A dandelion's ghost might so
Amid Elysian meadows blow,
Become more fragile and more fine

Breathing the atmosphere divine.

Charles G. D. Roberts [1860

THE HERON

O MELANCHOLY Bird, a winter's day
Thou standest by the margin of the pool,

And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school

To Patience, which all evil can allay.

God has appointed thee the Fish thy prey;
And given thyself a lesson to the Fool
Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule,

And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.
There need not schools, nor the Professor's chair,
Though these be good, true wisdom to impart;
He, who has not enough for these to spare
Of time, or gold, may yet amend his heart,

And teach his soul, by brooks and rivers fair:
Nature is always wise in every part.

Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829]

THE JACKDAW

THERE is a bird, who by his coat,
And by the hoarseness of his note,
Might be supposed a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where bishop-like he finds a perch,.
And dormitory too.

Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate

From what point blows the weather;
Look up your brains begin to swim,
'Tis in the clouds-that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.

The Green Linnet

1541

Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,

And thence securely sees
The bustle and the raree-show,
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his case.

You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall.

No: not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.

He sees that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its medley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,

Its customs, and its businesses
Is no concern at all of his,

And says what says he?-"Caw."

Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men;
And, sick of having seen 'em,
Would cheerfully these limbs resign
For such a pair of wings as thine,
And such a head between 'em.

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne,
by William Cowper [1731-1800]

THE GREEN LINNET

BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of Spring's unclouded weather,

In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And flowers and birds once more to greet,

My last year's friends together.

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 butterflies, 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,

The Maryland Yellow-Throat

(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,

1543

After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks,

With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene,

The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing 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 ship of air that never furl'st thy sails,

Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, 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!

Wall Whitman [1819-1892]

THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT

WHEN May bedecks the naked trees

With tassels 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 shines 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 cockle-shells,
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 Dyke [1852

LAMENT OF A MOCKING-BIRD

SILENCE instead of thy sweet song, my bird, Which through the darkness of my winter days Warbling of summer sunshine still was heard;

Mute is thy song, and vacant is thy place.