THE BLOOD HORSE GAMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, But blown abroad by the pride within! In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light. Look, how 'round his straining throat Sinewy strength is in his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins; Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher He, who hath no peer, was born, Trod like one of a race divine! And yet, he was but friend to one Who fed him at the set of sun, By some lone fountain fringed with green: With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived, (none else would he obey SURE maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush Whistlin' bould in March, Before there's a primrose peepin' out, Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud, Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush Slip from in-undher the drippin' leaves, Wishful to sing again; An' low wi' love when he's near the nest, An' loud from the top o' the tree, But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast, He's never the bird for me. Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo Callin' his mate in May, When one sweet thought is the whole of his life, An' he tells it the one sweet way. Over an' over his "me an' you!" Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost, Brave wid his heart forlorn. The time is in dark November, Moira O'Neill [18 BIRDS BIRDS are singing round my window, So with thoughts my brain is peopled, Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903] SEA-BIRDS O LONESOME sea-gull, floating far Forever vainly seeking rest: Where is thy mate, and where thy nest? "Twixt wintry sea and wintry sky, Cleaving the keen air with thy breast, No fetter on thy wing is pressed:-- O restless, homeless human soul, Following for aye thy nameless quest, The gulls float, and the billows roll; Thou watchest still, and questionest: Where is thy mate, and where thy nest? Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911] THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice! The Blackbird Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared 1523 What doth it bring to me? Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, With the motion and the roar Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge The Mystery-the Word. Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall, From out thy gloomy cells, A tale of mourning tells, Tells of man's woe and fall, His sinless glory fled. Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Come, quit with me the shore, For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing. Richard Henry Dana [1787-1879] THE BLACKBIRD How sweet the harmonies of afternoon: The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon; Rich breath of hayfields streams through whispering trees; And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, And listen fondly-while the Blackbird sings. How soft the lovelight of the West reposes And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings The very dial on the village church Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest; And there beneath the immemorial elm Three rosy revellers round a table sit, And through gray clouds give laws unto the realm, Before her home, in her accustomed seat, The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid; To her low chair a little maiden clings, And spells in silence-while the Blackbird sings. Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green, The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manorhouse, Lie in warm sunshine—while the Blackbird sings. The ring of silver voices, and the sheen Of festal garments-and my Lady streams With her gay court across the garden green; Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love-dreams; |