Poems (Hoffman)/To the Birds
TO THE BIRDS
O lark, whose joyous warbling comes Across the flowery field to me;O red-winged leaders of the gay And music-gifted companyWho gave the Spring's first matinee, The blackbirds' jubilee.
O swallows, perching on the eaves Or circling in the air;O linnets, chirping in the vinesWhere wild rose coyly intervinesWith virgin's bower and wild woodbines That clamber, here and there.
O ruby-throated humming-birds, That gem the sunbeam's gold;Perching, your ditty to repeat,Tasting the honey-suckle sweetOr whirring near my cloistered seat, Half timorous and half bold.
No nightingale pours forth at eve His famous solo here.No sky-lark soars to yonder skyTo carol Nature's praise on highOr gush his heaven-born rhapsody From fields of upper air.
Not unto these, for whom the bard His richest number lends;But unto you, who build and broodBy yonder stream, in yonder wood,Companions of my solitude, My little feathered friends.
To you I sing, though others may Their far-famed gifts rehearseAnd sing of sky-larks on the wingWhere none were ever heard to sing;And nightingales, triumphant bring To grace their native verse.
Doubtless the Scottish poet finds In these a lasting joy.He loves his own green spot of earth,Of heath-clad hill and foaming firth;But holds not our broad land enough Our homage to employ.
Ye golden warblers, darting now, Through peach-bloom canopies;Ye orioles, who seek the groveTo sing the sonnets of your love,In joyous warblings, interwove With softest melodies.
Ye wild canaries, caroling Beneath the alders' shade;Ye sprightly grosbeaks, whose rich layFrom apple-boughs at close of day,When sauntering on my homeward way, My willing feet have stayed.
And last, but loveliest of them all, In fields, or woods, or dales,The shy lazuli-finch, whose songIs borne the forest aisles along,Woodsy and wild, to you belong Wild hills and wooded vales.
And many another chorister That time would fail to tell,Who helps to make the woods resoundWith bursts of rich melodious soundThat answering echoes from around To one grand chorus swell.
Long may your notes of blithesome cheer The rounds of life beguile.Long may your bright hues flash and shineIn this proud, happy land of mine,In this free, joyous land of thine, Gay choir of forest aisle!
Come when the dove's low cooing calls To Spring's first bursting bud.Come when the honey-bee invites,To Summer's bounteous delightsTo sunny days and moonlight nights The fruitful field and wood.
And when the sere and yellow leaf Falls murmuring to the ground,Tarry, to chant creation's praiseIn your own sunny, witching ways,So long as bloom and fruitage stays Or sheltering nooks are found.
And when my life's glad Spring is past, Its apple-blooms decayed;And when my life's sweet Summer goesNo more its beauties to unclose;When time has bloomed its latest rose In loneliness to fade.
Its Autumn sheaves all gathered in Its flame to ashes burned.I still would ask thy ministry.Come to my grave and sing to meCreation's sweetest melody That man has never learned.
Though far away, I may not hear, Yet sweet will be the thoughtThat they who nearest Heaven soar,From earth's green fields and wave-beat shore,Still sing to me when life is o'er And others have forgot.