Then this cherished bird its song begins—
Always begins its song one way—
With two little dulcet words—"They say"—
Carroled in such a charming way
That the listener's heart it surely wins.
This sweetest of songsters, sits beside
Every hearth in this Christian land,
Never so humble or never so grand,
Gloating o'er crumbs, which many a hand
Gathers to nourish it, far and wide.
O'er each crumb that it gathers up
It winningly carols those two soft words,
In the winning voice of the sweetest of birds—
Darting its black head under its wing,
As it might in a ruby drinking-cup.
A delicate thing is this bird withal,
And owns but a fickle appetite,
And old and young take a keen delight
In serving it ever, day and night
With the last gay heart, now turned to gall.
Thus, though a dainty dear, it sings,
In a very well-conditioned way,
A truly wonderful sort of lay,
While its burden is ever the same—"They say,"
Darting its crooked beak under its wings.
WAITING.
No fairer eve e'er blessed a poet's vision,
No softer airs e'er kissed a fevered brow,
No scene more truly could be called elysian,
Than this which holds my gaze enchanted now.
Lonely I sit, and watch the fitful burning
Of prairie fires far off, through gathering gloom,
While the young moon and one bright star returning
Down the blue solitude, leave night their room.
Gone is the glimmer of the eternal river,
Hushed is the wind that ope'd the leaves to-day;
Alone through silence falls the crystal shiver
Of the calm starlight on its earthward way,
And yet I wait, how vainly! for a token—
A sigh, a touch, a whisper from the past;
Alas, I listen for a word unspoken,
And wail for arms that have embraced their last.
I wish no more, as once I wished, each feeling
To grow immortal in my happy breast;
Since not to feel, will leave no wounds for healing;
The pulse that thrills not has no need of rest.
As the conviction sinks into my spirit
That my quick heart is doomed to death in life;
Or that these pangs shall wound and never sear it,
I am abandoned to despairing strife.
To the lost life, alas! no more returning—
In this to come no semblance of the past—
Only to wait!—hoping this ceaseless yearning
May ere long end—and rest may come at last.
