Volume Iii Part 46 (2/2)

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

SEA-BIRDS

O lonesome sea-gull, floating far Over the ocean's icy waste, Aimless and wide thy wanderings are, Forever vainly seeking rest:-- Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

'Twixt wintry sea and wintry sky, Cleaving the keen air with thy breast, Thou sailest slowly, solemnly; No fetter on thy wing is pressed:-- Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

O restless, homeless human soul, Following for aye thy nameless quest, The gulls float, and the billows roll; Thou watchest still, and questionest:-- Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly?

O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice!

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea; Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us. Thy wail,-- What doth it bring to me?

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, Restless, and sad; as if, in strange accord With the motion and the roar Of waves that drive to sh.o.r.e, One spirit did ye urge-- The Mystery--the Word.

Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall, Old Ocean! A requiem o'er the dead, From out thy gloomy cells, A tale of mourning tells,-- Tells of man's woe and fall, His sinless glory fled.

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit nevermore.

Come, quit with me the sh.o.r.e, For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing.

Richard Henry Dana [1787-1879]

THE BLACKBIRD

How sweet the harmonies of afternoon: The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon; Rich breath of hayfields streams through whispering trees; And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, And listen fondly--while the Blackbird sings.

How soft the lovelight of the West reposes On this green valley's cheery solitude, On the trim cottage with its screen of roses, On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings Its bubbling freshness--while the Blackbird sings.

The very dial on the village church Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest; The scribbled benches underneath the porch Bask in the kindly welcome of the West; But the broad cas.e.m.e.nts of the old Three Kings Blaze like a furnace--while the Blackbird sings.

And there beneath the immemorial elm Three rosy revellers round a table sit, And through gray clouds give laws unto the realm, Curse good and great, but wors.h.i.+p their own wit.

And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings, Corn, colts, and curs--the while the Blackbird sings.

Before her home, in her accustomed seat, The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid; To her low chair a little maiden clings, And spells in silence--while the Blackbird sings.

Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green.

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