Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct,
The merry mocking-bird together links
In one continued song their different notes,
Adding new life and sweetness to them all.
Hid under shrubs, the squirrel, that in fields
Frequents the stony wall and briery fence,
Here chirps so shrill, that human feet approach
Unheard till just upon him, when, with cries
Sudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat,
Beneath the mossy hillock or aged tree;
But oft, a moment after reappears,
First peeping out, then starting forth at once
With a courageous air, yet in his pranks
Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far
Till left unheeded.
THE SUDDEN COMING ON OF SPRING AFTER LONG RAINS.
THE spring, made dreary by incessant rain,
Was well-nigh gone, and not a glimpse appeared
Of vernal loveliness, but light green turf
Round the deep bubbling fountain in the vale,
Or by the rivulet on the hill side, near
Its cultivated base, fronting the south,
Where, in the first warm rays of March, it sprung
Amid dissolving snow:-save these mere specks
Of earliest verdure, with a few pale flowers,
In other years bright blowing soon as earth
Unveils her face, and a faint vermeil tinge.
On clumps of maple of the softer kind,
Was nothing visible to give to May,
Though far advanced, an aspect more like hers
Than like November's universal gloom.
All day, beneath the sheltering hovel, stood
The drooping herd, or lingered near to ask
The food of winter. A few lonely birds,
Of those that in this northern clime remain
Throughout the year, and in the dawn of spring,
At pleasant noon, from their unknown retreat,
Come suddenly to view with lively notes,
Or those who soonest to this clime return
From warmer regions, in thick groves were seen,
But with their feathers ruffled and despoiled
Of all their glossy lustre, sitting mute,
Or only skipping, with a single chirp,
In quest of food. Whene'er the heavy clouds,
That half way o'er the mountain-side oft hung,
As if o'erloaded with their watery store,
Were parted, though with motion unobserved,
Through their dark opening, white with snow appeared
Its lowest, e'en its cultivated peaks;
With sinking heart the husbandmen surveyed
The melancholy scene, and much his fears
On famine dwelt; when, suddenly awaked
At the first glimpse of daylight, by the sound,
Long time unheard, of cheerful martins, near
His window, round their dwelling chirping quick,
With spirits by hope enlivened, up he sprang
To look abroad, and to his joy beheld
A sky without the remnant of a cloud.
From gloom to gaiety and beauty bright
So rapid now the universal change,
The rude survey it with delight refined,
And e'en the thoughtless talk of thanks devout.
Long, swollen in drenching, seeds, and germs, and buds,
Start at the touch of vivifying beams;
Moved by their secret force, the vital lymph
Diffusive runs, and spreads o'er wood and field
A flood of verdure; clothed in one short week,
Is naked Nature in her full attire.
On the first morn, light as an open plain
Is all the woodland, filled with sunbeams, poured
Through the bare tops, on yellow leaves below,
With strong reflexion; on the last, 'tis dark
With full-grown foliage, shading all within,
In one short week, the orchard buds and blooms;
And now, when steeped in dew or gentle showers,
It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze,
Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes.
E'en from the juicy leaves of sudden growth,
And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air,
Filled with a watery glimmering, receives
A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays.
Each day are heard, and almost every hour,
New notes to swell the music of the groves.
And soon the latest of the feathered tribe
At evening twilight come:-the lonely snipe,
O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air,
Invisible, but with faint, tremulous tones,
Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head:-
And, in mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen
Flying awhile at random, uttering oft
A cheerful cry, attended with a shake
Of level pinions, dark, but when upturned
Against the brightness of the western sky,
One white plume showing in the midst of each,
Then far down diving with loud hollow sound;
And, deep at first within the distant wood,
The whip-poor-will', her name her only song.
She soon as children from the noisy sport
Of hooping, laughing, talking with all tones,
To hear the echoes of the empty barn,
Are by her voice diverted, and held mute,
Comes to the margin of the nearest grove;
And when the twilight deepened into night,
Calls them within, close to the house she comes,
And on its dark side, haply on the step
Of unfrequented door, lighting unseen,
Breaks into strains articulate and clear,
The closing sometimes quickened as in sport.
Now, animate throughout from morn to eve,
All harmony, activity, and joy,
Is lovely Nature, as in her blest prime.
The robin to the garden, or green yard,
Close to the door repairs to build again
Within her wonted tree; and at her work
Seems doubly busy for her past delay.
Along the surface of the winding stream,
Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim;
Or round the borders of the spacious lawn
Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er
Hillock and fence, with motion serpentine,
Easy and light. One snatches from the ground
A downy feather, and then upward springs,
Followed by others, but oft drops it soon,
In playful mood, or from too slight a hold,
When all at once dart at the falling prize.
The flippant blackbird, with light-yellow crown,
Hangs fluttering in the air, and chatters thick
Till her breath fail, when breaking off, she drops
On the next tree, and on its highest limb,
Or some tall flag, and, gently rocking, sits,
Her strain repeating.
1 A common American bird, whose notes have some resemblance to these words.
Is the best, though not the most popular, of the American poets. He is equally excellent in the bold delineation of external scenery, and in painting human passion, affection, and sentiment. A rich vein of religious philosophy runs through all his verses: he displays a vigorous fancy and deep pathos of feeling, that can rarely be paralleled in modern literature.
Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, love?
And doth death cancel the great bond that holds
Commingling spirits! Are thoughts that know no bounds
But self-inspired, rise upward, searching out
The Eternal mind-The Father of all thought-
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb?
Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms
Of uncreate light, have visited and lived?
Lived in the dreadful splendour of that throne,
Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh
Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed
In glory?-throne, before which, even now
Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down
Rejoicing, yet at their own natures, awed?
Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense,
Thou awful, unseen Presence-are they quenched,
Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes
By that bright day which ends not; as the sun
His robe of light flings round the glittering stars?
And with our frames do perish all our loves?
Do those that take their root, and put forth buds,
And their soft leaves, unfolded in the warmth
Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty,
Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers?
Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech,
And make it send forth living harmonies,-
That to the cheek do give its living glow,
And vision in the eye the soul intense
With that for which there is no utterance-
Are these the body's accidents?-no more?
To live in it, and, when that dies, go out
Like the burnt taper's flame?
Oh! listen, man!
A voice within us speaks that startling word,
"Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices
Hymn it unto our souls; according harps,
By angel-fingers touched, when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality;
Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain,
The tall dark mountains, and the deep toned seas,
Join in this solemn universal song.
Oh! listen ye, our spirits! drink it in
From all the air! Tis in the gentle moonlight!
'Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories; Night
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears:
Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,
As one vast mystic instrument, are touched
By an unseen living Hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.
The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.
THE BUCCANEER.
THE island lies nine leagues away,
Along its solitary shore,
Of craggy rock and sandy bay,
No sound but ocean's roar,
Save where the bold wild sea-bird makes her home,
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.
But when the light winds lie at rest,
And on the glassy heaving sea,
The black duck with her glossy breast,
Sits swinging silently;
How beautiful! no ripples break the reach,
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.
And inland rests the green, warm dell;
The brook comes tinkling down its side;
From out the trees the Sabbath bell
Rings cheerful far and wide,
Mingling it sounds with bleatings of the flocks
That feed about the vale amongst the rocks.
Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat,
In former days within the vale;
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet;
Curses were on the gale;
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