THE SONGSTER.

Above the rainbow and the roar

Of the long billow from the Afric shore?
Asking other guerdon

None, than Heaven's light,
Holding thy crested head aright,

Thy melody's sweet burden Thou dost proudly utter, With many an ecstatic flutter And ruffle of thy tawny throat For each delicious note.

- Art thou a waif from Paradise, In some fine moment wrought

By an artist of the skies,

Thou winged, cherubic Thought?

Bird of the amber beak, Bird of the golden wing! Thy dower is thy carolling;

Thou hast not far to seek

Thy bread, nor needest wine

To make thine utterance divine;
Thou art canopied and clothed

And unto Song betrothed!

In thy lone aërial cage

Thou hast thine ancient heritage;

There is no task-work on thee laid

But to rehearse the ditties thou hast made;

Thou hast a lordly store,

And, though thou scatterest them free,

Art richer than before,

Holding in fee

The glad domain of minstrelsy.

145

146

THE SONGSTER.

III.

Brave songster, bold Canary!
Thou art not of thy listeners wary,
Art not timorous, nor chary

Of quaver, trill, and tone,
Each perfect and thine own;
But renewest, shrill or soft,
Thy greeting to the upper skies,
Chanting thy latest song aloft
With no tremor nor disguise.
Thine is a music that defies
The envious rival near;

Thou hast no fear

Of the day's vogue, the scornful critic's sneer.

Would, O wisest bard, that now.

I could cheerly sing as thou!

Would I might chant the thoughts which on me throng,
For the very joy of song!

Here, on the written page,

I falter, yearning to impart

The vague and wandering murmur of my heart,

Haply a little to assuage

This human restlessness and pain,

And half forget my chain:

Thou, unconscious of thy cage,

Showerest music everywhere;

Thou hast no care

But to pour out the largesse thou hast won

From the south wind and the sun :

SONG.

There are no prison-bars

Betwixt thy tricksy spirit and the stars.

When from its delicate clay
Thy little life shall pass away,
Thou wilt not meanly die,

Nor voiceless yield to silence and decay;
But triumph still in art
And act thy minstrel-part,
Lifting a last, long pæan

To the unventured empyrean.
-So bid the world go by,

And they who list to thee aright,

Seeing thee fold thy wings and fall, shall say: "The Songster perished of his own delight!"

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

SONG.

COME with the birds in the spring,

Thou whose voice rivalleth theirs ;

Come with the flowers, and bring

Sweet shame to their bloom unawares :

Come, - but O, how can I wait!

Come through the snows of to-day!

Come, and the gray Earth elate
Shall leap for thy sake into May!

HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL.

147

138

THE FOX-HUNTERS.

They're a pair to make the heart rejoice

An' bound like a buck when hunted well!"

Gray Jasper hears his comrade call,
And, whistling to his eager pack,
Down snatches from the cabin-wall
His rifle, hung on stag-horn rack
Bids wife farewell till twilight-fall,

And strides away on the red-fox track.

O'er mountain-crest, 'cross lowland vale,
Where Hero hotly leads the chase,
These bluff old woodsmen press the trail,
Close Indian-file, with tireless pace—
Till, hark! the fox-hound's deep-toned hail
Proclaims the game on the home-stretch race.

Athwart the brow of Chester Hill

Scared Reynard, like a blazing sun,
Flies on before his foes until,

O'erleaping rock and ice-bound run,
He draws the aim of Jasper Gill
Along the barrel of his gun.

The ledges ring to the rifle's crack
The fatal bullet whistles past!
A loud "halloo " comes echoing back

To Bearskin Ben, on the rising blast:
A crimson stream bedyes the track;-
And Reynard strikes his flag at last!

"Call in the dogs!" cries Jasper Gill;
"The sport is done, the chase is o'er; -
I've gi'n yon thievin' skulk a pill!

He'll rob my poultry-yard no more.

Come, Ben, let's beat to the cabin sill,

Where the old wife waits us at the door."

Beside a roaring hickory blaze,

With laugh and joke and rustic cheer,

These glib-tongued cronies sound the praise
Of dog and gun in Molly's ear,

Till the old dame's needle almost plays

A tune through her good man's hunting-gear.

G. H. BARNES.