Chapter 9

And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest: They should feed the birds at noontide Daily on his place of rest;

Saying, "From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long."

Thus the bard of love departed; And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted By the children of the choir.

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, In foul weather and in fair, Day by day, in vaster numbers, Flocked the poets of the air.

On the tree whose heavy branches Overshadowed all the place, On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the poet's sculptured face,

On the crossbars of each window, On the lintel of each door, They renewed the War of Wartburg, Which the bard had fought before.

There they sang their merry carols, Sang their lauds on every side; And the name their voices uttered Was the name of Vogelweid.

Till at length the portly abbot Murmured, "Why this waste of food? Be it changed to loaves henceforward For our fasting brotherhood."

Then in vain o'er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests.

Then in vain, with cries discordant, Clamorous round the Gothic spire, Screamed the feathered Minnesingers For the children of the choir.

Time has long effaced the inscriptions On the cloister's funeral stones, And tradition only tells us Where repose the poet's bones.

But around the vast cathedral, By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend, And the name of Vogelweid.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE LEGEND OF THE CROSS-BILL.

On the cross the dying Saviour Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling In his pierced and bleeding palm.

And by all the world forsaken, Sees he how with zealous care At the ruthless nail of iron A little bird is striving there.

Stained with blood, and never tiring, With its beak it does not cease, From the cross 'twould free the Saviour, Its Creator's son release.

And the Saviour speaks in mildness: "Blest be thou of all the good! Bear, as token of this moment, Marks of blood and holy rood!"

And that bird is called the cross-bill; Covered all with blood so clear, In the groves of pine it singeth Songs, like legends, strange to hear.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

PRETTY BIRDS.

Among the orchards and the groves, While summer days are fair and long, You brighten every tree and bush, You fill the air with loving song.

NURSERY.

* * * * *

THE LITTLE BIRD SITS.

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays: Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace: The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

* * * * *

THE LIVING SWAN.

Then some one came who said, "My Prince had shot A swan, which fell among the roses here, He bids me pray you send it. Will you send?" "Nay," quoth Siddârtha, "if the bird were dead To send it to the slayer might be well, But the swan lives; my cousin hath but killed The god-like speed which throbbed in this white wing." And Devadatta answered, "The wild thing, Living or dead, is his who fetched it down; 'Twas no man's in the clouds, but fall'n 'tis mine, Give me my prize, fair Cousin." Then our Lord Laid the swan's neck beside his own smooth cheek And gravely spake, "Say no! the bird is mine, The first of myriad things which shall be mine By right of mercy and love's lordliness. For now I know, by what within me stirs, That I shall teach compassion unto men And be a speechless world's interpreter, Abating this accursèd flood of woe, Not man's alone; but, if the Prince disputes, Let him submit this matter to the wise And we will wait their word." So was it done; In full divan the business had debate, And many thought this thing and many that, Till there arose an unknown priest who said, "If life be aught, the savior of a life Owns more the living thing than he can own Who sought to slay--the slayer spoils and wastes, The cherisher sustains, give him the bird:" Which judgment all found just.

_Light of Asia._

* * * * *

THE STORMY PETREL.

A thousand miles from land are we, Tossing about on the roaring sea-- From billow to bounding billow cast, Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. The sails are scattered abroad like weeds; The strong masts shake like quivering reeds; The mighty cables and iron chains; The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,-- They strain and they crack; and hearts like stone Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.

Up and down!--up and down! From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, And amid the flashing and feathery foam, The stormy petrel finds a home. A home, if such a place may be For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, And only seeketh her rocky lair To warm her young, and to teach them to spring At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!

O'er the deep!--o'er the deep! Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep-- Outflying the blast and the driving rain, The petrel telleth her tale--in vain; For the mariner curseth the warning bird Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard! Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still; Yet he ne'er falters--so, petrel, spring Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!

BARRY CORNWALL.

* * * * *

TO THE CUCKOO.

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands Another Spring to hail.

Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No Winter in thy year!

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Attendants on the Spring.

JOHN LOGAN.

* * * * *

BIRDS AT DAWN.

The beautiful day is breaking, The first faint line of light Parts the shadows of the night, And a thousand birds are waking. I hear the Hairbird's slender trill,-- So fine and perfect it doth fill The whole sweet silence with its thrill.

A rosy flush creeps up the sky, The birds begin their symphony. I hear the clear, triumphant voice Of the Robin, bidding the world rejoice. The Vireos catch the theme of the song, And the Baltimore Oriole bears it along, While from Sparrow, and Thrush, and Wood Pewee, And, deep in the pine-trees, the Chickadee, There's an undercurrent of harmony.

The Linnet sings like a magic flute, The Lark and Bluebird touch the lute, The Starling pipes to the shining morn With the vibrant note of the joyous horn, The splendid Jay Is the trumpeter gay, The Kingfisher, sounding his rattle,--he May the player on the cymbals be, The Cock, saluting the sun's first ray, Is the bugler sounding a reveille. "Caw! Caw!" cries the crow, and his grating tone Completes the chord like a deep trombone.

But, above them all, the Robin sings; His song is the very soul of day, And all black shadows troop away While, pure and fresh, his music rings: "Light is here! Never fear! Day is near! My dear!"

MISS HARRIET E. PAINE.

* * * * *

EVENING SONGS.

Gliding at sunset in my boat, I hear the Veery's bubbling note; And a Robin, flying late, Sounds the home-call to his mate. Then the sun sinks low In the western glow, And the birds go to rest. But hush! Far off sings the sweet Wood-Thrush. He sings--and waits--and sings again, The liquid notes of that holy strain.

He ceases, and all the world is still: And then the moon climbs over the hill, And I hear the cry of the Whip-poor-will.

Tranquil, I lay me down to sleep, While the summer stars a vigil keep; And I hear from the Sparrow a gentle trill, Which means, "Good Night; Peace and Good Will."

MISS HARRIET E. PAINE.

* * * * *

LITTLE BROWN BIRD.

A little brown bird sat on a stone; The sun shone thereon, but he was alone. "O pretty bird, do you not weary Of this gay summer so long and dreary?"

The little bird opened his black bright eyes, And looked at me with great surprise; Then his joyous song broke forth, to say, "Weary of what? I can sing all day."

_Posies for Children._

* * * * *

LIFE'S SIGN.

Wouldst thou the life of souls discern, Not human wisdom nor divine Helps thee by aught beside to learn, _Love_ is life's only sign.

KEBLE.

* * * * *

A BIRD'S MINISTRY.

From his home in an Eastern bungalow, In sight of the everlasting snow Of the grand Himalayas, row on row, Thus wrote my friend:-- "I had travelled far From the Afghan towers of Candahar, Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;

"And once, when the daily march was o'er, As tired I sat in my tented door, Hope failed me, as never it failed before.

"In swarming city, at wayside fane, By the Indus' bank, on the scorching plain, I had taught,--and my teaching all seemed vain.

"No glimmer of light (I sighed) appears; The Moslem's Fate and the Buddhist's fears Have gloomed their worship this thousand years.

"'For Christ and his truth I stand alone In the midst of millions: a sand-grain blown Against your temple of ancient stone

"'As soon may level it!'" Faith forsook My soul, as I turned on the pile to look; Then, rising, my saddened way I took

To its lofty roof, for the cooler air: I gazed, and marvelled;--how crumbled were The walls I had deemed so firm and fair!

For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone, Most plainly rent by its roots alone, A beautiful peepul-tree had grown:

Whose gradual stress would still expand The crevice, and topple upon the sand The temple, while o'er its wreck should stand

The tree in its living verdure!--Who Could compass the thought?--The bird that flew Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew,

Did more to shiver this ancient wall Than earthquake,--war,--simoon,--or all The centuries, in their lapse and fall!

Then I knelt by the riven granite there, And my soul shook off its weight of care, As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:--

"The living seeds I have dropped remain In the cleft: Lord, quicken with dew and rain, _Then_ temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!"

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

* * * * *

OF BIRDS.

See, Christ makes the birds our masters and teachers! so that a feeble sparrow, to our great and perpetual shame, stands in the gospel as a doctor and preacher to the wisest of men.

MARTIN LUTHER.

* * * * *

BIRDS IN SPRING.

Listen! What a sudden rustle Fills the air! All the birds are in a bustle Everywhere. Such a ceaseless croon and twitter Overhead! Such a flash of wings that glitter Wide outspread! Far away I hear a drumming,-- Tap, tap, tap! Can the woodpecker be coming After sap? Butterflies are hovering over (Swarms on swarms) Yonder meadow-patch of clover, Like snow-storms. Through the vibrant air a-tingle Buzzingly, Throbs and o'er me sails a single Bumble-bee. Lissom swayings make the willows One bright sheen, Which the breeze puffs out in billows Foamy green. From the marshy brook that's smoking In the fog I can catch the crool and croaking Of a frog. Dogwood stars the slopes are studding, And I see Blooms upon the purple-budding Judas-tree. Aspen tassels thick are dropping All about, And the alder-leaves are cropping Broader out; Mouse-ear tufts the hawthorn sprinkle, Edged with rose; The park bed of periwinkle Fresher grows. Up and down are midges dancing On the grass: How their gauzy wings are glancing As they pass! What does all this haste and hurry Mean, I pray-- All this out-door flush and flurry Seen to-day? This presaging stir and humming, Thrill and call? _Mean?_ It means that spring is coming; That is all!

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

* * * * *

THE CANARY IN HIS CAGE.

Sing away, ay, sing away, Merry little bird, Always gayest of the gay, Though a woodland roundelay You ne'er sung nor heard; Though your life from youth to age Passes in a narrow cage.

Near the window wild birds fly, Trees are waving round; Fair things everywhere you spy Through the glass pane's mystery, Your small life's small bound: Nothing hinders your desire But a little gilded wire.

Like a human soul you seem Shut in golden bars: Placed amid earth's sunshine stream, Singing to the morning beam, Dreaming 'neath the stars; Seeing all life's pleasures clear,-- But they never can come near.

Never! Sing, bird-poet mine, As most poets do;-- Guessing by an instinct fine At some happiness divine Which they never knew. Lonely in a prison bright Hymning for the world's delight.

Yet, my birdie, you're content In your tiny cage: Not a carol thence is sent But for happiness is meant-- Wisdom pure as sage: Teaching the pure poet's part Is to sing with merry heart.

So lie down, thou peevish pen; Eyes, shake off all tears; And, my wee bird, sing again: I'll translate your song to men In these future years. "Howsoe'er thy lot's assigned, Meet it with a cheerful mind."

MRS. DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK.

* * * * *

WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S-NEST.

Te-whit! te-whit! te-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?

Not I, said the cow, moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do. I gave for you a wisp of hay, And did not take your nest away. Not I, said the cow, moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do.

Not I, said the dog, bow-wow! I wouldn't be so mean as that, now, I gave hairs the nest to make, But the nest I did not take. Not I, said the dog, bow-wow! I wouldn't be so mean as that, now.

Not I, said the sheep, Oh no! I wouldn't treat a poor bird so! I gave the wool the nest to line, But the nest was none of mine. Baa! baa! said the sheep; Oh no, I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.

I would not rob a bird, Said little Mary Green; I think I never heard Of any thing so mean. 'Tis very cruel, too, Said little Alice Neal; I wonder if she knew How sad the bird would feel?

A little boy hung down his head, And went and hid behind the bed, For he stole that pretty nest From poor little yellow-breast; And he felt so full of shame He didn't like to tell his name.

_Hymns for Mother and Children._

* * * * *

WHO STOLE THE EGGS?

"Oh, what is the matter with Robin, That makes her cry round here all day? I think she must be in great trouble," Said Swallow to little Blue Jay.

"I know why the Robin is crying," Said Wren, with a sob in her breast; "A naughty bold robber has stolen Three little blue eggs from her nest.

"He carried them home in his pocket; I saw him, from up in this tree: Ah me! how my little heart fluttered For fear he would come and rob me!"

"Oh! what little boy was so wicked?" Said Swallow, beginning to cry; "I wouldn't be guilty of robbing A dear little bird's-nest--not I."

"Nor I!" said the birds in a chorus: "A cruel and mischievous boy! I pity his father and mother; He surely can't give them much joy.

"I guess he forgot what a pleasure The dear little robins all bring, In early spring-time and in summer, By the beautiful songs that they sing.

"I guess he forgot that the rule is, To do as you'd be always done by; I guess he forgot that from heaven There looks down an All-seeing Eye."

MRS. C. F. BERRY.

* * * * *

WHAT THE BIRDS SAY.

When they chatter together,--the robins and sparrows, Bluebirds and bobolinks,--all the day long; What do they talk of? The sky and the sunshine, The state of the weather, the last pretty song;

Of love and of friendship, and all the sweet trifles That go to make bird-life so careless and free; The number of grubs in the apple-tree yonder, The promise of fruit in the big cherry-tree;

Of matches in prospect;--how Robin and Jenny Are planning together to build them a nest; How Bobolink left Mrs. Bobolink moping At home, and went off on a lark with the rest.

Such mild little slanders! such innocent gossip! Such gay little coquetries, pretty and bright! Such happy love makings! such talks in the orchard! Such chatterings at daybreak! such whisperings at night!

O birds in the tree-tops! O robins and sparrows! O bluebirds and bobolinks! what would be May Without your glad presence,--the songs that you sing us, And all the sweet nothings we fancy you say?

CAROLINE A. MASON.

* * * * *

Sweet Mercy is Nobility's true badge.

_Titus Andronicus_, Act 1, Sc. 2.

* * * * *

THE WREN'S NEST.

I took the wren's nest: Heaven forgive me! Its merry architects so small Had scarcely finished their wee hall That, empty still, and neat and fair, Hung idly in the summer air. The mossy walls, the dainty door, Where Love should enter and explore, And Love sit carolling outside, And Love within chirp multiplied;-- I took the wren's nest; Heaven forgive me!

How many hours of happy pains Through early frosts and April rains, How many songs at eve and morn O'er springing grass and greening corn, What labors hard through sun and shade Before the pretty house was made! One little minute, only one, And she'll fly back, and find it--gone! I took the wren's nest: Bird, forgive me!

Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear, Ye have before you all the year, And every wood holds nooks for you, In which to sing and build and woo; One piteous cry of birdish pain-- And ye'll begin your life again, Forgetting quite the lost, lost home In many a busy home to come. But I? your wee house keep I must, Until it crumble into dust. I took the wren's nest: God forgive me!

DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK.

* * * * *

ON ANOTHER'S SORROW.

Can I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!

_And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird's grief and care,_ Hear the woes that infants bear--

And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast, And not sit in the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away? Oh no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!

WILLIAM BLAKE.

* * * * *

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME.

My banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets blow.

Not a pine in the grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweet-brier entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.

I found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me such plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed; For he ne'er could be true, she averred, Who would rob a poor bird of its young; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

SHENSTONE (d. 1673).

* * * * *

THE WOOD-PIGEON'S HOME.

Come with me, if but in fancy, To the wood, the green soft shade: 'Tis a haven, pure and lovely, For the good of mankind made.

Listen! you can hear the cooing, Soft and soothing, gentle sounds, Of the pigeons, as they nestle In the branches all around.

In the city and the open, Man has built or tilled the land; But the home of the wood pigeon Bears the touch of God's own hand.

ANON.

* * * * *

THE SHAG.

"What is that great bird, sister, tell me, Perched high on the top of the crag?" "'Tis the cormorant, dear little brother; The fishermen call it the shag."

"But what does it there, sister, tell me, Sitting lonely against the black sky?" "It has settled to rest, little brother; It hears the wild gale wailing high."

"But I am afraid of it, sister, For over the sea and the land It gazes, so black and so silent!" "Little brother, hold fast to my hand."