His favourite pastime was to slay the deer In Summer on some Adirondac hill; E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. From the Academy, whose belfry crowned The hill of Science with its vane of brass, Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, And all absorbed in reveries profound Of fair Almira in the upper class, Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, As pure as water, and as good as bread. And next the Deacon issued from his door, In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow; A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; His form was ponderous, and his step was slow; There never was so wise a man before; He seemed the incarnate "Well, I told you so!" And to perpetuate his great renown There was a street named after him in town. These came together in the new townhall, With sundry farmers from the region round. The Squire presided, dignified and tall, His air impressive and his reasoning sound. Ill fared it with the birds, both great and small; Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, But enemies enough, who every one Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. When they had ended, from his place apart, The birds, who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. "The thrush that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood; The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; The blue-bird balanced on some topmost spray Flooding with melody the neighbourhood; Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. "You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet, Searching for worm or weevil after rain! Or a few cherries that are not so sweet Of insects in the windrows of the hay, And hear the locust and the grasshopper Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play! Is this more pleasant to you than the whirr Of meadow-lark, and its sweet roundelay, Or twitter of little fieldfares, as you take Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? "You call them thieves and pillagers; but know They are the winged wardens of your farms, Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, And from your harvests keep a hun dred harms; Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail. "How can I teach your children gentleness, And mercy to the weak, and reve rence For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, Of empty nests that cling to boughs | Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is and beams As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams! Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds Make up for the lost music, when your teams Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more The feathered gleaners follow to your door? What would you rather see the incessant stir no less The self-same light, although averted hence, When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, You contradict the very things I teach?" With this he closed; and through the audience went A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves; The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent Their yellow heads together like their sheaves; BIRDS OF PASSAGE. FLIGHT THE SECOND. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall-stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, I have you fast in my fortress, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, ENCELADUS. UNDER Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise, And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath. The crags are piled on his breast, The earth is heaped on his head; But the groans of his wild unrest, Though smothered and half-suppressed, Are heard, and he is not dead. Are watching with eager eyes; And the old gods, the austere Oppressors in their strength, Ah me! for the land that is sown |