Volume Iii Part 54 (1/2)

”Dear bird,” I said, ”what is thy name?”

And thrice the mournful answer came, So faint and far, and yet so near,-- ”Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!”

For so I found my forest bird,-- The pewee of the loneliest woods, Sole singer in these solitudes, Which never robin's whistle stirred, Where never bluebird's plume intrudes.

Quick darting through the dewy morn, The redstart trilled his twittering horn, And vanished in thick boughs: at even, Like liquid pearls fresh showered from heaven, The high notes of the lone wood-thrush Fall on the forest's holy hush: But thou all day complainest here,-- ”Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!”

Hast thou, too, in thy little breast, Strange longings for a happier lot,-- For love, for life, thou know'st not what,-- A yearning, and a vague unrest, For something still which thou hast not?-- Thou soul of some benighted child That perished, crying in the wild!

Or lost, forlorn, and wandering maid, By love allured, by love betrayed, Whose spirit with her latest sigh Arose, a little winged cry, Above her chill and mossy bier!

”Dear me! dear me! dear!”

Ah, no such piercing sorrow mars The pewee's life of cheerful ease!

He sings, or leaves his song to seize An insect sporting in the bars Of mild bright light that gild the trees.

A very poet he! For him All pleasant places still and dim: His heart, a spark of heavenly fire, Burns with undying, sweet desire: And so he sings; and so his song, Though heard not by the hurrying throng, Is solace to the pensive ear: Pewee! pewee! peer!

John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916]

ROBIN REDBREAST

Sweet Robin, I have heard them say That thou wert there upon the day The Christ was crowned in cruel scorn And bore away one bleeding thorn,-- That so the blush upon thy breast, In shameful sorrow, was impressed; And thence thy genial sympathy With our redeemed humanity.

Sweet Robin, would that I might be Bathed in my Saviour's blood, like thee; Bear in my breast, whate'er the loss, The bleeding blazon of the cross; Live ever, with thy loving mind, In fellows.h.i.+p with human-kind; And take my pattern still from thee, In gentleness and constancy.

George Was.h.i.+ngton Doane [1799-1859]

ROBIN REDBREAST

Good-by, good-by to Summer!

For Summer's nearly done;-- The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun; Our thrushes now are silent, Our swallows flown away,-- But Robin's here in coat of brown, And scarlet breast-knot gay.

Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear!

Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian princes, But soon they'll turn to ghosts; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough; It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now.

Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear!

And what will this poor Robin do?

For pinching days are near.

The fireside for the cricket, The wheat-stack for the mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house.

The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow,-- Alas! in Winter dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go?

Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear!

And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer!