Brighter plumes may greet the sun
By the banks of Amazon;

Sweeter tones may weave the spell
Of enchanting Philomel;

But the tropic bird would fail,
And the English nightingale,
If we should compare their worth
With thine endless, gushing mirth.

When the ides of May are past,
June and Summer nearing fast,
While from depths of blue above
Comes the mighty breath of love,
Calling out each bud and flower
With resistless, secret power,
Waking hope and fond desire,
Kindling the erotic fire,

Filling youths' and maidens' dreams

With mysterious, pleasing themes;
Then, amid the sunlight clear

Floating in the fragrant air,

Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure

By thy glad ecstatic measure.

A single note, so sweet and low,
Like a full heart's overflow,

Forms the prelude; but the strain

Gives no such tone again,

For the wild and saucy song

Leaps and skips the notes among,

With such quick and sportive play,
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay.

Gayest songster of the Spring!
Thy melodies before me bring
Visions of some dream-built land,
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned,
I might walk the livelong day,
Embosomed in perpetual May.
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows;
For thee a tempest never blows;

My Catbird

But when our northern Summer's o'er,
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore
The wild rice lifts its airy head,
And royal feasts for thee are spread.
And when the Winter threatens there,
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear.
But bear thee to more southern coasts,
Far beyond the reach of frosts.

Bobolink! still may thy gladness
Take from me all taint of sadness;
Fill my soul with trust unshaken
In that Being who has taken
Care for every living thing,

In Summer, Winter, Fall, and Spring.

1485

Thomas Hill [1818-1891]

MY CATBIRD

A CAPRICCIO

NIGHTINGALE I never heard,

Nor skylark, poet's bird;
But there is an æther-winger
So surpasses every singer,

(Though unknown to lyric fame,)

That at morning, or at nooning,

When I hear his pipe a-tuning,

Down I fling Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth,

What are all their songs of birds worth?

All their soaring

Souls' outpouring?

When my Mimus Carolinensis,

(That's his Latin name,)

When my warbler wild commences

Song's hilarious rhapsody,

Just to please himself and me!

Primo Cantante!

Scherzo! Andante!

Piano, pianissimo!

Presto, prestissimo!

Hark! are there nine birds or ninety and nine?
And now a miraculous gurgling gushes
Like nectar from Hebe's Olympian bottle,
The laughter of tune from a rapturous throttle!
Such melody must be a hermit-thrush's!
But that other caroler, nearer,
Outrivaling rivalry with clearer
Sweetness incredibly fine!

Is it oriole, redbird, or bluebird,

Or some strange, un-Auduboned new bird?
All one, sir, both this bird and that bird,
The whole flight are all the same catbird!
The whole visible and invisible choir you see
On one lithe twig of yon green tree.
Flitting, feathery Blondel!

Listen to his rondel!

To his lay romantical!

To his sacred canticle!

Hear him lilting,

See him tilting

His saucy head and tail, and fluttering
While uttering

All the difficult operas under the sun

Just for fun;

Or in tipsy revelry,

Or at love devilry,

Or, disdaining his divine gift and art,

Like an inimitable poet

Who captivates the world's heart

And don't know it.

Hear him lilt!

See him tilt!

Then suddenly he stops,

Peers about, flirts, hops,

As if looking where he might gather up

The wasted ecstasy just spilt

From the quivering cup

Of his bliss overrun.

Then, as in mockery of all

The tuneful spells that e'er did fall

The Herald Crane

From vocal pipe, or evermore shall rise,

He snarls, and mews, and flies.

William Henry Venable [1836

THE HERALD CRANE

OH! say you so, bold sailor

In the sun-lit deeps of sky!

Dost thou so soon the seed-time tell
In thy imperial cry,

As circling in yon shoreless sea

Thine unseen form goes drifting by?

I cannot trace in the noon-day glare
Thy regal flight, O crane!

From the leaping might of the fiery light
Mine eyes recoil in pain,

But on mine ear, thine echoing cry

Falls like a bugle strain.

The mellow soil glows beneath my feet,

Where lies the buried grain;

The warm light floods the length and breadth
Of the vast, dim, shimmering plain,
Throbbing with heat and the nameless thrill
Of the birth-time's restless pain.

On weary wing, plebeian geese
Push on their arrowy line

Straight into the north, or snowy brant
In dazzling sunshine, gloom and shine;

But thou, O crane, save for thy sovereign cry,
At thy majestic height

On proud, extended wings sweep'st on

In lonely, easeful flight.

Then cry, thou martial-throated herald!

Cry to the sun, and

sweep

And swing along thy mateless, tireless course

Above the clouds that sleep

1487

Afloat on lazy air-cry on! Send down
Thy trumpet note-it seems

The voice of hope and dauntless will,
And breaks the spell of dreams.

Hamlin Garland [1860–

THE CROW

WITH rakish eye and plenished crop,
Oblivious of the farmer's gun,

Upon the naked ash-tree top

The Crow sits basking in the sun.

An old ungodly rogue, I wot!

For, perched in black against the blue, His feathers, torn with beak and shot, Let woeful glints of April through.

The year's new grass, and, golden-eyed,
The daisies sparkle underneath,
And chestnut-trees on either side
Have opened every ruddy sheath.

But doubtful still of frost and snow,
The ash alone stands stark and bare,
And on its topmost twig the Crow
Takes the glad morning's sun and air.
William Canton [1845-

TO THE CUCKOO

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome ring.

What time the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year?