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 hundred 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 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, A whisper, and then a silence : 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, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all! 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. And the nations far away Are watching with eager eyes; And the old gods, the austere Oppressors in their strength, Ah me! for the land that is sown |