VI.

ANIMATE NATURE.

THE FIRST BLUE-BIRD.

JEST rain and snow! and rain again!

And dribble! drip! and blow!

Then snow! and thaw! and slush! and thenSome more rain and snow!

This morning I was 'most afeard
To wake up-when, I jing!

I seen the sun shine out and heerd
The first blue-bird of Spring!-

Mother she 'd raised the winder some;-
And in acrost the orchard come,

Soft as an angel's wing,

A breezy, treesy, beesy hum,

Too sweet for any thing!

The winter's shroud was rent apart-
The sun bust forth in glee,—
And when that blue-bird sung, my hart
Hopped out o' bed with me!

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

66

BIRDS.

FROM THE PELICAN ISLAND."

-BIRDS, the free tenants of land, air, and ocean,
Their forms all symmetry, their motions grace;
In plumage, delicate and beautiful,

Thick without burden, close as fishes' scales,
Or loose as full-grown poppies to the breeze;
With wings that might have had a soul within

them,

They bore their owners by such sweet enchantment,

-Birds, small and great, of endless shapes and colors,

Here flew and perched, there swam and dived at pleasure;

Watchful and agile, uttering voices wild

And harsh, yet in accordance with the waves
Upon the beach, the wind in caverns moaning,
Or winds and waves abroad upon the water.
Some sought their food among the finny shoals,
Swift darting from the clouds, emerging soon
With slender captives glittering in their beaks;
These in recesses of steep crags constructed
Their eyries inaccessible, and trained

Their hardy broods to forage in all weathers:
Others, more gorgeously apparelled, dwelt
Among the woods, on nature's daintiest feeding,
Herbs, seeds, and roots; or, ever on the wing,
Pursuing insects through the boundless air:
In hollow trees or thickets these concealed

Their exquisitely woven nests; where lay
Their callow offspring, quiet as the down

On their own breasts, till from her search the dam

With laden bill returned, and shared the meal
Among her clamorous suppliants, all agape;
Then, cowering o'er them with expanded wings,
She felt how sweet it is to be a mother.
Of these, a few, with melody untaught,
Turned all the air to music within hearing,
Themselves unseen; while bolder quiristers
On loftiest branches strained their clarion-pipes,
And made the forest echo to their screams
Discordant, yet there was no discord there,
But tempered harmony; all tones combining,
In the rich confluence of ten thousand tongues,
To tell of joy and to inspire it. Who

Could hear such concert, and not join in chorus?

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

TO THE CUCKOO.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!

Thou messenger of spring!

Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

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?

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

O, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

JOHN LOGAN.

TO THE CUCKOO.

O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.

A cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?

While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;

From hill to hill it seems to pass,

At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me 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.

O blessed bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, fairy place;

That is fit home for thee!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.