« 이전계속 »
Calling to his bird-mate,
Wake the mavis and the merle;
Wakes the jay with ruddy breast, Wakes the mother ring-dove, Brooding on her nest!
Oh, the sunny summer time!
When the year is in its prime!
Some love day, and some love night, But whate'er a bird is,
Whate'er loves-it has delight
In the joyous song it sings,
In the liquid air it cleaves,
Do we wake, or do we sleep,
Sing and soar up from the hill!
Sing, O nightingale, and pour
We will sing of you!
THE THRUSH'S NEST.
WITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound With joy-and oft, an unintruding guest,
I watched her secret toils from day to day; How true she warped the moss to form her nest, And modelled it within with wood and clay. And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue;
And there I witnessed, in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.
TO THE RED-BREAST.
WHEN that the fields put on their gay attire,
And meads with slime are sprent and ways with mire,
Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch The pittance due to thy well-warbled song;
Sweet bird, sing on! for oft near lonely hatch, Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng, And oft for entrance, 'neath the peaceful thatch, Full many a tale have told and ditty long.
HAPPY insect, what can be
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Dost neither age nor winter know;
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among
Sated with thy summer feast,
THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.
With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass!
O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song—
In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth.
TO A BEE.
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.
THE poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead. That is the Grasshopper's-he takes the lead
In summer luxury-he has never done
With his delights; for, when tired out with fan,
TO A BEE.
THOU wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee!