Volume Iii Part 46 (1/2)

And now mysteriously I seemed to guess, While watching their tumultuous loveliness, What fervor of deep pa.s.sion strangely thrives In the warm richness of these tropic lives, Whose wings can never tremble but they show These hearts of living fire that beat below!

Edgar Fawcett [1847-1904]

THE BLOOD HORSE

Gamarra is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a n.o.ble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within!

His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light.

Look,--how 'round his straining throat Grace and s.h.i.+fting beauty float!

Sinewy strength is in his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins; Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man.

He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire,-- Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself!

He, who hath no peer, was born, Here, upon a red March morn; But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, And the last of that great line Trod like one of a race divine!

And yet,--he was but friend to one Who fed him at the set of sun, By some lone fountain fringed with green: With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived, (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day), And died untamed upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands.

Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]

BIRDS

Sure maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush Whistlin' bould in March, Before there's a primrose peepin' out, Or a wee red cone on the larch; Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud, An' the wind to come over the sea, But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud, He's never the bird for me.

Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush After an April rain Slip from in-undher the drippin' leaves, Wishful to sing again; An' low wi' love when he's near the nest, An' loud from the top o' the tree, But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast, He's never the bird for me.

Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo Callin' his mate in May, When one sweet thought is the whole of his life, An' he tells it the one sweet way.

But my heart is sore at the cushadoo Filled wid his own soft glee, Over an' over his ”me an' you!”

He's never the bird for me.

Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast Singin' his lone on a thorn, Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost, Brave wid his heart forlorn.

The time is in dark November, An' no spring hopes has he: ”Remember,” he sings, ”remember!”

Ay, thon's the wee bird for me.

Moira O'Neill [18--

BIRDS

Birds are singing round my window, Tunes the sweetest ever heard, And I hang my cage there daily, But I never catch a bird.

So with thoughts my brain is peopled, And they sing there all day long: But they will not fold their pinions In the little cage of Song!