Voices for the Speechless Part 18

My chains fall off, the prison gates Fly open, as with magic key; And far from life's perplexing straits, My spirit wanders, swift and free.

Back to the heather, breathing deep The fragrance of the mountain breeze, I hear the wind's melodious sweep Through tossing boughs of ancient trees.

Beneath a porch where roses climb I stand as I was used to stand, Where cattle-bells with drowsy chime Make music in the quiet land.

Fast fades the dream in distance dim, Tears rouse me with a sudden shock; Lo! at my door, erect and trim, The postman gives his double knock.

And a great city's lumbering noise Arises with confusing hum, And whistling shrill of butchers' boys; My day begins, my bird is dumb.

_Temple Bar._

KEATS'S NIGHTINGALE.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down: The voice I heard this pa.s.sing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charmed magic cas.e.m.e.nts, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side: and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?

J. KEATS.

LARK AND NIGHTINGALE.

Color and form may be conveyed by words, But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains That from the throats of these celestial birds Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains; There was the meadow-lark with voice as sweet, But robed in richer raiment than our own; And as the moon smiled on his green retreat, The painted nightingale sang out alone.

Words cannot echo music's winged note, One voice alone exhausts their utmost power; 'Tis that strange bird, whose many-voiced throat Mocks all his brethren of the woodlawn bower, To whom, indeed, the gift of tongues is given, The musical, rich tongues that fill the grove; Now, like the lark, dropping his notes from heaven, Now cooing the soft notes of the dove.

Oft have I seen him, scorning all control, Winging his arrowy flight, rapid and strong, As if in search of his evanished soul, Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song; And as I wandered on and upward gazed, Half lost in admiration, half in fear, I left the brothers wondering and amazed, Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near.

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS.

Meanwhile the tepid caves, and fens, and sh.o.r.es, Their brood as numerous hatch from the egg that soon Bursting with kindly rupture, forth disclosed Their callow young; but feathered soon and fledge They summed their pens; and, soaring the air sublime, With clang despised the ground, under a cloud In prospect: there the eagle and the stork On cliffs and cedar-tops their eyries build; Part loosely wing the region; part, more wise, In common ranged in figure, wedge their way, Intelligent of seasons, and set forth Their aery caravan, high over seas Flying, and over lands, with mutual wing Easing their flight; so steers the prudent crane Her annual voyage, borne on winds; the air Floats as they pa.s.s, fanned with unnumbered plumes: From branch to branch the smaller birds with song Solaced the woods, and spread their painted wings Till even; nor then the solemn nightingale Ceased warbling, but all night tuned her soft lays: Others, on silver lakes and rivers, bathed Their downy b.r.e.a.s.t.s; the swan with arched neck Between her white wings, mantling proudly, rows Her state with oary feet; yet oft they quit The dank, and, rising on stiff pennons, tower The mid aerial sky: others on ground Walked firm; the crested c.o.c.k, whose clarion sounds The silent hours; and the other, whose gay train Adorns him, colored with the florid hue Of rainbows and starry eyes.

MILTON: _Paradise Lost_, book 7.

A CHILD'S WISH.

I would I were a note From a sweet bird's throat!

I'd float on forever, And melt away never!

I would I were a note From a sweet bird's throat!

But I am what I am!

As content as a lamb.

No new state I'll covet; For how long should I love it?

No, I'll be what I am,-- As content as a lamb!

_Poetry for Children._

THE HUMMING-BIRD.

Emerald-plumed, ruby-throated, Flashing like a fair star Where the humid, dew-becoated, Sun-illumined blossoms are-- See the fleet humming-bird!

Hark to his humming, heard Loud as the whirr of a fairy king's car!

Sightliest, sprightliest, lightest, and brightest one, Child of the summer sun, Shining afar!

Brave little humming-bird!

Every eye blesses thee; Sunlight caresses thee, Forest and field are the fairer for thee.

Blooms, at thy coming stirred, Bend on each brittle stem, Nod to the little gem, Bow to the humming-bird, frolic and free.

Now around the woodbine hovering, Now the morning-glory covering, Now the honeysuckle sipping, Now the sweet clematis tipping, Now into the bluebell dipping; Hither, thither, flashing, bright'ning, Like a streak of emerald lightning: Round the box, with milk-white plox; Round the fragrant four-o'-clocks; O'er the crimson quamoc.l.i.t, Lightly dost thou wheel and flit; Into each tubed throat Dives little Ruby-throat.

Bright-glowing airy thing, Light-going fairy thing, Not the grand lyre-bird Rivals thee, splendid one!-- Fairy-attended one, Green-coated fire-bird!

Shiniest fragile one, Tiniest agile one, Falcon and eagle tremble before thee!

Dim is the regal peac.o.c.k and lory, And the pheasant, iridescent, Pales before the gleam and glory Of the jewel-change incessant, When the sun is streaming o'er thee!

Hear thy soft humming, Like a sylph's drumming!

_Californian._

THE HUMMING-BIRD'S WEDDING

A little brown mother-bird sat in her nest, With four sleepy birdlings tucked under her breast, And her querulous chirrup fell ceaseless and low, While the wind rocked the lilac-tree nest to and fro.

"Lie still, little nestlings! lie still while I tell, For a lullaby story, a thing that befell Your plain little mother one midsummer morn, A month ago, birdies--before you were born.

"I'd been dozing and dreaming the long summer night, Till the dawn flushed its pink through the waning moonlight; When--I wish you could hear it once!--faintly there fell All around me the silvery sound of a bell.

"Then a chorus of bells! So, with just half an eye, I peeped from the nest, and those lilies close by, With threads of a cobweb, were swung to and fro By three little rollicking midgets below.

"Then the air was astir as with humming-birds' wings!

And a cloud of the tiniest, daintiest things That ever one dreamed of, came fluttering where A cl.u.s.ter of trumpet-flowers swayed in the air.

"As I sat all a-tremble, my heart in my bill-- 'I will stay by the nest,' thought I, 'happen what will;'

So I saw with these eyes by that trumpet-vine fair, A whole fairy bridal train poised in the air.