows, he bridles, 
 
 He wheels, he sidles. 
 At last, with stately dodgings, in a corner, 
 He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her 
 Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan ! 
 
 "Look here,'' he cries, (to give him words,) 
 
 "Thou feather'd clay, — thou scum of birds ! " 
 Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes, — 
 
 " Look here, thou vile predestin'd sinner, 
 
 Doom'd to be roasted for a dinner. 
 Behold these lovely variegated dyes ! 
 These are the rainbow colours of the skies. 
 That heav'n has shed upon me con ainore — 
 A Bird of Paradise ? — a pretty story ! 
 /am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick ! 
 
 Look at my crown of glory ! 
 Thou dingy, dirty, dabbled, draggled jill ' " 
 And off goes Partlet, wrigghng from a kick, 
 With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill !
 
 4IO BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 That little simile exactly paints 
 How sinners are despis'd by saints. 
 
 The Saints !— the aping Fanatics that talk 
 All cant and rant and rhapsodies highflown — 
 
 That bid you baulk 
 
 A Sunday walk, 
 And shun God's work as you should shun your own. 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 From "TRUTH" 
 
 The self-applauding bird, the peacock, see — 
 Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he ! 
 Meridian sun-beams tempt him to unfold 
 His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold : 
 He treads as if, some solemn music near. 
 His measur'd step were govern'd by his ear : 
 And seems to say — Ye meaner fowl, give place, 
 I am all splendour, dignity, and grace ! 
 
 Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes. 
 Though he too, has a glory in his plumes. 
 He, christianlike, retreats with modest mien 
 To the close copse, or far-sec^uester'd green, 
 And shines without desiring to be seen. 
 
 COWPER.
 
 THE RAVEN 4I I 
 
 Frovi "THE COMEDY OF ERRORS" / 
 
 / 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE III. 
 
 Dromio of Syracuse. " Fly pride," says the peacock. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From "THE RAVEN" 
 
 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a 
 
 flirt and flutter, 
 In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days 
 
 of yore. 
 Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute 
 
 stopped or stayed he ; 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 
 
 chamber door — 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my 
 
 chamber door — 
 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into 
 
 smiling, 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance 
 
 it wore.
 
 412 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I 
 
 said, "art sure no craven, 
 Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from 
 
 the Nightly shore — 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's 
 
 Plutonian shore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into 
 smiling. 
 
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird 
 and bust and door ; 
 
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to 
 linking 
 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird 
 of yore — 
 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and omi- 
 nous bird of yore 
 
 Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 
 
 " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, 
 
 if bird or devil ! — 
 By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God 
 
 we both adore —
 
 THE RAVEN 413 
 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the 
 
 distant Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels 
 
 name Lenore — 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
 
 name Lenore." 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " 
 
 I shrieked, upstarting — 
 " Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's 
 
 Plutonian shore ! 
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 
 
 hath spoken ! 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust 
 
 above my door ! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy 
 
 form from off my door ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 
 
 sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber 
 
 door; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's 
 
 that is dreaminu
 
 414 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his 
 
 shadow on the floor ; 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating 
 
 on the floor 
 
 Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 . From "TROILUS AND CRESSIDA" 
 / 
 
 ACT IL SCENE IIL 
 
 Ulysses. The raven chides blackness. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From 
 
 « SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI " 
 
 ACT in. SCENE n. 
 
 King He7iry. What ! doth my lord of Sufifolk 
 
 comfort me ? 
 Came he right now to sing a raven's note, 
 Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers ; 
 And thinks he, that the chirping of a wren. 
 By crying comfort from a hollow breast. 
 Can chase away the first-conceived sound ? 
 
 SHAKESPEARE.
 
 
 -p f o 
 
 o o ,- 
 
 ^ ^ !~ 
 O «J
 
 THE FAERIE Q^UEENE 415 
 
 From "TITUS ANDRONICUS" 
 
 / 
 
 ACT II. SCENE III. / 
 
 Some say that ravens foster forlorn children, 
 The whilst their own birds famish in their nests. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From "THE FAERIE QUEENE " 
 
 BOOK II. CANTO XII. 
 
 SuDDEiNLY an innumerable flight 
 Of harmefuU fowles about them fluttering cride, 
 And with their wicked wings them ofte did smight, 
 And sore annoyed, groping in that griesly night. 
 
 Even all the nation of unfortunate 
 And fatall birds about them flocked were, 
 Such as by nature men abhorre and hate ; 
 The ill-faste owle, deaths dreadfull messengere ; 
 The hoars night-raven, trump of dolefull drere ; 
 
 /
 
 4l6 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 The lether-winged batt, dayes enimy ; 
 The rueful! strich, still waiting on the here ; 
 The whistler shrill, that whoso heares doth dy ; 
 The hellish harpyes, prophets of sad destiny : 
 
 All those, and all that els does horror breed, 
 About them flew, and fild their sayles with feare : 
 Yet stayd they not, but forward did proceed. 
 Whiles th' one did row, and th' other stifly steare ; 
 Till that at last the weather gan to cleare. 
 And the faire land itselfe did playnly show. 
 Said then the palmer ; " Lo ' where does appeare 
 The sacred soile where all our perills grow ! 
 Therefore, Sir Knight, your ready arms about you 
 throw." 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 From "THE NIGHT OF SLAUGHTER" 
 
 Thus chanced it that his wandering glances turned 
 Into the fig-tree's shadows, where there perched 
 A thousand crows, thick-roosting, on its limbs ; 
 Some nested, some on branchlets, deep asleep. 
 Heads under wings — all fearless ; nor, O Prince ! 
 Had Aswatthaman more than marked the birds. 
 When, lo ! there fell out of the velvet night.
 
 HELLAS 417 
 
 Silent and terrible, an eagle-owl, 
 With wide, soft, deadly, dusky wings, and eyes 
 Flame-coloured, and long claws, and dreadful beak ; 
 Like a winged sprite, or great Garood himself, 
 Offspring of Bharata ! it lighted there 
 Upon the banian's bough ; hooted, but low, 
 The fury smothering in its throat ; — then fell 
 With murderous beak and claws upon those 
 
 crows, 
 Rending the wings from this, the legs from that. 
 From some the heads, of some ripping the crops ; 
 Till, tens and scores, the fowl rained down to eart 
 Bloody and plucked,, and all the ground waxed 
 
 black 
 With piled crow-carcases ; whilst the great owl 
 Hooted for joy of vengeance, and again 
 Spread the wide, deadly, dusky wings. 
 
 SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. 
 
 From "HELLAS" 
 
 Nine thousand perished ! 
 We met the vultures, legioned in the air. 
 Stemming the torrent of the tainted wind : 
 They, screaming from their cloudy mountain 
 peaks, 
 
 2 D
 
 4l8 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Stooped through the sulphurous battle-smoke, and 
 
 perched 
 Each on the weltering carcass that we loved, 
 Like its ill angel or its damned soul 
 Riding upon the bosom of the sea. 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 . From "THE FAERIE QUEENE " 
 
 BOOK IV. CANTO IIL 
 
 As when a vulture greedie of his pray. 
 Through hunger long that hart to him doth lend, 
 Strikes at an heron with all his bodies sway, 
 That from his force seemes nought may it defend ; 
 The warie fowle, that spies him toward bend 
 His dreadfull souse, avoydes it, shunning light, 
 And maketh him his wing in vaine to spend ; 
 That with the weight of his owne weeldlesse might 
 He falleth nigh to ground, and scarse recovereth 
 flight. 
 
 SPENSER.
 
 PHILLIS THE FAIR 4I9 
 
 From "THE FAERIE QUEENE" 
 
 BOOK III. CANTO IV. 
 
 But nothing might relent her hasty flight ; 
 
 So deepe the deadly feare of that foul swaine 
 
 Was earst impressed in her gentle spright : 
 
 Like as a fearefull dove, which through the raine 
 
 Of the wide ayre her way does cut amaine, 
 
 Having farre off espyde a tassell gent, 
 
 Which after her his nimble winges doth straine, 
 
 Doubleth her hast for feare to bee for-hent, 
 
 And with her pi neons cleaves the liquid fermament. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 PHILLIS THE FAIR 
 
 While larks, with little wing, 
 Fanned the pure air, 
 
 Tasting the breathing spring. 
 Forth I did fare ;
 
 420 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Gay the sun's golden eye 
 Peeped o'er the mountains high 
 Such thy morn ! did I cry, 
 PhiUis the fair. 
 
 In each bird's careless song, 
 
 Glad did I share ; 
 While yon wild flowers among. 
 
 Chance led me there : 
 Sweet to the opening day, 
 Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
 Such thy bloom ! did I say, 
 
 Phillis the fair. 
 
 Down in a shady walk, 
 Doves cooing were ; 
 I marked the cruel hawk 
 
 Caught in a snare ; 
 So kind may Fortune be — 
 Such make his destiny — 
 He who would injure thee, 
 Phillis the fair. 
 
 BURNS.
 
 THE RAVEN AND THE DOVE 42I 
 
 From 
 "THE RAVEN AND THE DOVE" 
 
 She has set three feathers in her waist, 
 
 And crossed two on her eye, 
 And a white, white dove flies up in haste 
 
 Into the windy sky. 
 
 He dipped one feather in bitter water. 
 
 And cast it over his back, 
 And a raven, with beak fresh dipped in 
 slaughter, 
 
 Sailed up in the white dove's track. 
 
 The dove and raven rise and rise 
 
 In ever-narrowing ring. 
 Till both are lost in breathless skies. 
 
 And hear the angels sing. 
 
 Yet they seem no nearer to any star. 
 Though they see neither tree nor hill ; 
 
 But the harps of heaven ring very far 
 When the noise of earth is still.
 
 422 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Faster and faster on they go, 
 
 The raven and the dove ; 
 And now the white dove flies below, 
 
 The raven mounts above. 
 
 He stooped, he swerved, he frayed the hair 
 
 That held the cross of glass ; 
 Was it a rustle in the air. 
 
 Or did an angel pass ? 
 
 The white dove rose on wings of snow, 
 
 The cross of crystal fell ; 
 It smote the raven such a blow, 
 
 It smote him down to hell. 
 
 The white dove, weary and alone, 
 Dropped down the western wind, 
 
 And thought she heard the raven groan, 
 And flap strong wings behind. 
 
 She drifted against the convent bars, 
 
 Where the pale sister sings 
 Her lonely song to the lonely stars, 
 
 And there she broke her wings. 
 
 She has fluttered on to the nun's thin hand, 
 And the nun has kissed her warm. 
 
 Bound the broken wings with a tender band, 
 And soothed her from the storm.
 
 GOOD-MORROM^ 42 
 
 She crossed her twice with care and heed, 
 For she thought she might have spoken ; 
 
 But the Uttle wounds began to bleed, 
 And the sister knew the token. 
 
 So the little dove sang of dumb happy rest 
 
 All day, all night, on the sister's breast, 
 Though the wide white wings were broken. 
 
 GEORGE AUGUSTUS SIMCOX. 
 
 From "GOOD-MORROW" 
 
 The carrion crow that lothsome beast. 
 
 Which cries against the raine. 
 Both for her hue, and for the rest, 
 
 The divell resembleth plaine : 
 And as with gunnes we kill the crow, 
 
 For spoiling our releef. 
 The divell so must we overthrow, 
 
 With gunshot of bele'ef. 
 
 The little birds which sing so sweet, 
 
 Are like the angels voice, 
 Which render God his praises meet. 
 
 And tuach us to rejoice :
 
 424 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And as they more este'em that merth, 
 Than dread the night's annoy, 
 
 So much we de'em our dayes on erth 
 But hell to heavenly ioy. 
 
 GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 
 
 From "LUCRECE" 
 
 145- 
 " The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire, 
 And unperceiv'd fly with the filth away ; 
 But if the like the snow-white swan desire, 
 The stain upon his silver down will stay." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From "THE WORST OF IT" 
 
 Would it were I had been false, not you ! 
 
 I that am nothing, not you that are all : 
 I, never the worse for a touch or two 
 
 On my speckled hide ; not you, the pride 
 Of the day, my swan, that a first fleck's fall 
 
 On her wonder of white must imswan, undo
 
 LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL 425 
 
 II. 
 
 I had dipped in life's struggle and, out again, 
 Bore specks of it here, there, easy to see. 
 
 When I found my swan and the cure was plain ; 
 The dull turned bright as I caught your white 
 
 On my bosom : you saved me — saved in vain 
 If you ruined yourself, and all through me ! 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL 
 
 (From the German of Julius Mosen.) 
 
 On the cross the dying Saviour 
 Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm. 
 
 Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
 In his pierced and bleeding palm. 
 
 And by all the world forsaken. 
 Sees he how with zealous care 
 
 At the ruthless nail of iron 
 A little bird is striving there.
 
 426 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Stained with blood and never tiring, 
 With its beak it doth not cease, 
 
 From the cross 'twould free the Saviour, 
 Its Creator's Son release. 
 
 And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
 " Blest be thou of all the good ! 
 
 Bear, as token of this moment, 
 Marks of blood and holy rood ! " 
 
 And that bird is called the crossbill ; 
 
 Covered all with blood so clear. 
 In the groves of pine it singeth 
 
 Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 From "THE SPIRIT" 
 
 " Is there no road but by those gibbets ? " 
 
 "No road," the woman replied. 
 " But though with the wind each murderer 
 swings 
 They both of them are harmless things, 
 And so are the ravens beside."
 
 THE FAMILIST S HYMN 427 
 
 " What ! are there ravens there ? — those creatures 
 
 That are so black and blue ! 
 But, are they ravens ? I inquire, 
 For I have heard by the winter's fire, 
 
 That phantoms the dead pursue." 
 
 The woman replied, " They are night-ravens 
 
 That pick the dead men's eyes ; 
 And they cry qua, with their hollow jaw ; 
 Methinks I one this moment saw ! 
 
 To the banquet at hand he flies." 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 From "THE FAMILIST'S HYMN" 
 
 Round our fired and wasted homes 
 
 Flits the forest-bird unscared, 
 And at noon the wild beast comes 
 
 Where our frugal meal was shared ; 
 For the song of praises there 
 
 Shrieks the crow the livelong day ; 
 For the sound of evening prayer, 
 
 Howls the evil beast of prey ! 
 
 WHITTIER.
 
 428 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE HAUNTED HOUSE" 
 
 O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear ; 
 A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 
 And said, as plain as whisper in the ear. 
 The place is Haunted ! 
 
 The wren had built within the porch, she found 
 
 Its quiet loneliness so sure and thorough ; 
 And on the lawn, — within its turfy mound, — 
 The rabbit made his burrow. 
 
 The wary crow, — the pheasant from the 
 woods — 
 Eull'd by the still and everlasting sameness, 
 Close to the Mansion, like domestic broods. 
 Fed with a "shocking tameness." 
 
 The coot was swimming in the reedy pond. 
 Beside the water-hen, so soon affrighted ; 
 And in the weedy moat the heron, fond 
 Of solitude, alighted.
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 429 
 
 The moping heron, motionless and stiff, 
 That on a stone, as silently and stilly, 
 Stood, an apparent sentinel, as if 
 To guard the water-lily. 
 
 No sound was heard, except, from far away. 
 
 The ringing of the Whitwall's shrilly laughter, 
 Or, now and then, the chatter of the jay. 
 That Echo murmur'd after. 
 
 But Echo never mock'd the human tongue ; 
 
 Some weighty crime, that Heaven could not 
 pardon, 
 A secret curse on that old Building hung, 
 And its deserted Garden. 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 From "THE DESERTED VILLAGE" 
 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
 And desolation saddens all thy green : 
 One only master grasps the whole domain. 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
 
 430 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
 
 But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest : 
 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 
 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand. 
 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 From "YOUNG KENNEDY" 
 
 " O ! shepherd of Braco, look well to thy flock, 
 
 The piles of Glen Ardochy murmur, and jar ; 
 The rook and the raven converse from the rock, 
 
 The beasts of the forest are howling afar. 
 Shrill pipes the goss-hawk his dire tidings to tell, 
 The grey mountain-falcon accords with his yell ; 
 Aloft on bold pinion the eagle is borne, 
 To ring the alarm at the gates of the morn." 
 
 HOGG.
 
 THE PARABASIS 43 I 
 
 From "THE PARABASIS" 
 
 (Spoken by the Birds.) 
 
 Our antiquity proved, it remains to be shown 
 That Love is our author and master alone ; 
 Like him we can ramble, and gambol and fly 
 O'er ocean and earth, and aloft to the sky : 
 And all the world over, we're friends to the lover, 
 And when other means fail, we are found to 
 
 prevail. 
 When a Peacock or Pheasant is sent as a present. 
 
 All lessons of primary daily concern 
 You have learnt from the Birds, and continue to 
 
 learn. 
 Your best benefactors and early instructors ; 
 We give you the warning of seasons returning. 
 
 When the Cranes are arranged, and muster 
 afloat 
 In the middle air, with a creaking note, 
 Steering away to the Libyan sands, 
 Then careful farmers sow their lands ; 
 The crazy vessel is haul'd ashore. 
 The sail, the ropes, the rudder, and oar 
 Are all unshipp'd and housed in store.
 
 432 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 The shepherd is warned, by the Kite re- 
 appearing, 
 To muster his flock, and be ready for shearing. 
 
 You quit your old cloak at the Swallow's 
 behest, 
 In assurance of summer, and purchase a vest. 
 
 For Delphi, for Amnion, Dodona, in fine 
 For every oracular temple and shrine. 
 The Birds are a substitute equal and fair, 
 For on us you depend, and to us you repair 
 For counsel and aid when a marriage is made, 
 A purchase, a bargain, a venture in trade : 
 Unlucky or lucky, whatever has struck ye, 
 An ox or an ass that may happen to pass, 
 A voice in the street, or a slave that you meet, 
 A name or a word, by chance overheard, 
 If you deem it an omen, you call it a Bird ; 
 And if birds are your omens, it clearly will follow 
 That birds are a proper prophetic Apollo. 
 
 ARISTOPHANES. 
 Translated by John Hookham Freke.
 
 QUATRAINS 433 
 
 "QUATRAINS" 
 
 THE PHCENIX. 
 
 When Adam ate of that forbidden food, 
 Sole bird that shared not in his sin was I 
 
 And so my lif ■ is evermore renewed, 
 And I among the dying never die. 
 
 THE PELICAN. 
 
 I am the bird that from my bleeding breast 
 Draw the dear stream that nourishes my 
 brood. 
 
 And feebly unto men his love attest. 
 
 True pelican, that feeds them with his blood. 
 
 THE HALCYON. 
 
 For twice seven days, in winter's middle rage, 
 The winds are hushed, the billows are at 
 rest : 
 
 Heaven all for me their fury doth assuage, 
 While 1 am brooding o'er my fluctuant nest. 
 
 2 E
 
 434 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 THE COCK. 
 
 What time an ass with horrid bray you hear, 
 BeHeve he sees a wicked sprite at hand ; 
 
 But when I make my carol loud and clear, 
 Know that an angel doth before me stand. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 I, clapping on my sides my wings with might. 
 First to myself the busy morn proclaim : 
 
 Who others will to tasks and toil incite, 
 
 Should first himself have summoned to the 
 same. 
 
 THE PEACOCK. 
 
 I, glorying in my tail's extended pride, 
 
 See my foul legs, and then I shriek outright ; 
 
 So shrieks a human soul, which has descried 
 Its baseness 'mid vainglorious self-delight. 
 
 THE EAGLE. 
 
 I no degenerate progeny will raise, 
 
 But try my callow offspring, which will look 
 In the sun's eye with peremptory gaze ; 
 
 Nor other nurslings in my nest will brook.
 
 THE FAERIE QUEENE 435 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Leaning my bosom on a pointed thorn, 
 
 I bleed, and bleeding sing my sweetest strain ; 
 
 For sweetest songs of saddest hearts are born, 
 And who may here dissever love and pain ? 
 
 RICHARD CHEVENIX TRENCH. 
 
 From "THE FAERIE QUEENE" 
 
 BOOK IV. CANTO VIII. 
 
 Well said the wiseman, now prov'd true by this 
 
 Which to this gentle squire did happen late, 
 
 That the displeasure of the mighty is 
 
 Than death itselfe more dread and desperate ; 
 
 For naught the same may calme, ne mitigate. 
 
 Till time the tempest doe thereof delay 
 
 With sufferaunce soft, which rigour can abate. 
 
 And have the sterne remembrance wypt away 
 
 Of bitter thoughts, which deepe therein infixed lay. 
 
 Like as it fell to this unhappy boy. 
 Whose tender heart the faire Belphebe had 
 With one sterne looke so daunted, that no ioy 
 In all his life, which afterwards he lad 
 
 /
 
 436 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 He ever tasted ; but with penaunce sad 
 And pensive sorrow pind and wore away, 
 Ne ever laught, ne once shew'd countenance glad ; 
 But alwaies wept and wailed night and day, 
 As blasted bloosme through heat doth languish 
 and decay. 
 
 Till on a day, as in his wonted wise 
 
 His doole he made, there chaunst a turtle dove 
 
 To come where he his dolors did devise, 
 
 That likewise late had lost her dearest love. 
 
 Which losse her made like passion also prove : 
 
 Who, seeing his sad plight, her tender heart 
 
 With deare compassion deeply did emmove, 
 
 That she gan mone his undeserved smart. 
 
 And with her dolefuU accent beare with him a part. 
 
 hee sitting by him, as on ground he lay. 
 Her mournefull notes full piteously did frame. 
 And thereof made a lamentable lay. 
 So sensibly compyld that in the same 
 Him seemed oft he heard his owne right name, 
 With that he forth would poure so plenteous teares, 
 And beat his breast unworthy of such blame. 
 And knocke his head, and rend his rugged heares, 
 That could have perst the hearts of tigres and of 
 beares.
 
 THE FAERIE QUEENE 437 
 
 Thus, long this gentle bird to him did use 
 
 Withouten dread of perill to repaire 
 
 Unto his wonne, and with her mournefull 
 
 muse 
 Him to recomfort in his greatest care, 
 That much did ease his mourning and mis- 
 fare : 
 And every day, for guerdon of her song, 
 He part of his small feast to her would share ; 
 That, at the last, of all his woe and wrong 
 Com])anion she became, and so continued long. 
 
 Upon a day, as she him sate beside. 
 
 By chance he certain miniments forth drew, 
 
 Which yet with him as relickes did abide 
 
 Of all the bounty which Belphebe threw 
 
 On him, whilst goodly grace she did him shew : 
 
 Amongst the rest a iewell rich he found. 
 
 That was a ruby of right perfect hew, 
 
 Shap'd like a heart yet bleeding of the wound, 
 
 And with a little golden chaine about it bound. 
 
 The same he tooke, and with a riband new. 
 In which his ladies colours were, did bind 
 About the turtles necke, that with the vew 
 Did greatly solace his engrieved mind. 
 All unawares the bird, when she did find
 
 438 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Herselfe so dekt, her nimble wings displaid, 
 And flew away as lightly as the wind : 
 Which sodaine accident him much dismaid ; 
 And, looking after long, did niarke which way she 
 straid. 
 
 But whenas long he looked had in vaine, 
 Yet saw her forward still to make her flight, 
 His weary eie returned to him againe. 
 Full of discomfort and disquiet plight, 
 That both his iuell he had lost so light, 
 And eke his deare companion of his care. 
 But that sweet bird departing flew forthright. 
 Through the wide region of the wastfull aire, 
 Untill she came where wonned his Belphebe 
 faire. 
 
 There found she her (as then it did betide) 
 Sitting in covert shade of arbors sweet, 
 After late wearie toile which she had tride 
 In salvage chase, to rest as seem'd her meet. 
 There she, alighting, fell before her feet, 
 And gan to her mournfull plaint to make. 
 As was her wont, thinking to let her weet 
 The great tormenting griefe that for her sake 
 Her gentle squire through her displeasure did 
 pertake.
 
 THE FAERIE QUELNE 439 
 
 She, her beholding with attentive eye, 
 
 At length did marke about her purple brest 
 
 That precious iuell, which she formerly 
 
 Had knowne right well with colourd ribbands 
 
 drest : 
 Therewith she rose in hast, and her addrest 
 With ready hand it to have reft away : 
 But the swift bird obayd not her behest, 
 But swarv'd aside, and there againe did stay ; 
 She follow'd her, and thought againe it to assay. 
 
 And ever, when she nigh approcht, the dove 
 Would flit a Uttle forward, and then stay 
 Till she drew neare, and then againe remove : 
 So tempting her still to pursue the pray. 
 And still from her escaping soft away : 
 Till that at length into that forrest wide 
 She drew her far, and led with slow delay : 
 In th' end she her unto that place did guide, 
 Whereas that wofull man in languor did abide. 
 
 SPENSER.
 
 440 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE GAY GOSS-HAWK" 
 
 " O WALY, waly, my gay goss-hawk, 
 Gin your feathering be sheen ; ' ' 
 
 " And waly, waly, my master dear. 
 Gin ye look pale and lean. 
 
 " O have ye tint at tournament, 
 Your sword, or yet your spear? 
 
 Or mourn ye for the Southern lass, 
 Whom you may not win near ? " 
 
 " I have na tint at tournament, 
 My sword nor yet my spear ; 
 
 But sair I mourn for my true love, 
 Wi' mony a bitter tear. 
 
 " O well is me, my gay goss-hawk 
 Ye can baith speak and flee ; 
 
 Ye sail carry a letter to my love. 
 Bring an answer back to me." 
 
 " But how sail I your true love find, 
 Or how should I her knaw ? 
 
 I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spak, 
 An eye that ne'er her saw."
 
 THE GAY GOSS-HAWK 44 1 
 
 " O weel sail ye my true love ken, 
 
 Sae sune as ye her see ; 
 For o' a' the flowers o' fair England, 
 
 The fairest flower is she. 
 
 " The red that's on my true love's cheek 
 Is like blood draps on the snaw ; 
 
 The white, that is on her bare breast, 
 Like the down o the white sea maw." 
 
 Lord William has written a love-letter, 
 
 Put it under his pinion grey ; 
 And the bird is awa' to Southern land. 
 
 As fast as wings can gae. 
 
 And even at that lady's bower. 
 
 There grew a flowering birk ; 
 And he sat down and sung thereon, 
 
 As she gaed to the kirk. 
 
 And weel he kent that ladye fair 
 
 Amang her maidens free ; 
 For the flower that springs in May morning, 
 
 Was na sae sweet as she. 
 
 He lighted at the ladye's yett. 
 
 And sat him on a pin ; 
 And sang fu' sweet the notes of love, 
 
 Till a' was cosh within.
 
 442 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And first he sang a low note, 
 
 And syne he sang a clear ; 
 And aye the o'eiword o' the sang 
 
 Was — " Your love can no win here." 
 
 " Feast on, feast on, my maidens a', 
 The wine flows you amang ; 
 
 While I gang to my shot-window. 
 And hear yon bonny bird's sang. 
 
 " Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird. 
 The sang ye sung yestreen ; 
 
 For weel I ken by your sweet sang, 
 Ye hae my true love seen." 
 
 O first he sang a merry sang, 
 And syne he sang a grave ; 
 
 And syne he pecked his feathers grey, 
 To her the letter gave. 
 
 " Have there a letter from Lord William, 
 He says he's sent ye three ; 
 
 He canna wait your love langer, 
 But for your sake he'll dee." 
 
 " Gae bid him bake his bridal bread, 
 
 And brew his bridal ale ; 
 And I shall meet him at Mary's Kirk, 
 
 Lang, lang ere it be stale."
 
 THE PARROT 443 
 
 From "YOUNG HUNTIN" 
 
 Then up and spak the popinjay, 
 
 That sat aboon her heid, 
 " Ladye keep weel your green cleidin 
 
 Frae gude young Huntin's bleid." 
 
 " O I'll keep better my green cleidin 
 
 Frae ae drap o' his bleid, 
 Than thou canst keep thy chattering tongue, 
 
 That brattles in thy heid." 
 
 THE PARROT 
 
 (translation from the latin.) 
 
 In painted plumes superbly dress'd, 
 A native of the gorgeous east. 
 
 By many a billow toss'd, 
 Poll gains at length the P)ritish shore. 
 Fart of the captain's precious store, 
 
 A present to his toa.st.
 
 444 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd, 
 To teach him now and then a word, 
 
 As Poll can master it ; 
 But 'tis her own important charge, 
 To qualify him more at large, 
 
 And make him quite a wit. 
 
 Sweet Poll ! his doating mistress cries. 
 Sweet Poll ! the mimic bird replies 
 
 And calls aloud for sack. 
 She next instructs him in the kiss ; 
 'Tis now a little one like Miss, 
 
 And now a hearty smack. 
 
 At first he aims at what he hears ; 
 And, list'ning close with both his ears, 
 
 Just catches at the sound 
 But soon articulates aloud, 
 Much to th' amusement of the crowd. 
 
 And stuns the neighbours round. 
 
 A querulous old woman's voice 
 His hum'rous talent next employs ; 
 
 He scolds, and gives the lie. 
 And now he sings, and now is sick, 
 Here Sally, Susan, come, come quick, 
 
 Poor Poll is like to die !
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 445 
 
 Belinda and her bird ! 'tis rare, 
 
 To meet witli such a well-ma tch'd pair, 
 
 The language and the tone, 
 Each character in ev'ry part 
 Sustain'd with so much grace and art, 
 
 And both in unison. 
 
 When children first begin to spell, 
 And stammer out a syllable, 
 
 We think them tedious creatures ; 
 But difficulties soon abate, 
 When birds are to be taught to prate, 
 
 And women are their teachers. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 From "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE" 
 
 ACT III. SCENE V. 
 
 Lorenzo. ... I think the best grace of wit will 
 shortly turn into silence 3 and discourse grow 
 commendable in none only but parrots. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE.
 
 446 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 SOLILOQUY OF A WATER - WAGTAIL 
 ON THE WALLS OF YORK CASTLE 
 
 On the walls that guard my prison, 
 Swelling with fantastic pride, 
 
 Brisk and merry as the season, 
 I a feather'd coxcomb spied : 
 
 When the little hopping elf 
 
 Gaily thus amused himself. 
 
 " Hear your sovereign's proclamation, 
 All good subjects, young and old : 
 
 I'm the Lord of the Creation ; 
 I — a Water- Wagtail bold ! 
 
 All around, and all you see. 
 
 All the world, was made for Me ! 
 
 " Yonder sun, so proudly shining. 
 Rises— when I leave my nest ; 
 
 And, behind the hills declining, 
 Sets— when I retire to rest : 
 
 Morn and evening, thus you see, 
 
 Day and night, were made for Me !
 
 SOLILOQIIY OF A WATLR-WAGTAIL 44/ 
 
 " Vernal gales to love invite me ; 
 
 Summer sheds for me her beams ; 
 Autumn's jovial scenes delight me ; 
 
 Winter paves with ice my streams ; 
 All the year is mine, you see ; 
 Seasons change, like moons, for Me ! 
 
 " On the heads of giant mountains, 
 Or beneath the shady trees ; 
 
 By the banks of warbling fountains, 
 I enjoy myself at ease : 
 
 Hills and valleys, thus you see. 
 
 Groves and rivers, made for Me ! 
 
 " Boundless are my vast dominions ; 
 
 I can hop, or swim, or fly ; 
 When I please, my towering pinions 
 
 Trace my empire through the sky : 
 Air and elements, you see, 
 Heaven and earth, were made for Me ! 
 
 " Birds and insects, beasts and fishes, 
 All their humble distance keep ; 
 
 Man, subservient to my wishes, 
 Sows the harvest which I reap : 
 
 Mighty man himself, you see, 
 
 All that breathe were made for Me !
 
 44 8 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 " 'Twas for my accommodation 
 Nature rose when I was born ; 
 
 Should I die — the whole creation 
 Back to nothing would return : 
 
 Sun, moon, stars, the world, you see, 
 
 Sprung — exist — will fall — with Me!" 
 
 Here the pretty prattler, ending, 
 Spread his wings to soar away ; 
 
 But a cruel Hawk descending, 
 
 Pounced him up — an helpless prey : 
 
 Could'st thou not, poor Wagtail ! see, 
 
 That the Hawk was made for Thee ? 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 April 15//;, 1796. 
 
 From "THE PRISONER OF CHILLON" 
 
 K 
 
 CANTO X. 
 
 A LIGHT broke in upon my brain, — 
 It was the carol of a bird , 
 
 It ceased, and then it came again. 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 
 Ran over with the glad surprise.
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 449 
 
 And they that moment could not see 
 
 I was the mate of misery ; 
 
 But then by dull degrees came back 
 
 My senses to their wonted track ; 
 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 
 Creeping as it before had done, 
 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 
 That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings. 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
 I never saw its like before, 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
 It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
 But was not half so desolate. 
 And it was come to love me when 
 None lived to love me so again, 
 And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 I know not if it late were free. 
 
 Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
 But knowing well captivity. 
 
 Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 
 A visitant from Paradise ; 
 
 2 F
 
 450 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
 
 Which made me both to weep and smile — 
 
 I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
 
 My brother's soul come down to me : 
 
 But then at last away it flew, 
 
 And then 't was mortal well I knew, 
 
 For he would never thus have flown. 
 
 And left me twice so doubly lone,— 
 
 Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 
 
 Lone — as a solitary cloud, — 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day, 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
 A frown upon the atmosphere, 
 That hath no business to appear 
 
 When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 From "THE MANCIPLE'S TALE" 
 
 Take any brid, and put it in a cage. 
 And do all thin entente, and thy corage, 
 To foster it tendrely with mete and drinke 
 Of alia deintees that thou canst bethinke. 
 And kepe it al so clenely as thou may ; 
 Although the cage of gold be never so gay.
 
 ON A GOLDFINCH 451 
 
 Yet had this brid, by twenty thousand fold, 
 Lever in a forest, that is wilde and cold, 
 Gon eten wormes, and swiche wretchednesse. 
 For ever this brid will don his besinesse 
 To escape out of his cage whan that he may : 
 His liberty the brid desireth ay. 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 ON A GOLDFINCH, 
 
 STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE. 
 
 Time was when I was free as air. 
 The thistle's downy seed my fare. 
 
 My drink the morning dew ; 
 I perch 'd at will on ev'ry spray, 
 My form genteel, my plumage gay, 
 
 My strains for ever new. 
 
 But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain. 
 And form genteel, were all in vain, 
 
 And of a transient date ; 
 For caught, and cag'd, and starv'd to death, 
 In dying sighs my little breath 
 
 Soon pass'd the wiry grate.
 
 452 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes, 
 And thanks for this effectual close 
 
 And cure of ev'ry ill ; 
 More cruelty could none express ; 
 And I, if you had shown me less. 
 
 Had been your pris'ner still. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 From "THE LADY OF THE LAKE" 
 
 " The captive thrush may brook the cage, 
 The prison'd eagle dies for rage." 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 From " INSCRIPTIONS." XVI. 
 
 Dost thou not love 
 The sounds that speak enjoyment ? oh, if not. 
 If thou wouldst rather with inhuman ear 
 Hark to the warblings of some wretched bird 
 Bereft of freedom, sure thine heart is dead 
 To each good feeling, and thy spirit void 
 Of all that softens or ennobles man. 
 
 southey.
 
 MELANCHOLY HUMOURS 45 
 
 From "TO HYMEN" 
 
 Yet will the lark in iron cage inthrall'd, 
 
 Chaunt forth her hymn to greet the morning sun, 
 
 As wide his brilliant beam 
 
 Illumes the landskip round ; 
 As distant 'mid the woodland haunts is heard 
 The feather'd quire, she chaunts her prison'd hymn. 
 
 And hails the beam of joy, 
 
 Of joy to her denied. 
 
 SOUTHEV. 
 
 From "MELANCHOLY HUMOURS" 
 
 The owl, that makes the night her day, delights yet 
 
 in the dark ; 
 But I am forced to play the owl, that have been 
 
 bred a lark. 
 The eagle from the lowest vale can mount the , 
 
 lofty sky ; 
 But I am fallen from down the hill, and in the 
 
 vale must die. . . . 
 
 IJRETON.
 
 454 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 SONNET 
 
 SICKNESS. 
 
 As when a sea-gull, customed long to sweep 
 
 With breezy range from shimmering sea to sea, 
 
 In revelry of wafture fair and free, 
 O'er the broad bosom of the boundless deep ; 
 Him now an idle boy, after a storm. 
 
 Hath caught, and pruned his wing, and closely 
 barred 
 
 All outlet from the farmer's narrow yard, 
 Where he must hop about from worm to worm, 
 A sorry sight to see. So me, once king 
 
 Of thoughts far-stretching, and far-wandering 
 ways. 
 Mischance hath caught, and dipt my venturous 
 wing. 
 
 And chained me to a round of deedless days, 
 ^Vith all life's organ-hymns of high desire 
 Sunk to the creakings of a broken lyre ! 
 
 JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
 
 CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 455 
 
 From "THE FAERIE QUEENE " 
 
 BOOK III. CANTO I. 
 
 Who means no guile, be guiled soonest shall, 
 And to faire semblaunce doth light faith annexe ; 
 The bird, that knovves not the false fowlers call, 
 Into his hidden nett full easely doth fall. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 From "CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS" 
 
 / 
 
 Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder joint / 
 
 That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the 
 
 jay 
 When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue : 
 Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay 
 Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt : 
 Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth 
 "I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, 
 " I make the cry my maker cannot make 
 " With his great round mouth ; he must blow 
 
 through mine ! " 
 Would not I smash it with my foot ? So He. 
 
 UROWNING.
 
 456 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 / 
 
 From "MACBETH" 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE II. 
 
 i Lady Macduff. Sirrah, your father's dead. 
 And what will you do now ? How will you live ? 
 So?i. As birds do, mother. 
 Lady M. What, with worms and flies ? 
 Sofi. With what I get, I mean ; and so do they. 
 Lady M. Poor bird ! thou'dst never fear the net, 
 nor lime. 
 The pit-fall, nor the gin. 
 
 Son. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they 
 are not set for. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From "THE SAILOR'S MOTHER" 
 
 Traveller. 
 
 But how came it 
 He chose to be a sailor?
 
 THE SAILOR S MOTHER 457 
 
 Woman. 
 
 You shall hear, Sir ; 
 As he grew up he used to watch the birds 
 In the corn, — child's work you know, and easily 
 
 done. 
 'Tis an idle sort of task ; so he built up 
 A little hut of wicker-work and clay 
 Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. 
 And then he took, for very idleness. 
 To making traps to catch the plunderers ; 
 All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make — 
 Propping a stone to fall and shut them in. 
 Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe 
 Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly, — 
 And I, — poor foolish woman ! I was pleased 
 To see the boy so handy. You may guess 
 What follow'd. Sir, from this unlucky skill. 
 He did what he should not when he was older : 
 I warn'd him oft enough ; but he was caught 
 In wiring hares at last, and had his choice — 
 The prison or the ship. 
 
 ROUT HEY.
 
 458 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY" 
 
 Rejoice, ye birring paitricks ' a' ; 
 
 Ye cootie - moorcocks, crousely ^ craw ; 
 
 Ye mawkins, cock your fud fu' braw, 
 
 Withouten dread ; 
 Your mortal fae is now awa' — 
 
 Tarn Samson's dead ! 
 
 There low he lies in lasting rest ; 
 Perhaps upon his mouldering breast 
 Some spitefu' moorfowl bigs her nest, 
 
 To hatch and breed ; 
 Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 
 
 Tam Samson's dead! . . 
 
 BURNS. 
 Whirring partridges. - Feather-legged. ■• Gleefully.
 
 MARMION 459 
 
 From "WINDSOR FOREST" 
 
 See ! from the brake the whirring pheasant 
 springs. 
 And mounts exulting on triumphant wings : 
 Short is his joy ; he feels the fiery wound, 
 Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground. 
 Ah ! what avail his glossy, varying dyes, 
 His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes, 
 The vivid green his shining plumes unfold, 
 His painted wings, and breast that flames with 
 gold? 
 
 POPE. 
 
 From "MARMION" 
 
 On wing of jet, from his repose 
 
 In the deep heath, the black-cock rose ; 
 
 Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, 
 
 Nor waited for the bending bow ; 
 
 And when the stony path began, 
 
 By which the naked peak they wan. 
 
 Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. 
 
 SCOTT.
 
 460 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "WINDSOR FOREST" 
 
 With slaughtering guns the unwearied fowler roves, 
 AVhen frosts have whiten'd all the naked groves ; 
 ^^'here doves in flocks the leafless trees o'ershade, 
 And lonely woodcocks haunt the watery glade. 
 He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye ; 
 Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky. 
 Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, 
 The clamorous lapwings feel the leaden death : 
 Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare, 
 They fall, and leave their little lives in air. 
 
 POPE. 
 
 From "ESSAY ON MAN" 
 
 EPISTLE III. 
 
 Has God, thou fool ! workd solely lor thy good, 
 Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food? 
 
 Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings ? 
 Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings.
 
 TWELFTH-NIGHT 46 1 
 
 Is it for thee the Hnnet pours his throat ? 
 Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. 
 
 Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain ? 
 The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. 
 
 POPE. 
 
 From "TWELFTH-NIGHT" 
 
 ACT IV. SCENE II. 
 
 Clown. What is the opinion of Pythagoras con- 
 cerning wild-fowl ? 
 
 Malvolio. That the soul of our grandam might 
 haply inhabit a bird. 
 
 Clo. What thinkest thou of his opinion ? 
 
 Mai. I think nobly of the soul, and no way 
 approve his opinion. 
 
 Clo. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in dark- 
 ness : thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras, 
 ere I will allow of thy wits ; and fear to kill a 
 woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy 
 grandam. Fare thee well. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE.
 
 XIII. 
 
 COMPANIONS — MIGRATION 
 WINTER
 
 SONNET 
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BIRD. 
 
 She fluted with her mouth as when one sips, 
 And gently waved her golden head, inclin'd 
 Outside his cage close to the window-blind ; 
 
 Till her fond bird, with little turns and dips, 
 
 Piped low to her of sweet companionships. 
 
 And when he made an end, some seed took she 
 And fed him from her tongue, which rosily 
 
 Peeped as a piercing bud between her lips. 
 
 And like the child in Chaucer, on whose tongue 
 The Blessed Mary laid, when he was dead, 
 
 A grain, — who straightway praised her name in 
 song : 
 Even so, whvn she, a little lightly red, 
 
 Now turned on me and laughed, I heard the throng 
 Of inner voices praise her golden head. 
 
 U. G, ROSSETTl. 
 
 46s 2 G
 
 466 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE SPANISH GYPSY" 
 
 O BIRD that used to press 
 Thy head against my cheek 
 With touch that seemed to speak 
 
 And ask a tender "yes" — 
 
 Ay de mi, my bird ! 
 
 O tender downy breast 
 
 And warmly beating heart ; 
 That beating seemed a part 
 
 Of me who gave it rest — 
 
 Ay de mi, my bird ! 
 
 <iEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 From "ELEGIAC POEMS" 
 
 What was thy life? a bird in infant's hand 
 
 Held with too slight a grasp, and which, before 
 
 He knows or fears, its pinions doth expand, 
 .Vnd with a sudden impulse heavenward soar. 
 
 RICHARD CHEVENIX TRENCH.
 
 THE DYING I M P RO VI S ATO R E 467 
 
 From "THE DYING IMPROVISATORE " 
 
 But like a lute's brief tone, 
 Like a rose-odour on the breezes cast, 
 Like a swift flush of dayspring, seen and gone, 
 
 So hath my spirit passed — 
 
 Pouring itself away 
 As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns 
 That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns, 
 
 Into a fleeting lay ; 
 
 That swells, and floats, and dies, 
 Leaving no echo to the summer woods 
 Of the rich breathings and impassioned sighs 
 
 Which thrilled their solitudes. 
 
 MRS. HEMANS.
 
 468 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "HAS SORROW THY YOUNG 
 DAYS SHADED" 
 
 Has hope, like the bird in the story 
 
 That flitted from tree to tree 
 With the tahsman's glittering glory — 
 
 Has hope been that bird to thee ? 
 On branch after branch alighting, 
 
 The gem did she still display, 
 And when nearest and most invitmg, 
 
 Then waft the fair gem away ? 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 From "MORAL ESSAYS" 
 
 EPISTLE II. 
 
 Pleasures the sex, as children birds, pursue, 
 Still out of reach, yet never out of view ; 
 Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most ; 
 To covet flying, and regret when lost. . . . 
 
 POPE.
 
 THE BANKS o' BOON 469 
 
 "THE BANKS O' BOON" 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 
 And I sae weary, fa' o' care ? 
 Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, 
 
 That wantons through the flowering thorn ; 
 Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
 
 Departed — never to return ! 
 
 Oft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon, 
 
 To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
 And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 
 
 And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
 
 Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
 And my fause lover stole my rose. 
 
 But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 
 
 BURNS.
 
 470 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "OTHER DAYS" 
 
 O Thrush, your song is passing sweet. 
 But never a song that you have sung 
 Is half so sweet as thrushes sang 
 When my dear love and I were young. 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. 
 
 SONNET XXV. 
 WINGED HOURS. 
 
 Each hour until we meet is as a bird 
 That wings from far his gradual way along 
 The rustling covert of my soul, — his song 
 
 Still loudlier trilled through leaves more deeply 
 stirr'd : 
 
 But at the hour of meeting, a clear word 
 
 Is every note he sings, in Love's own tongue : 
 Yet, Love, thou know'st the sweet strain suffers 
 wrong, 
 
 Full oft through our contending joys unheard.
 
 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST 47 I 
 
 What of that hour at last, when for her sake 
 No wing may fly to me nor song may flow ; 
 When, wandering round my Ufe unleaved, I know 
 
 The bloodied feathers scattered in the brake, 
 And think how she. far from me, with like eyes 
 
 Sees through the untuneful bough the wingless 
 skies ? 
 
 D. G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 From 
 "LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST, &c." 
 
 FROM LETTER IX. 
 
 And sweet To-morrow, like a golden bark. 
 Will call for me, and lead me on apace 
 To where I shall behold, in all her grace, 
 Mine own true Lady, whom a happy lark 
 Did late salute, appointing, after dark, 
 A nightingale to carol in his place. 
 
 ERIC MACKAY.
 
 472 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY 
 
 A LITTLE bird flew my window by, 
 'Twixt the level street and the level sky, 
 The level rows of houses tall, 
 The long low sun on the level wall ; 
 And all that the little bird did say 
 Was "Over the hills and far away." 
 
 A little bird sang behind my chair, 
 From the level line of corn-fields fair, 
 The smooth green hedge-row's level bound 
 Not a furlong off — the horizon's bound. 
 And the level lawn where the sun all day 
 Burns : — "Over the hills and far away." 
 
 A little bird sings above my bed, 
 
 And I know if I could but lift my head 
 
 I would see the sun set, round and grand, 
 
 Upon level sea and level sand, 
 
 While beyond the misty distance gray 
 
 Is " Over the hills and far away."
 
 THE STARLINGS 473 
 
 I think that a Httle bird will sing 
 
 Over a grassy mound next spring, 
 
 ^'^'here something that once was me, ye'll leave 
 
 In the level sunshine, morn and eve : 
 
 But I shall be gone, past night, past day, 
 
 Over the hills and far away. 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." 
 
 THE STARLINGS 
 
 Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings, 
 Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the 
 
 starlings sing — 
 ' Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for 
 
 building wearily ? 
 Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun.' 
 
 Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings, 
 Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings 
 
 sing— 
 ' Ah that sweet March month, when we and our 
 
 mates were courting merrily ; 
 Sad, sad, to think that the year is all ijut done.' 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEV.
 
 474 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Fro7n 
 "AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE" 
 
 When the dimpled water slippeth, 
 
 Full of laughter, on its way, 
 And her wing the wagtail dippeth, 
 
 Running by the brink at play ; 
 When the poplar leaves atremble 
 
 Turn their edges to the light. 
 And the far-up clouds resemble 
 
 Veils of gauze most clear and white ; 
 And the sunbeams fall and flatter 
 
 Woodland moss and branches brown, 
 And the glossy finches chatter 
 
 Up and down, up and down : 
 Though the heart be not attending. 
 
 Having music of her own, 
 On the grass, through meadows wending. 
 
 It is sweet to walk alone. 
 
 When the falling waters utter 
 
 Something mournful on their w^ay, 
 
 And departing swallows flutter, 
 Taking leave of bank and brae :
 
 HOME WOUNDED 4/5 
 
 When the chaffinch idly sitteth 
 
 With her mate upon the sheaves, 
 And the wistful robin flitteth 
 
 Over beds of yellow leaves : 
 When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder 
 
 Evil fate, float by and frown, 
 And the listless wind doth wander 
 
 Up and down, up and down : 
 Though the heart be not attending. 
 
 Having sorrows of her own, 
 Through the fields and fallows wending. 
 
 It is sad to walk alone. 
 
 JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 From " HOME WOUNDED " 
 
 In the tower there used to be 
 
 A solitary tree. 
 
 Take me there, for the dear sake 
 
 Of those old days wherein I loved to lie 
 
 And pull the melilote, 
 
 And look across the valley to the sky, 
 
 And hear the joy that filled the warm wide 
 
 hour 
 Bubble from the thrush's throat,
 
 4/6 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 As into a shining mere 
 Rills some rillet trebling clear, 
 And speaks the silent silver of the lake 
 There mid cloistering tree-roots, year by year, 
 The hen-thrush sat, and he, her lief and dear, 
 Among the boughs did make 
 A ceaseless music of her married time, 
 And all the ancient stones grew sweet to hear, 
 And answered him in the unspoken rhyme 
 Of gracious forms most musical 
 That tremble on the wall 
 And trim its age with airy fantasies 
 That flicker in the sun, and hardly seem 
 As if to be beheld were all, 
 And only to our eyes 
 They rise and fall, 
 And fall and rise. 
 
 Sink down like silence, or a-sudden stream 
 As wind-blown on the wind, as streams a wedding 
 chime. 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL.
 
 THE TREASURE OF HOPE 477 
 
 From " JAMES LEE'S WIFE " 
 III. 
 
 IN THE DOORWAY. 
 I. 
 
 The swallow has set her six young on the rail, 
 And looks sea-ward. . , , 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From "THE TREASURE OF HOPE" 
 
 O FAIR bird, singing in the woods. 
 
 To the rising and the setting sun. 
 Does ever any throb of pain 
 
 Thrill through thee ere thy song be done 
 Because the summer fleets so fast ; 
 
 Because the autumn fades so soon ; 
 Because the deadly winter treads 
 
 So closely on the steps of June ? 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS.
 
 4/8 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE OF AUTUMN 
 
 Nothing stirs the sunny silence, — 
 Save the drowsy humming of the bees 
 
 Round the rich, ripe peaches on the wall. 
 And the south wind sighing in the trees, 
 
 And the dead leaves rustling as they fall : 
 While the swallows, one by one, are gathering. 
 
 All impatient to be on the wing, 
 And to wander from us, seeking 
 
 I'heir beloved Spring ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Cloudless rise the azure heavens 1 
 
 Only vaporous wreaths of snowy white 
 Nestle in the grey hill's rugged side ; 
 And the golden woods are bathed in light, 
 
 Dying, if they must, with kingly pride : 
 While the swallows in the blue air wheeling, 
 
 Circle now an eager fluttering band. 
 Ready to depart and leave us 
 
 For a brighter land !
 
 SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMAN 479 
 
 III. 
 
 But a voice is sounding sadly, 
 Telling of a glory that has been ; 
 
 Of a day that faded all too fast — 
 See afar through the blue air serene, 
 
 Where the swallows wing their way at last, 
 And our hearts perchance, as sadly wandering, 
 
 Vainly seeking for a long-lost day, 
 While we watch the far-off swallows. 
 
 Flee with them away ! 
 
 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 
 
 From 
 « SONG OF THF NEGRO BOATMAN " 
 
 We pray de Lord : he gib us signs 
 
 Dat some day we be free ; 
 De norf-wind tell it to de pines, 
 
 De wild-duck to de sea ; 
 We tink it when de church-bell ring, 
 
 We dream it in de dream ; 
 De rice-bird mean it when he sing, 
 
 De eagle when he scream. 
 
 WHITTIEK.
 
 480 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From «A DOUBTING HEART" 
 
 Where are the swallows fled ? 
 Frozen and dead, 
 Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. 
 Oh doubting heart ! 
 Far over purple seas, 
 They wait in sunny ease 
 The balmy southern breeze, 
 To bring them to their northern homes once 
 more. 
 
 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 
 
 From "TIMON OF ATHENS" 
 
 ACT III. SCENE VI. 
 
 2 Lord. The swallow follows not summer more 
 willing, than we your lordship. 
 
 Tirtion {Aside). Nor more willingly leaves winter : 
 such summer-birds are men. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE.
 
 BIRDS IN AN AUTUMN SKY 48 I 
 
 From "AURORA LETGH" 
 
 Like swallows, which the exasperate, dying year 
 Sets spinning in black circles, round and round, 
 Preparing for far flights o'er unknown seas. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 From "TALES OF THE HALL" 
 
 BOOK XIII. 
 
 Far to the left he saw the huts of men, 
 Half hid in mist that hung upon the fen ; 
 Before him swallows, gathering to the sea, 
 Took their short flights, and twitter'd on the lea. 
 
 CRABBE, 
 
 BIRDS IN AN AUTUMN SKY 
 
 Wheef., wheel, ye birds, about the cheerless sky. 
 
 Above the vapours, the rose winter-bloom 
 Facing the sunset ; in clear circles high 
 Rise with a shrill, preluding muster-cry,
 
 482 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Since not for song but flight 
 
 Ye curve and spread 
 In such harmonious clusters overhead ! 
 The gale with a sea-strength doth doom 
 Your woods ; ye have no nest-ward care. 
 
 Why should ye stay ? 
 The mist is full of burden and decay, 
 The passing of the forest-leaves, the soft 
 Drip of the hedge-rows ; from the oak 
 The acorn severs : with victorious stroke 
 Winnow the cumbered air, rise, eddy, sway — 
 The sap is in your pinions — press aloft 
 Through the illimitable gray, 
 Compass sky-regions bare ! 
 
 Soon as I find 
 That life's soft bowers lie ruined in my sight, 
 
 Prompted as ye. 
 
 Ah, if I might 
 Rove with as confident tranquillity 
 Athwart the uncommunicating wind ! 
 
 MICHAEL FIELD. 
 (From The Contemporary Revieiv, March 1889.)
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE 483 
 
 From "COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY" 
 
 The snow-goose settles down, the swallows flee — 
 Why should they wait for winter - time ? 'Tis 
 instinct. . . . 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE 
 
 Black shadows fall 
 From the lindens tall, 
 That lift aloft their massive wall 
 Against the southern sky ; 
 
 And from the realms 
 Of the shadowy elms 
 A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
 The fields that round us lie. 
 
 But the night is fair, 
 And everywhere 
 
 A warm, soft vapour fills the air, 
 And distant sounds seem near
 
 484 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And above, in the light 
 Of the star-ht night, 
 Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
 Through the dewy atmosphere. 
 
 I hear the beat 
 Of their pinions fleet, 
 As from the land of snow and sleet 
 They seek a southern lea. 
 
 I hear the cry 
 Of their voices high 
 Falling dreamily through the sky. 
 But their forms I cannot see. 
 
 O, say not so ! 
 Those sounds that flow 
 In murmurs of delight and woe 
 Come not from wings of birds. 
 
 They are the throngs 
 01 the poets' songs, 
 
 Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs 
 The sound of winged words. 
 
 This is the cry 
 Of souls, that high 
 On toiling, beating pinions fly, 
 Seeking a warmer clime.
 
 THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE 485 
 
 From their distant flight 
 Through realms of Hght 
 It falls into our world of night, 
 
 With the murmuring sound of rhyme. 
 
 LONC; FELLOW. 
 
 THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE 
 
 Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing ! 
 Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? — 
 " We come from the shores of the green old Nile, 
 From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, 
 From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, 
 From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby. 
 
 " We have swept o'er cities in song renowned — 
 
 Silent they lie with the deserts round ! 
 
 We have cross'd proud rivers whose tide hath roll'd 
 
 All dark with the warrior-blood of old : 
 
 And each worn wing hath regained its home, 
 
 Under peasant's roof-tree or monarch's dome." 
 
 And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, 
 Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam ? — 
 " We have found a change, we have found a pall, 
 And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall, 
 And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt — 
 Nought looks the same, save the nest we built !"
 
 486 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 O joyous birds, it hath still been so ; 
 Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go ! 
 But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep, 
 And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep. 
 Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot, 
 Since last ye parted from that sweet spot ? — 
 
 "A change we have found there — and many a 
 
 change ! 
 Faces, and footsteps, and all things strange ! 
 Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, 
 And the young, that were, have a brow of care, 
 And the place is hush'd where the children play'd — 
 Nought looks the same, save the nest we made 1 " 
 
 Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, 
 Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth ! 
 Yet through the wastes of the trackless air 
 Ye have a guide, and shall we despair ? 
 Ye over desert and deep have pass'd — 
 So may tve reach our bright home at last ! 
 
 MRS. HEMANS.
 
 TO THE SAND GROUSE 487 
 
 TO THE SAND GROUSE i 
 
 Why come ye from the tawny waste 
 
 Of the MongoHan plains, 
 To seek through leagues of stranger air 
 
 Our Western storms and rains ? 
 
 Deep in the hollows of that land 
 Where some rare water gleams, 
 
 Ye bask among the flowers and seeds 
 Of oleandered streams. 
 
 These warm and pebbly colours show 
 
 Your native home to be 
 In lands that since the raging flood 
 
 Have never seen the sea. 
 
 ^ (The sand grouse [Syrrapies Paradoxus) inhabits the deserts 
 of Central Asia from the Caspian to the Wall of China. It is 
 a bird of immense powers of flight, ranging for thousands of 
 miles in vast flocks over the great spaces which afford it food 
 and water. In 1863 some strange migratory impulse brought 
 numerous coveys to Western Europe, and to the British Isles. 
 This year (1888) a similar impulse has brought them here in 
 much greater numbers ; and in numerous localities they are 
 supposed to be Vjreeding. Its plumage is very beautiful, closely 
 resembling the colours of the desert. The feet are very peculiar, 
 having only three toes, and these small, and glued together close 
 up to the claws. )
 
 488 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 What thought ye of that vaster plain 
 
 RippHng its thousand waves, 
 Its ships, its freight of hving men, 
 
 As wide horizons may have lain 
 Under your ranging flight 
 
 Where the great Oxus rolls her sands 
 Through quivering fields of light. 
 
 Or when from Afghan hills and rocks 
 Your arrowy course was hurled 
 
 To Ganges from the Pamir steppe, 
 The roof-tree of the world. 
 
 But never since your little feet 
 Pattered among the stones 
 
 Have ye e'er heard the ocean roar 
 Or sing its undertones. 
 
 What mystic impulse, then, has brought 
 Your pinions to our West ? 
 
 Why thought ye on our scraps of sand 
 To find a home or rest ? 
 
 Did ye but follow on the march 
 
 That changed the world's rude face. 
 
 First scattering broadcast the seeds 
 Of our great Aryan race ?
 
 ENDYMION 489 
 
 Or was it that ye longed to see, 
 Far down the setting flame, 
 
 The mighty fountains whence Aral 
 And your own Caspian came? 
 
 So may we wing our searching course. 
 
 And guide our lines of flight, 
 To the great deeps which still have left 
 
 Some little pools of light. 
 
 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL (1S88). 
 (From Good Words.) 
 
 From " ENDYMION " 
 
 Joyous all foUow'd, as the leader call'd, 
 Down marble steps ; pouring as easily 
 As hour-glass sand — and fast, as you might see 
 Swallows obeying the south summer's call, 
 Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. 
 
 KEATS.
 
 490 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE EPIC OF HADES" 
 
 I TURNED away 
 Like some white bird that leaves the flock, which 
 
 sails 
 High in mid air above the haunts of men, 
 Feeling some little dart within her breast, 
 Not death, but like to death, and slowly sinks 
 Down to the earth alone, and bears her hurt 
 Unseen, by herbless sand and bitter pool, 
 And pines until the end. 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. 
 
 From "NEW-YEAR'S EVE" 
 
 The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall 
 elm-tree, 
 
 And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 
 
 And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer 
 o'er the wave. 
 
 But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moulder- 
 ing grave. 
 
 TENNYSON.
 
 VIOLIN SONGS 491 
 
 From 
 
 "ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
 CHURCHYARD " 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
 
 The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 From "VIOLIN SONGS" 
 
 SPRING SONG. 
 
 Days of old. 
 Ye are not dead, though gone from me ; 
 
 Ye are not cold, 
 But like the summer-birds fled o'er some sea. 
 The sun brings back the swallows fast 
 
 O'er the sea : 
 When he cometh at the last, 
 The days of old come back to me. 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD.
 
 492 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "POEMS BY A PAINTER" 
 
 O'er cornfield and fallow, 
 O'er headland and shallow, 
 The white mist is trailing, 
 The sea-birds are sailing, 
 And shrieking and wailing 
 In pain. 
 
 SIR NOiiL PATON. 
 
 From "SNOW-BOUND" 
 
 We 
 
 Saw where in sheltered cove and bay 
 The duck's black squadron anchored lay, 
 And heard the wild-geese calling loud 
 Beneath the grey November cloud. 
 
 Our uncle, innocent of books, 
 Was rich in lore of fields and brooks. 
 
 Himself to Nature's heart so near 
 
 That all her voices in his ear 
 
 Of beast or bird had meaninsfs clear.
 
 THE HYMN OF WINTER 493 
 
 He told how teal and loon he shot, 
 
 And how the eagle's eggs he got, 
 
 The feats on pond and river done. 
 
 The prodigies of rod and gun ; 
 
 Till, warming with the tales he told, 
 
 Forgotten was the outside cold. 
 
 The bitter wind unheeded blew, 
 
 From ripening corn the pigeons flew, 
 
 The partridge drummed i' the wood, the mink 
 
 Went fishing down the river-brink. 
 
 WHITTIER. 
 
 From "THE HYMN OF WINTER" 
 
 Nature sleeps fast while I relax no breath : 
 
 Within the bleak grey air the very rooks 
 Wing with infrequent flight : I breathe cold death 
 Where frozen kingfishers haunt sedgy brooks 
 And where amidst the snow-clad fields the hares 
 Shiver, and skylarks with numbed pinions lie 
 Songless for ever now on alien ground : 
 x\ll that was once so joyous wanly wears 
 
 A shroud of white, and mournful melancholy 
 In silence broods and hearkens to no sound. 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP.
 
 494 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 DESOLATE 
 
 From the sad eaves the drip-drop of the rain ! 
 The water washing at the latchel door ; 
 A slow step plashing by upon the moor ! 
 A single bleat far from the famished fold ; 
 The clicking of an embered hearth and cold ; 
 The rainy Robin tic-tac at the pane. 
 
 "So as it is with thee 
 
 Is it with me, 
 
 So as it is and it used not to be, 
 
 With thee used not to be. 
 
 Nor me." 
 
 So singeth Robin on the willow tree, 
 
 The rainy Robin tic-tac at the pane. 
 
 Here in this breast all day 
 The fire is dim and low. 
 Within I care not to stay. 
 Without I care not to go. 
 A sadness ever sings 
 Of unforgotten things,
 
 TO A ROBIN RED-BREAST 495 
 
 And the bird of love is patting at the pane ; 
 But the wintry water deepens at the door, 
 And a step is plashing by upon the moor 
 Into the dark upon the darkening moor, 
 And alas, alas, the drip-drop of the rain ! 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL. 
 
 TO A ROBIN RED-BREAST SINGING 
 IN WINTER 
 
 Oh light of heart and wing, 
 Light-hearted and light-winged, that dost cheer 
 With song of sprightliest note the waning year, 
 
 Thou canst so blithely sing, 
 That we must only chide our own dull heart. 
 If in thy music we can bear no part. 
 
 Thy haunts are winter-bare. 
 The leaves in which thou didst so lately keep 
 Are being trodden to a miry heap ; 
 
 But thou art void of care. 
 And singest not the less, or rather thou 
 Hast kept thy best and boldest notes till now
 
 496 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Thou art so bold to sing 
 Thy sweetest music in the saddest hour, 
 Because thy trust is in the love and power, 
 
 Which can bring back the spring, 
 Which can array the naked groves again, 
 And paint with seasonable flowers the plain. 
 
 But we are merely sad, 
 When as for us this earthly life has shed 
 The leaves that once arrayed it ; and instead 
 
 Of rich boughs, foliage-clad, 
 A few bare sticks and twigs stand nakedly, 
 Fronting against the cold and angry sky. 
 
 Yet would we only see 
 That hope and joy, the growth of lower earth, 
 Fall from us, that another truer birth 
 
 Of the same things may be ; 
 I'hat the new buds are travelling up behind, 
 Though hid as yet beneath the naked rind, 
 
 We should not then resign 
 All gladness, when spring promises depart. 
 But 'mid our wintriest bareness should find heart 
 
 To join our songs with thine, 
 Strong to fulfil, in spirit and in voice, 
 That hardest of all precepts — to rejoice. 
 
 RICHARD CHEVENIX TRENCH.
 
 WINTER 497 
 
 From "THE WINTER WALK AT NOON" 
 
 No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 
 The redbreast warbles still, but is content 
 With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd; 
 Pleas'd with his solitude, and flitting light 
 From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes 
 From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, 
 That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. 
 Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft. 
 Charms more than silence. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 From "WINTER" 
 
 How large that thrush looks on the bare thorn- 
 tree ! 
 A swarm of such, three little months ago, 
 Had hidden in the leaves and let none know 
 
 Save by the outburst of their minstrelsy. 
 
 A white flake here and there — a snow-lily 
 
 /
 
 498 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 Of last night's frost — our naked flower-beds 
 
 hold; 
 And for a rose-flower on the darkling mould 
 The hungry redbreast gleams. No bloom, no bee. 
 
 D. G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 From "WINTER" 
 
 The soil, that erst so seemly was to seen, 
 
 Was all despoiled of her beauty's hue ; 
 
 And soot ^ fresh flowers, wherewith the Summer's 
 queen 
 
 Had clad the earth, now Boreas' blasts down blew; 
 
 And small fowls flocking, in their song did rue 
 The winter's wrath, wherewith each thing defac'd 
 In woeful wise bewail'd the summer past. 
 
 LORD EUCKHURST. 
 
 From "THE SNOWDROP IN THE SNOW" 
 
 To silent woods stark famished winds have driven 
 The last lean robin — gibbering winds of fear ! 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL. 
 1 Sweet.
 
 LOVE S LABOUR S LOST 499 
 
 From "LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST" 
 
 ACT V. SCENE H. / 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Winter. When icicles hang by the wall, 
 
 And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, 
 And Tom bears logs into the hall, 
 
 And milk comes frozen home in pail, 
 When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul. 
 Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
 
 To-who ; 
 To-whit, to-who, a merry note, 
 While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 
 
 When all aloud the wind doth blow. 
 
 And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 
 And birds sit brooding in the snow, 
 
 And Marian's nose looks red and raw. 
 When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, 
 Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
 
 To-who ; 
 To-whit, to-who, a merry note, 
 AVhile greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE.
 
 500 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 THE TITMOUSE 
 
 You shall not be overbold 
 When you deal with arctic cold, 
 As late I found my lukewarm blood 
 Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood. 
 How should I fight ? my foeman fine 
 Has million arms to one of mine : 
 East, west, for aid I looked in vain, 
 East, west, north, south, are his domain. 
 Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home ; 
 Must borrow his winds who there would 
 
 come. 
 Up and away for life ! be fleet ! — 
 The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, 
 Sings in my ears, my hands are stones, 
 Curdles the blood to the marble bones, 
 Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense, 
 And hems in life with narrowing fence. 
 Well in this broad bed lie and sleep, — 
 The punctual stars will vigil keep, — 
 Embalmed by purifying cold ; 
 The winds shall sing their dead-march old,
 
 THE TITMOUSE 50I 
 
 The snow is no ignoble shroud, 
 
 The moon thy mourner, and the cloud. 
 
 Softly, — but this way fate was pointing, 
 'Twas coming fast to such anointing, 
 When piped a tiny voice hard by, 
 Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, 
 Chic-chicadeedee I saucy note 
 Out of sound heart and merry throat, 
 As if it said, " Good day, good sir ! 
 Fine afternoon, old passenger ! 
 Happy to meet you in these places. 
 Where January brings few faces." 
 
 This poet, though he lived apart, 
 Moved by his hospitable heart, 
 Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort. 
 To do the honours of his court. 
 As fits a feathered lord of land ; 
 Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, 
 Hopped on the bough then, darting low. 
 Prints his small impress on the snow. 
 Shows feats of his gymnastic play. 
 Head downward, clinging to the spray. 
 
 Here was this atom in full breath, 
 Hurling defiance at vast death ;
 
 502 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 This scrap of valour just for play 
 Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat grey, 
 As if to shame my weak behaviour ; 
 I greeted loud my little saviour, 
 You pet ! what dost here ? and what for ? 
 In these woods, thy small Labrador, 
 At this pinch wee San Salvador ! 
 What fire burns in that little chest 
 So frolic, stout, and self-possest ? 
 
 Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine ; 
 
 Ashes and jet all hues outshine. 
 
 Why are not diamonds black and grey, 
 
 To ape thy dare-devil array ? 
 
 And I affirm, the spacious North 
 
 Exists to draw thy virtue forth. 
 
 I think no virtue goes with size ; 
 
 The reason of all cowardice 
 
 Is, that men are overgrown. 
 
 And, to be valiant, must come down 
 
 To the titmouse dimension." 
 
 'Tis good-will makes intelligence, 
 And I began to catch the sense 
 Of my bird's song : " Live out of doors 
 In the great woods, on prairie floors. 
 I dine in the sun ; when he sinks in the sea, 
 I too have a hole in a hollow tree ;
 
 THE TITMOUSE 503 
 
 And I like less when Summer beats 
 With stifling beams on these retreats, 
 Than noontide twilights which snow makes 
 With tempest of the blinding flakes. 
 For well the soul, if stout within. 
 Can arm impregnably the skin ; 
 And polar frost my frame defied, 
 Made of the air that blows outside." 
 
 With glad remembrance of my debt, 
 I homeward turn ; farewell, my pet ! 
 When here again thy pilgrim comes. 
 He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs. 
 Doubt not, so long as earth has bread. 
 Thou first and foremost shalt be fed ; 
 The Providence that is most large 
 Takes hearts like thine in special charge. 
 Helps who for their own need are strong. 
 And the sky doats on cheerful song. 
 Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant 
 O'er all that mass and minster vaunt ; 
 For men mis-hear thy call in Spring, 
 As 'twould accost some frivolous wing. 
 Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be ! 
 And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee ! 
 I think old Caesar must have heard 
 In northern Gaul my dauntless bird,
 
 504 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 And, echoed in some frosty wold, 
 Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold. 
 And I will write our annals new, 
 And thank thee for a better clew, 
 I, who dreamed not when I came here. 
 To find the antidote of fear, 
 Now hear thee say in Roman key, 
 Fcean ! Veni, vidi, vici. 
 
 EMERSON. 
 
 From 
 "SONGS OF THE WINTER NIGHTS" 
 
 In the white garden lies a heap 
 As brown as deep-dug mould : 
 
 A hundred partridges that keep 
 Each other from the cold. 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD. 
 
 \
 
 A WINTER NIGHT 505 
 
 From "A WINTER NIGHT" 
 
 When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
 Sharp shivers through the leafless bower ; 
 When Phoebus gi'es a short-lived glower 
 
 Far south the lift.^ 
 Dim darkening through the flaky shower, 
 
 Or whirling drift : 
 
 Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
 That, in the merry months o' sjDring, 
 Delighted me to hear thee sing. 
 
 What comes o' thee ? 
 Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wins 
 
 An' close thy e'e ? 
 
 I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 
 
 Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
 And hailed the morning with a cheer, 
 
 A cottage-rousing craw. 
 
 RURNS. 
 1 Skv.
 
 506 BARDS AND THE BIRDS 
 
 From "THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER 
 FAIRIES" 
 
 " Wherefore, great Kmg of Years ^ as thou dost love 
 
 The raining music from a morning cloud, 
 
 When vanished larks are carolling above. 
 
 To wake Apollo with their pipings loud ; — 
 
 If ever thou hast heard in leafy shroud 
 
 The sweet and plaintive Sappho of the dell. 
 
 Show thy sweet mercy on this little crowd, 
 
 And we will muffle tip the sheepfold bell 
 
 Whene'er thou lislenest to Philomel.'^ 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 / 
 
 From "QUEEN MAB " 
 
 No longer now the winged habitants 
 That in the woods their sweet lives sing away 
 Fleefrojn the form of f/iait ; but gather round. 
 And prune their sunny feathers on the hands 
 Which little children stretch in friendly sport 
 Towards these dreadless partners of their play.
 
 INDEX
 
 ^ 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS' NAMES 
 
 PAGES 
 
 Anderson, Alexander (" Surfaceman ") . . 107,263 
 
 {By permission of the Author.) 
 Anonymous ......... 135 
 
 Argyll, The Duke of. ...... 291, 487 
 
 [By permission of the Author, and of the 
 Editor of ' ' Good I Vords. ") 
 Aristophanes — Frere ..... 14, 15, 328, 431 
 
 Arnold, Sir Edwin . . .38, 43, 165, 230, 372, 374, 416 
 Austin, Alfred ....... 70, 141, 395 
 
 [Bv pennissio7i of the Author, a?id of Afessrs. 
 Macmillan e^ Co. ) 
 .'\uthor of " John Halifa.x, Gentleman " . 119, 289, 296, 472 
 {By permissio7i of Geon^e Lillie Craik, Esq.) 
 
 Ballads, Old ... 50, 152, 199, 313, 440, 443 
 Blackie, John Stuart . . . . .114, 204, 454 
 
 {By permission of the Author, and of Messrs. 
 Macmillan fir' Co.) 
 
 Blake ti8 
 
 Breton .......... 453 
 
 Browning . . -25, 46, 61, 70, 132, 154, 156, 157, 161, 
 173, 179, 222, 223, 230, 271, 305, 310, 
 
 315. 319. 391. 424. 455. 477. 483 
 {By permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder ^ Co.) 
 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett . 8, 9, 18, 20, 23, 45, 171, 
 
 183, 194, 216, 226, 2S7, 
 322, 323, 355, 481 
 {By permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder b' Co.) 
 
 Bryant, \\'illiam Cullen ....... T02 
 
 509
 
 5IO INDEX OF authors' NAMES 
 
 PAGES 
 
 Buckhurst, Lord ........ 498 
 
 Burn, Nicol ......... 266 
 
 Burns . 7, 48, 159, 235, 249, 265, 372, 419, 458, 469, 505 
 
 Butler, Frances Anne ....... 351 
 
 [By permission of Messrs. Richard Bentley dy Son.) 
 Byron 297, 309, 358, 448 
 
 Campbell 122, 286, 311 
 
 Chatterton ......... 376 
 
 Chaucer 40, 77, 144, 450 
 
 Chaucerian Period ..... 79, 81, 83, 86, 115 
 
 Clough ........ 207, 318, 320 
 
 {By permission 0/ Messrs. Macmillan b" Co.) 
 Coleridge, S. T. . . . .228, 264, 267, 270, 277, 351 
 
 Columba, St. ........ . 285 
 
 Cowper ..... 149, 406, 410, 443, 451, 497 
 
 Crabbe 109, 183, 285, 389, 481 
 
 DoBELL, Sydney 169, 193, 224, 269, 303, 339, 475, 494, 498 
 
 {By permission of Mrs. Sydney Dobell.) 
 Douglas, Gawain ........ 98 
 
 Drummond ......... 378 
 
 Dunbar ......... 90, 96 
 
 Eliot, George 75, 216, 307, 466 
 
 {By permission of Messrs. William Black- 
 wood Sx" Sons. ) 
 Emerson ......... 135, 500 
 
 Field, Mich.\el 481 
 
 {By perinission of the Author, and of the Editor 
 of" The Contemporary Re'Jtew.") 
 
 G.'\SCOIGNE, G. 423 
 
 Gay, John ......... 264 
 
 Goldsmith ......... 429 
 
 Gray 63, '341, 491
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS NAMES 51I 
 
 Harte, Bret . 
 Hemans, Mrs. . 
 Herbert, George 
 Herrick, Robert 
 Heywood . 
 Hogg 
 Hood 
 Hunt, Leigh 
 
 PA(iES- 
 
 • 273 
 42, 209, 467, 485 
 
 60, 307 
 
 • 203 
 
 ■ 55 
 
 54, 260, 268, 294, 327, 344, 430 
 
 26, 170, 261, 408, 428, 506 
 
 57, 76, 205, 346 
 
 iNGELow, Jean 
 
 112, 121, 155, 160, 474 
 
 [By permission of the Author, and of Messrs. 
 Longmans, Green er" Co. ) 
 Ingoldsby, Thomas (R. H. Barham) 
 
 400 
 
 James I. of Scotland ...... i8g, 190 
 
 Jonson, Ben ......... 58 
 
 Keats .... 27, 162, 215, 220, 221, 226, 237, 
 
 268, 364, 368, 377, 379, 489 
 Kingsley, Charles ...... 116, 281, 473 
 
 (By permission of Messrs. Macmillan b' Co.) 
 
 Longfellow . . . . 5, 10, 182, 194, 234, 278, 292, 
 
 320, 346, 374, 388, 425, 483 
 Lowell .... viii, 16, 17, 153, 182, 186, 247, 387 
 
 Lyly, John ......... 139 
 
 Lytton, Robert, Earl of . . . . 24, 127, 133, 321 
 
 [By permission of Lady Lytton, and of Messrs. 
 Longtnans , Green &" Co. ) 
 
 MacDonald, George .... 227, 248, 491, 504 
 
 [By permission of the Author, and of Messrs. 
 
 Chatto &= Wind IIS. ) 
 
 Mackay, Eric .... 29, 134, 251, 262, 377, 471 
 
 {By permission of the Author. " The Quelitztl " /']■ 
 
 permission of the Editor of " The Athenczum.") 
 
 Marston, Philip Bourke 36, 187, 356 
 
 [By permission of Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton.)
 
 512 INDEX OF AUTHORS NAMES 
 
 PAGES 
 
 Massey, Gerald ........ i86, 215 
 
 [By permission of the Author, and of Messrs. Kegan 
 Paul, Trench, Triibner Ss' Co.) 
 Miller, Joaquin ........ 122 
 
 Milton 3, 60, 347, 348, 349, 387 
 
 Moir, David Macbeth 44 
 
 [By permission of Messrs. WiUiain Blacktvood 6^ Sons.) 
 Montgomery, James ........ 446 
 
 Moore .... 124, 209, 212, 229, 274, 275, 316, 
 
 317. 319. 360, 361, 380, 468 
 
 Morris, Lewis . . . 42, 114, 180, 340, 470, 477, 490 
 
 [By permission of the Author, and of Messrs. Kegan 
 
 Paul, Trench, Trubner &= Co.) 
 
 Morris, \^^illiam . . 41, 127, 208, 221, 222, 225, 233, 
 
 274, 286, 340, 356, 379, 380, 388 
 
 [By permission of the Author, and of Messrs. 
 
 Reeves er" Turner.) 
 
 Nash 138 
 
 OSSIAN 228 
 
 Paton, Sir NoKL . . .39. 46. 52. 324. 345. 346, 492 
 [By permission of the Author.) 
 
 Poe, Edgar Allan 411 
 
 Pope 459, 460, 468 
 
 Praed, W. M 28, 218, 329 
 
 Procter, Adelaide Anne ...... 478, 480 
 
 [By permission of Messrs. George Bell ^ Sons.) 
 
 Ramsay, All.an 200 
 
 Rogers 123, 203, 208 
 
 Rossetti, Christina G. . . 19, 64, 152, 217, 332, 381, 382 
 
 [By permission of the Author, and of Messrs. 
 
 Macmillan b" Co.) 
 
 Rossetti, D. G 35, 225, 330, 465, 470, 497 
 
 [By permission of Messrs. Ellis b' Elvey.)
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS NAMES 513 
 
 PAGES 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter . 184, 276, 302, 304, 318, 452, 459 
 
 Shairp, J. C iti, 301 
 
 {By permission of Messrs. Macmillan &= Co ) 
 Shakespeare . 40, 48, 49, 50, 62, 112, 140, 161, 174, 184, 
 
 185, 305. 306, 312, 370, 371, 375, 411, 
 414, 415, 424, 445, 456, 461, 480, 499 
 Sharp, William ... 47, 205, 218, 313, 369, 493 
 
 {By permission of the Author.) 
 Shelley 188, 234, 254, 308, 309, 323, 
 
 343. 344. 383. 417. 506 
 Sidney, Sir Philip ........ 354 
 
 Simcox, G. A. . . . . . . . . . 421 
 
 [By permissioti of the Author.) 
 
 Smith, Walter C. . . 70, 242, 243, 265, 293, 324, 390 
 
 [By permission of the Author, a?id of Messrs. 
 
 MacLehose &' Sons. ) 
 
 Southey 62, 237, 304, 335, 362, 363, 
 
 376, 426, 452, 453, 456 
 Spenser .... 53, 137, 415, 418, 419, 435, 455 
 
 Stevenson, Robert Louis ..... 163, 271, 272 
 [By permission of C. Ba.vter, Esq , and of Messrs. 
 Longmans, Green er* Co. ) 
 Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of ... . 69, 76 
 Swinburne • . ' . . . 46, 58, 133, 175, 239, 242, 
 
 275, 276, 282, 283, 295 
 [By permission of the Author, and of Messrs. 
 Chat to &^ ll'indus.) 
 
 Tennyson .... 45, 51, 69, 115, 167, 173, 
 ^ 2Tt7, 244, 327, 380, 490 
 
 ^ {By permission of Messrs. Macmillan b' Co.) 
 
 Thomson, James 195, 341 
 
 [By permission of Messrs. Reeves i£r* Turner.) 
 
 Thring, Edward ■ .' 238 
 
 {By permission of the Misses Thring.) 
 
 Trench, Richard Chevenix . . . 20, 433, 466, 495 
 
 {By permission of Messrs. Kegan Paul., Trench, 
 
 Triibner b^ Co. ) 
 
 2 K
 
 514 INDEX OF AUTHORS NAMES 
 
 PAGES 
 
 Whitman, Walt 125, 167, 280 
 
 Whittier 306, 427, 479, 492 
 
 Wilton, Richard 59 
 
 [By permission of the Author.) 
 
 Woollier, Thomas 38, 45, 284 
 
 [By permission of Messrs. Cassell Zr Co.) 
 Wordsworth ... 61, loi, 109, 159, 250, 325, 350 
 
 (?) -• . . 117 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by BallantYNE, HANSON & CO. 
 Edinbitygh and London
 
 DATE DUE 
 
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 ^ / 1978 
 
 
 
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