Voices for the Speechless Part 22

So unharmed and unafraid Sat the swallow still and brooded, Till the constant cannonade Through the walls a breach had made, And the siege was thus concluded.

Then the army, elsewhere bent, Struck its tents as if disbanding, Only not the Emperor's tent, For he ordered, ere he went, Very curtly, "Leave it standing!"

So it stood there all alone, Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Till the brood was fledged and flown, Singing o'er those walls of stone Which the cannon-shot had shattered.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

TO A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER OUR EAVES.

Thou too hast travelled, little fluttering thing-- Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing Thou too must rest.

But much, my little bird, couldst thou but tell, I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well To build thy nest.

For thou hast pa.s.sed fair places in thy flight; A world lay all beneath thee where to light; And, strange thy taste, Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye-- Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky-- To choose this waste.

Did fortune try thee? was thy little purse Perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse, Felt here secure?

Ah no! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one!

Thou know'st it not. Of all G.o.d's creatures, man Alone is poor.

What was it, then? some mystic turn of thought, Caught under German eaves, and hither brought, Marring thine eye For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown A sober thing that dost but mope and moan, Not knowing why?

Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask, Since here I see thee working at thy task With wing and beak.

A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain, At which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main, Nor more need'st seek.

In truth, I rather take it thou hast got By instinct wise much sense about thy lot, And hast small care Whether an Eden or a desert be Thy home, so thou remain'st alive, and free To skim the air.

G.o.d speed thee, pretty bird; may thy small nest With little ones all in good time be blest.

I love thee much; For well thou managest that life of thine, While I! oh, ask not what I do with mine!

Would I were such!

MRS. THOMAS CARLYLE.

THE SWALLOW, THE OWL, AND THE c.o.c.k'S SHRILL CLARION IN THE "ELEGY."

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The c.o.c.k's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

GRAY.

THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR.

Forms of saints and kings are standing The cathedral door above; Yet I saw but one among them Who hath soothed my soul with love.

In his mantle,--wound about him, As their robes the sowers wind,-- Bore he swallows and their fledglings, Flowers and weeds of every kind.

And so stands he calm and child-like, High in wind and tempest wild; Oh, were I like him exalted, I would be like him, a child!

And my songs,--green leaves and blossoms,-- To the doors of heaven would bear, Calling, even in storm and tempest, Round me still these birds of air.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE BIRD LET LOOSE.

The bird let loose in eastern skies, When hastening fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam;

But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, G.o.d, from every care And stain of pa.s.sion free, Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, To hold my course to thee!

No sin to cloud, no lure to stay My soul, as home she springs;-- Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings!

T. MOORE.

THE BROWN THRUSH.

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree.

"He's singing to me! He's singing to me!"

And what does he say, little girl, little boy?

"Oh, the world's running over with joy!

Don't you hear? Don't you see?

Hush! Look! In my tree I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree?

Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy!

Now I'm glad! now I'm free!

And always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy!

Don't you know? don't you see?

But long it won't be, Unless we are as good as can be?"

LUCY LARCOM.