I love to hear thee sing, When summer groves are glistening in the dew, And see, in morning's mingling gray and blue, Thy brown and glossy wing. And when the crimson glows, Gayly, along the soft and mellow west, Ah! it were vain to search Where thou from winter's cold wilt find a home; There is that to thee given, That teacheth me to hymn my Maker's praise, And my faint soul from cares of earth to raise, To the pure joys of heaven. THE BLUEBIRD'S SONG. I know the song that the bluebird is singing, Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging; Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary,Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery. Hark! how the music leaps out of his throat! Hark! was there ever so merry a note? Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying, Up in the apple-tree swinging and swaying: "Dear little blossoms down under the snow, You must be weary of winter, I know; Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer! Summer is coming! and spring-time is here! "Little white snow-drop, I pray you arise; Bright yellow crocus! come, open your eyes; Sweet little violets, hid from the cold, Put on your mantles of purple and gold; Daffodils! daffodils! say, do you hear ?— Summer is coming! and springtime is here!" THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. What do the robins whisper about From their homes in the elms and birches? I've tried to study the riddle out, But still in my mind is many a doubt, While all the world is in silence deep, They begin to chirp and twitter aad peep, Perhaps they tell secrets that should not be heard Perhaps we might learn from some whispered word It may be they gossip from nest to nest, For do we not often hear it confessed, What do the robins whisper about In the twilight of early dawning? THE BROKEN WING. In front of my pew sits a maiden- And the sheen of the sun upon that. Through the bloom-colored pane shines a glory The organ rolls down its great anthem The voice of the curate is gentle : "No sparrow shall fall to the ground;" But the poor broken wing on the bonnet Is mocking the merciful sound. LOST THREE LITTLE ROBINS. Oh, where is the boy, dressed in jacket of gray, When he took from the nest My three little robins, and left me distressed. He had light colored hair, O butterfly! stop just one moment, I pray; Have you seen a boy dressed in jacket of gray, Who carried my three little birdies away ? From his pretty blue eyes One might think he was wise, But he must be wicked for one of his size. O boy with blue eyes, dressed in jacket of gray! And I will forgive you this terrible wrong. Unless he will bring My three robins back, to sleep under my wing. BIRDS IN SUMMER. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, And the frolicsome winds, as they wander by! By a strong, free wing, through the rosy morn, And pierce, like a shaft, the boundless space! To go, when a joyful fancy calls, Then wheeling about, with its mates at play, PERSEVERANCE. A swallow in the spring Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves Day after day she toiled With patient art, but ere her work was crowned, She found the ruin wrought, But not cast down, forth from the place she flew. But scarcely had she placed The last soft feather on its ample floor, But still her heart she kept, And toiled again,-and last night, hearing calls, THE ROBIN'S SONG. I asked a sweet robin, one morning in May, "'Tis because I've just dipped my breast in the spring, THE CAPTIVE BIRD. Birdie, up in your cage so gay, Into the greenwood fair? Under the trees the brook goes singing, Down in the meadows the flowers are springing; Up in the boundless air? Out of the east at early morn Softly the beautiful day is born; Don't you wish you could greet its dawn, Free as the light winds gayly blowing; Such as the wild bird weaves? Birdie, say, do you ever dream, Willows green in the light winds shiver, Say, in the dream do your soft wings quiver, TO A SKYLARK. Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Type of the wise who soar, but never roam, The skylark's nest among the grass The robin's on a shady bank, With oak leaves strewn around. The wren builds in an ivied thorn, The mossy nest, so covered in, The martins build their nests of clay, The cuckoo makes no nest at all, Rooks build together in a wood, And often disagree; The owl will build inside a barn |