Volume Iii Part 56 (2/2)

The gorse is yellow on the heath, The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding, and, beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath, of May.

The welcome guest of settled Spring, The swallow, too, has come at last; Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, I saw her dash with rapid wing, And hailed her as she pa.s.sed.

Come, summer visitant, attach To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch At the gray dawn of day.

Charlotte Smith [1749-1806]

TO A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER OUR EAVES

Thou too hast traveled, little fluttering thing,-- Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing Thou too must rest.

But much, my little bird, could'st thou but tell, I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well To build thy nest.

For thou hast pa.s.sed fair places in thy flight; A world lay all beneath thee where to light; And, strange thy taste, Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye, Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky, To choose this waste!

Did fortune try thee?--was thy little purse Perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse, Felt here secure?

Ah, no! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one!

Thou know'st it not. Of all G.o.d's creatures, man Alone is poor.

What was it, then?--some mystic turn of thought, Caught under German eaves, and hither brought, Marring thine eye For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown A sober thing that dost but mope and moan, Not knowing why?

Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask, Since here I see thee working at thy task With wing and beak.

A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain, At which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main, Nor more need'st seek.

In truth, I rather take it thou hast got By instinct wise much sense about thy lot, And hast small care Whether an Eden or a desert be Thy home, so thou remain'st alive, and free To skim the air.

G.o.d speed thee, pretty bird! May thy small nest With little ones all in good time be blest.

I love thee much; For well thou managest that life of thine, While I--oh, ask not what I do with mine!

Would I were such!

Jane Welsh Carlyle [1801-1866]

CHIMNEY SWALLOWS

I slept in an old homestead by the sea: And in their chimney nest, At night the swallows told home-lore to me, As to a friendly guest.

A liquid twitter, low, confiding, glad, From many glossy throats, Was all the voice; and yet its accents had A poem's golden notes.

Quaint legends of the fireside and the sh.o.r.e, And sounds of festal cheer, And tones of those whose tasks of love are o'er, Were breathed into mine ear;

And wondrous lyrics, felt but never sung, The heart's melodious bloom; And histories, whose perfumes long have clung About each hallowed room.

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