Selections from the American Poets/The Notes of the Birds
THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS.
Well do I love those various harmoniesThat ring so gayly in Spring's budding woods,And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts,And lonely copses of the Summer-time,And in red Autumn's ancient solitudes.
If thou art pain'd with the world's noisy stir,Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weigh'd downWith any of the ills of human life;If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the lossOf brethren gone to that far-distant landTo which we all do pass, gentle and poor,The gayest and the gravest, all alike, Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hearThe thrilling music of the forest birds.
How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finchCalls from the distant hollows, and the wrenUttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times,And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangsIts crimson-spotted cups, or chirps, half hidAmid the lowly dogwood's snowy flowers,And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree,And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the earWith its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.
With the sweet airs of Spring, the robin comes,And in her simple song there seems to gushA strain of sorrow when she visitethHer last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloomOf the deep twilight falls, she takes her perchUpon the red stemm'd hazel's slender twig,That overhangs the brook, and suits her songTo the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.
In the last days of Autumn, when the cornLies sweet and yellow in the harvest field,And the gay company of reapers bindThe bearded wheat in sheaves, then peals abroadThe blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear,Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of songFloat from thy watchplace on the mossy treeClose at the cornfield edge.
Lone whipporwill,There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn,Heard in the drowsy watches of the night.Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out,And the wide air is still, I hear thee chantThy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takesHis lodging in the wilderness of woods,And lifts his anthem when the world is still:And the dim, solemn night, that brings to manAnd to the herds deep slumbers, and sweet dews To the red roses and the herbs, doth findNo eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls.I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrushAnd the green, roving linnet are at rest,And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceasedTheir noisy note, and folded up their wings.
Far up some brook's still course, whose current minesThe forest's blacken'd roots, and whose green margeIs seldom visited by human foot,The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaksThe Sabbath silence of the wilderness:And you may find her by some reedy pool,Or brooding gloomily on the time-stain'd rock,Beside some misty and far-reaching lake.
Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom,Gray watcher of the waters! Thou art kingOf the blue lake; and all the wing'd kindDo fear the echo of thine angry cry.How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down,And seest the shining fishes as they glide;And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beakSwift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist,Dart like a spectre of the night, and hearThy strange, bewildering call, like the wild screamOf one whose life is perishing in the sea.
And now, wouldst thou, oh man! delight the earWith earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eyeWith beautiful creations? Then pass forth,And find them mid those many-colour'd birdsThat fill the glowing woods. The richest huesLie in their splendid plumage, and their tonesAre sweeter than the music of the lute,Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gushSo thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip.