« 前へ次へ »
Both are ever on the wing,
Wanderers both in foreign bowers;
Both depart with summer hours.
Translation of G. MerivaLE.
SONG OF THE SWALLOW.
YRON THE ORERK.
Sung by the Children, passing from Door to Door, at the Return of the Swallovo.
The swallow is come!
The swallow is come!
Have you nothing to spare,
For no gray-beards are we,
Translation of MITCHELL
Hal. While we have been conversing, the May-flies, which were in such quantities, have become much fewer; and I believe the reason is. that they have been greatly diminished by the flocks of swallows which everywhere pursue them. I have seen a single swallow take four, in less than a quarter of a minute, that were descending to the water.
Poict. I delight in this living landscape! The swallow is one of my favorite birds, and a rival of the nightingale; for he cheers my sense of seeing as much as the other does my sense of hearing. He is the glad prophet of the year--the harbinger of the best season : he lives a life of enjoyment among the loveliest forms of Nature. Winter is unknown to him; and he leaves the green meadows of England, in autumn, for the myrtle and orange groves of Italy, and for the palms of Africa. He has always objects of pursuit, and his success is secure. Even the beings selected for his prey are poetical, beautiful, and transient. The ephemeræ are saved by his means from a slow and lingering death in the evening, and killed in a moment, when they have known nothing of life but pleasure. He is the constant destroyer of insects--the friend of man; and, with the stork and ibis, may be regarded as a sacred bird. This instinct, which gives him his appointed seasons, and teaches him always when and where to move, may be regarded as flowing from a Divine Source; and he belongs to the Oracles of Nature, which speak the awful and intelligible language of a present Deity.
Sie IIUMPHREY Dary.
YBOX " THE POLYOLBION."
When Phæbus lifts his head out of the winter's wave,
Gilds every lofty top, which late the numorous night
MICHAEL Draytox, 1563-1631.
THE BLACK COCK.
Good-morrow to thy sable beak,
One fleeting moment of delight
JOANNA BAL LIE.
TO THE MOCKING - BIRD.
Wing'd mimic of the woods! thou motley fool,
Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ?
Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe :
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school,
To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch mcaker, and mad Abbot of Mis-Rule!
For such thou art by day-but all night long Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain,
As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy Jacques complain
Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, And sighing for thy motley coat again.
RICHARD HENRY WILDE.
Thou vocal sprite-thou feathered troubadour !
In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger, Com'st thou to doff thy russet suit once more,
And play in foppish trim the masking stranger ? Philosophers may teach thy whereabout and nature,
But, wise as all of us, perforce, must think 'em, The school-boy best hath fix'd thy nomenclature,
And poets, too, must call thee “ Bob-o-linkum !”
Say, art thou long 'mid forest glooms benighted,
So glad to skim our laughing meadows over--
It makes thee musical, thou airy rover ?
Of fairy isles, which thou hast learn'd to ravish
And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish ?
They tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks,
Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges ; And even in a brace of wandering weeks,
They say alike thy song and plumage changes ;
And leafy June is shading rock and river,
While through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver.
Joyous, yet tender, was that gush of song,
Caught from the brooks, where 'mid its wild flowers smiling, The silent prairie listens all day long,
The only captive to such sweet beguiling ;
Or didst thou, fitting through the verdurous halls,
And column'd isles of western groves symphonious, Learn from the tuneful woods rare madrigals,
To make our flowering pastures here harmonious ?
Caught'st thou thy carol from Ottawa maid,
Where through the liquid fields of wild rice plashingBrushing the ears from off the burden'd blade,
Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing ? Or did the reeds of some savanna South,
Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing, To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth,
The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing?
Unthrifty prodigal! is no thought of ill
Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever ?
Throb on in music till at rest forever ?
"Twould seem that glorious hymning to prolong, Old Time, in hearing thee, might fall a-doating, And pause to listen to thy rapturous song!
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.
High rides the moon amid the fleecy clouds,
REV. JAMES GRAHAME. 10