Volume Iii Part 50 (2/2)

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

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