The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 50

THE HAWKBIT

How sweetly on the autumn scene, When haws are red amid the green, The hawkbit s.h.i.+nes with face of cheer, The favorite of the faltering year!

When days grow short and nights grow cold, How fairly gleams its eye of gold On pastured field and gra.s.sy hill, Along the roadside and the rill!

It seems the spirit of a flower, This offspring of the autumn hour, Wandering back to earth to bring Some kindly afterthought of spring.

A dandelion's ghost might so Amid Elysian meadows blow, Become more fragile and more fine Breathing the atmosphere divine.

Charles G. D. Roberts [1860-

THE HERON

O melancholy bird, a winter's day Thou standest by the margin of the pool, And, taught by G.o.d, dost thy whole being school To Patience, which all evil can allay.

G.o.d has appointed thee the Fish thy prey; And given thyself a lesson to the Fool Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.

There need not schools, nor the Professor's chair, Though these be good, true wisdom to impart; He, who has not enough for these to spare Of time, or gold, may yet amend his heart, And teach his soul, by brooks and rivers fair: Nature is always wise in every part.

Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829]

THE JACKDAW

There is a bird, who by his coat, And by the hoa.r.s.eness of his note, Might be supposed a crow; A great frequenter of the church, Where bishop-like he finds a perch, And dormitory too.

Above the steeple s.h.i.+nes 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 thence securely sees The bustle and the raree-show, That occupy mankind below, Secure and at his ease.

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 medley rout, Church, army, physic, law, Its customs, and its businesses 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.

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, by William Cowper [1731-1800]

THE GREEN LINNET

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest suns.h.i.+ne round me spread Of Spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And flowers and birds once more to greet, My last year's friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest: Hail to Thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion!

Thou, Linnet! in thy green array Presiding Spirit here to-day Dost lead the revels of the May, And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and b.u.t.terflies, and flowers Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment; A Life, a Presence like the air, Scattering thy gladness without care, Too blest with any one to pair, Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Behold him perched in ecstasies, Yet seeming still to hover; There! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings, That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives-- A Brother of the dancing leaves; Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves Pours forth his song in gushes, As if by that exulting strain He mocked and treated with disdain The voiceless Form he chose to feign While fluttering in the bushes.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO THE MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD

Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm, Waking renewed 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 sh.o.r.e with wrecks, With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene, The rosy and elastic dawn, the flas.h.i.+ng sun, The limpid spread of air cerulean, Thou also re-appearest.

Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,) To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane, Thou s.h.i.+p of air that never furl'st thy sails, Days, even weeks untired and onward, through s.p.a.ces, realms gyrating, 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, hadst thou my soul, What joys! what joys were thine!

Walt Whitman [1819-1892]

THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT

When May bedecks the naked trees With ta.s.sels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream, I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, "Witchery--witchery--witchery."

An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene: There's magic in that small bird's note-- See, there he flits--the Yellow-throat; A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that s.h.i.+nes and sings "Witchery--witchery--witchery."

You prophet with a pleasant name, If out of Mary-land you came, You know the way that thither goes Where Mary's lovely garden grows: Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, And try, to call her down this way, "Witchery--witchery--witchery!"

Tell her to leave her c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.ls, And all her little silver bells That blossom into melody, And all her maids less fair than she.

She does not need these pretty things, For everywhere she comes, she brings "Witchery--witchery--witchery!"

The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed; The waters babble as they run-- One thing is lacking, only one: If Mary were but here to-day, I would believe your charming lay, "Witchery--witchery--witchery!"

Along the shady road I look-- Who's coming now across the brook?

A woodland maid, all robed in white-- The leaves dance round her with delight, The stream laughs out beneath her feet-- Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete, "Witchery--witchery--witchery!"

Henry Van d.y.k.e [1852-1933]

LAMENT OF A MOCKING-BIRD