Gray Sky Morning

 

Gray sky has settled on the black and green earth.

Muted edge of tree silouettes soften the horizon

as subdued light is the day's beginning.

 

A thunderstorm comes borne on the wind.

Lightning charges the morning sky.

Rolling thunder shakes free gray cloud moisture.

 

Rain falls to the parched country soil.

No sun will cure a prairie hay lying in a meadow.

Stacks across the hills piled to shed the wet.

 

Shorebirds probe in the mud of a marsh.

Small flocks scurry for an edible bit...

...run and feed at this drying wetland.

 

Wet crickets sing on the ground.

Grass and cattail dance in a northern wind.

Final strokes flash as fading thunder echos.

 

Fog clears to bring bright white.

Blue sky is gray sky gone.

 

Written September 11, 1991 at Carson Lake. ©1991 Jim Ducey.

Jim Ducey. May 15, 1998. Gray sky morning. In: Wetlands. Understanding a resource. University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Institute of Agriculture and Natural Resources, Water Center. p. 3.

Chickadee Poem of 1872

James Robinson.

Twenty little chickadees,

      Sitting in a row;

Twenty pairs of naked feet,

      Buried in the snow;

I should think you'd fly away,

      Where the weather's warm,

Then you wouldn't have to be

      Out there in the storm.

 

Pretty little chickadees!

      All the trees are bare;

Wouldn't you prefer to be

      Where the weather's fair?

All the other birds have flown

      South among the flowers;

There the snow-storms never come—

      Only summer showers.

 

Sorry little chickadees!

      Don't you know the way?

Can't you find the road to go

      Where it's always May?

Robins all have found it out,

      Wrens and blue-birds too;

Don't you wish you'd thought to ask,

      Ere away they flew?

 

Chilly little chickadees?

      I should freeze, I know,

If I had to live out-doors

      In the wind and snow

Don't you find it very cold

      For your little feet?

Don't you find it hard to get

      Anything to eat?

 

Hungry little chickadees!

      Would you like some bread?

I will give you all you want,

      Or some seeds instead,

Anything you like to eat,

      You shall have it free,

Every morning, every night,

      If you'll come to me.

 

Jolly little chickadees!

      Have you had enough?

Don't forget to come again

      While the weather's rough.

By-by, happy little birds!

      Off the wee things swarm,

Dancing through the driving snow,

      Singing in the storm!

February 23, 1872. Chick-a-dee-dee! Fort Dodge Times 4(20): 3.

Original Poetry. Spring.

How pleasant 'tis in early spring,

To hear the pretty robin sing;

To hear the cooing of the dove,

Which fills our hearts with warmest love.

 

To see the pretty grass so green,

Oh, what a soul refreshing scene!

The sight of birds and insect's gay,

The lovely warble of the jay.

 

The red bird with his mellow sound,

While tripping lightly o'er the ground,

Creating joy where'er he goes,

Just like the fragrance of the rose.

 

The lark which rises up so high,

His song the sweetest when most high;

The goose which takes its northward coarse,

With wing so strong and croak so hoarse.

 

The pigeon with unwearied wing,

Gives token of an early spring;

The cat-bid with its changing tone;

The bull-frog with his mighty moan.

 

The ant begins its summer toils,

The lazy serpent then recoils;

The daffo with its yellow hue,

Peeps forth to greet the earliest dew.

 

The Easter flowers next appears,

To note the passing of the years;

And all is joy, and all is love,

Reflected from our home above.

Vox.

April 5, 1860. Belmont Chronicle 4(15): 1.

Impromptu To a Bluebird

Impromptu. — To a Blue Bird,
Singing on a cold frosty morning, — after several warm days.

Come hither, sweet bird, the cold wind hath harmed thee,

Come warm they chill'd limbs, and partake my repast;

A few sunny days from the covert have charmed thee,

As hope told thee, falsely, the winter was past.

 

Thy song of the spring a sweet foretaste has given,

Of delights ever new, ever smiling and gay,

Of young buds, and fresh flowers, and the soft blue of Heaven,

The rich verdure of earth, and the warm airs of May.

 

In thy fate, hapless bird, O! 'tis plain to discover

An emblem of life in its early spring morn,

When the young heart comes forth with hope glowing all over,

And shrinks at the touch of the cold world's chill scorn.

Myra. February 19, 1824.

March 12, 1825. Cincinnati Literary Gazette 3(11): 88.

Poetry - the Snow Bird

The Swallow and the Blue Bird, the Couriers of Spring

Receive at their coming, the welcome of friends;

Yet 'tis pleasant to see, too, the fluttering wing

Of the bird that arrives when the snow flake descends.

 

Though dull in his plumage, and small is his form,

And sunless the day is, and cheerless the night —

He comes like the bow — "in the van of the storm,"

To show us how beauty and horror unite.

 

When the red-breast returns in the Spring of the year

The Snow Bird has gone to his region of snow,

And builds him a nest underneath a glacier

Where icicles hang o'er a cavern below.

 

For he comes but in winter, and stays but a day,

As to breathe above zero, for him is too warm, —

So he spreads his light pinion and hastens away,

And goes as he came, in advance of the storm.

B.

March 31, 1830. Youth's Companion 3(45): 180. From the Boston Courier.

The Blue Bird and Songsters of Spring

By P. Williamson.

Welcome, sweet bird, whose cheering note shall bring

The first "glad tidings" of approaching spring;

Welcome to this thy long deserted home,

From whence rude winter forced thee far to roam.

 

Thou com'st again the lovely grove to cheer,

And in they train the warbling choir appear;

Thy absence left the vernal woods in gloom,

At thy return the hills and valleys bloom.

 

Thy cheering note, ere twilight spring shall dawn,

Break on the ear sweet as the distant horn,

Thy presence make the verdant fields look gay,

Ere yet bright Phoebus' tinge the flowers of May.

 

The robbin red-breast, skipping o'er the lawn,

Waked into raptures, hails the rising morn,

And at the evening sun's departing beam,

Repeats new homage in his closing theme.

 

* Returning spring the swallow brings apace,

And the house-martin, both of kindred race;

But where they rest, or to what clime they go,

Is more perhaps than mortals here can know.

 

** Then comes the mock-bird, noblest of the throng!

Columbia's native bird and prince of song,

Melodious bird! mimic of all that sing,

So merrily chaunting, spreads thy silvery wing;

 

And o'er the smiling landscape tireless play,

From morn till night pour thy enchanting lay;

The whining cat-bird comes with sportive glee,

Who in his song is but the clown to thee.

 

And crow's fierce voice shall echo loud and shrill,

And every night the restless whip-poor-will;

The social wren, your house its place of rest,

And in the porch or window builds its nest,

Whose merry song is heard at dawning light,

And every ear will greet it with delight.

 

The sparrow, lone, unnotic'd, ne'er shall fall,

For he who made thee is the God of all;

Thy feeble voice as soon his ear shall meet,

As seraphs bright, who worship at his feet.

 

Haste, then, all songsters of the feathered throng;

To you these animating strains belong:

Creation haste! let one grand chorus ring,

From earth to heaven, the jubilee of spring.

* The place of migration of these birds is not known even to naturalists.

** Turdus poliglalus of America, falsely called English mocking-bird.

January 3, 1846. The Subterranean 3(32): 0 [4].

Reed-bird Shooting

By H.P. Leland.

Three men and bull-dog ugly,

two guns, and a terrier lame:

They'd better set themselves up for game!

But no! I see, by the cocking

Of that red-haired Paddy's eye,

He's been 'reeding' to much for you, Sir,

Any such game to try!

 

'Whist, Jamey, me boy! kape dark there,

Who hould the big bull-dog in:

There's a bloody big cloud of rade-birds

That nade a peppering'!'

'Chip-bang!' speaks the single-barrel;

'Flip-booong!' roars the old 'Queen-Anne'

There's a Paddy stretched out in the mud-hole,

A kicked over, knocked-down man!

 

the big-bluu-dog's eyes stick out,

And the terrier's barks begin;

The Paddy digs out of the deep mud,

And then the 'discoursin'' comes in:

'Oh Jamey, ye pricious young blag-guard,

I know ye're the divil's son!

How many fingers' load, thin,

Did ye put in this damned old gun?'

 

'How many fingers? Be jabers!

I nivir put in a one!

D'ye think I'd be afther ramming

Me fingers into the gun?'

'Well give me the powdher, Jamey!'

'The powdher! as sure as I'm born,

I put it all in yer muskit,

As I had ne'er a powdher-horn!'

Philadelphia, August, 1853.

December 1853. The Knickerbocker, or New York Monthly Magazine 42(6): 613.

November is Poetry Month

In recognition of the wonderful diversity of poetic expression about wildbirds, an expansive sampler of historic poetry is being presented this month as a special feature. Each poem distinctly represents a tidbit associated with bird history of the period between 1786 and 1885.

Each of the examples — conveyed in their entirety — were published in a newspaper issued during this one hundred year period — except for the contributions written by Alexander Wilson in the early 1800s, which certainly could not be excluded. Often, these prosaic examples were prominent atop a column of the front page, most often beneath a banner title of "Poetry" or less often, "Original Poetry" or "Select Poetry." Unique headlines also used were "Temple of the Muses" or "Poetic Recess" as well as "Literary." Typically these verses were presented atop the page, above the numerous other subjects of text spread about a paper's pages. It was a special feature, presented with particular attention.

More than 140 poems — including a few designated as sonnets — are included with this unique presentation. They are from across continental America, because poetry was a regular feature in so many newspapers.

The common theme is obviously wild birds of various sorts. Either the subject of the writing was entirely about birds or there was a particular mention of them. Examples include:

• An oldtime poem of the latter 1700s refers to a captive paroquet, which was the common term used at the time for the Carolina Parakeet;
• Tributes to the different seasons — especially the Spring and Autumn seasons — which often refer to notably prominent species singing in the meadow or woods or some other local place;
• Personal perspectives on life and living, and other profound travails;
• Stories told in verse, expressed as a personal perspective of a particular place or setting, including an depective indication of the birds and hunting at Long Island; and
• Results of a vicious cat attacking a bird (the first instance in 1803), or a plea to not shoot the birds.
• Tributes to particular species, especially some the well-known song birds of the east, including the bluebird, robin and bobolink.

In many instances the original author was not given, but when the actual author was indicated it only adds to the uniqueness of the prose.

Alice Cary can be recognized for having scribed four examples (including one about a captured bird being released by a young boy). Alfred B. Street and John G. Whittier both authored three. Professor Longfellow wrote poems which mentioned birds. Often only the initials were given, or at times just a pseudonym was used. In one instance, two editors were co-authors, with the headline indicating the verse was the result of "two voices."

There are certainly other poems issued during these years in sources other than newspapers. Poems were prominent in many publications.

Each of these examples wonderfully convey the overall variety of styles used during various years, and how different authors indicated their message in a manner that actively included birds as a prominent feature of their lines of verse. Overall, these unique depictions are worthy of further consideration in association with with any interest in historic ornithology, as well as bird poetry of these years. Indications of authorship could be opportunities to investigate any biographic details for the authors, and consider their particular location and any number of ancillary details.

Modern-era folks interested in poetic interpretation might compare poems of a similar subject from the 21st century to those written 225 to 125 years in the past.

Poems are terse capsules of thought that exquisitely convey common thoughts using the language practices of their time. How has the language changed.? The use of terms such as "dost" and then "doth." There are numerous examples where "thou" was essential portion of the word's flow. It is worthwhile considering words commonly used in the past which are now scarcely used on pages of any current newspaper or online news outlet. There were various uses of an apostrophe to abbreviate words, which might indicate a "shortcut" for a type-setter, or perhaps a norm of the times.

Most of prose presented came from either the Early American Newspapers site or Chronicling America, and found using a variety of search options. The term "poetry" was especially essential, since it was prominently indicated on the paper pages and indicative to an extent that it could be readily parsed by modern internet word-search methods and then presented among search results. A few other appropriate sites were searched, which yielded a few more items of pertinence. The primary hindrances to a thorough search are fee-based access and limitations on search options, for which there is no consistent methodology.

There is certainly other poetic prose available in other sources which were not searched. Additional newspaper issues digitally archived would undoubtedly indicate other worthy examples worthy of recognition due to their distinct presentation or other features that might convey their special significance.

Newspaper sources well-represented by their contributions include the Farmer's Cabinet, Highland Weekly News, New York Daily Tribune, Norwich Courier and Washington D.C. Evening Star. Especially interesting from the plains were some examples of original verse from Bellevue, Nebraska in 1857 and 1858, when a four-page newspaper was issued at this settlement on the west bank of the Missouri River, which — at the time — was near the edge of an expanding western frontier.

It is intriguing to think what other poetic treasures have been written and are among the newspaper chronicles! Any consideration of bird history henceforth should also consider this particularly and uniquely expressive manner of writing about wildbirds.

Transcription

Each article included in this sampler was carefully and individually considered for its significance. Once it met a wandering criteria, a copy was printed, then it was transcribed with care and converted into a web-suitable format. This poetic prose provides a version that can be electronically searched and are presented as a group in a consistent format.

Any errors in transcription may have been due to a lack of legibility in the photocopy of the source material, or a transcription error. For the era around 1800, the typographic "f" used to indicate an "s" was changed. Other apparent and minor typographic errors were changed, since newspaper type-setters did make errors. Layout was standardized, and somewhat simplified due to the manner of presentation imposed by limitations in text formatting and presentation imposed by the website host. This is especially indicated by a variance in indentation, in comparison to the original, printed version.

To ensure an absolutely accurate version, any reader should refer to the primary source which is included in detail with each poem.

Field Sports - A Poem of Greeting

By William E. MacMaster of the Albany Argus and the Philadelphia Press. Written for the occasion. [The shooting match at Coney Island, sponsored by the New York State Association for the Protection of Fish and Game.]

I.

Hail, brother sportsmen of the Empire State,

I give you greeting in my humble lay;

More noble hearts, or strife more truly great,

Ne'er nerved the heroes of our palmiest day.

 

II.

From Erie's shore to Coney's Island's strand,

From the old "North Woods" to the "Southern Tier,"

Here where the Atlantic laves our native land,

Again our contests signalize the year.

 

III.

In mimic war matched like a Spartan band,

With eye undaunted, nerves staunch as steel;

You'll win your honors from a comrade's hand,

In emulation which only sportsmen feel.

 

IV.

Like the bold clansmen or Auld Scotia's pride,

Where every plaid sheds lustre on the scene;

Here at her threshold our contests to decide,

New York gives welcome to all clubs I ween.

 

V.

Here then on wings poetic we will try,

Nor hope our Muse to amuse you with her lay;

Yet clip not our pinions ere the birds do fly,

Since ammunition's not restricted in this fray.

Then pass the amber cup with jolly cheer,

And crown our sportsmen heroes of the year;

For bards poetic, like birds who soar and sing,

Do flutter least when longest on the wing.

 

VI.

From scenes like these of gay and mimic strife,

We turn exultant to the sterner life: —

Where rosy fingers paint the dappled morn,

And merry huntsman, with resounding horn,

Summons the drowsy dogs to eager ear,

And rouse from leafy couch the startled deer.

Bid the well-trained pack with cautious pace,

"Point" well the grouse with an unerring trace,

While field and wood resound the flying war,

While every mountain echoes from afar!

Till vale and forest repeat the loud refrain

While the warm scent draws on the deep mouthed train.

 

VII.

Hurrah for the prairies

And sports of the field,

Where grouse in full coveys

Lie closely concealed;

Where mountain and forest

Nor deep tangled glen,

Interfere with our dogs

Or weary the men;

Where the untrodden acres

Like oceans are spread,

And the birds are still waiting

Our deluge of lead!

"Hie on!" what a magic

That sound to the ears

Of full-blooded pointers,

Whose instinct it cheers; —

They dash on like coursers

Until the warm scent,

Unerringly leads them,

Where now more intent —

Staunch as old veterans

To their "points" they stand,

Each "backing" the other

And waiting command!

Now swift on the pinion,

From stubble they rise;

The quick blood is mounting, —

Their flight fills the skies.

Escape? It is hopeless,

Our scattering lead

Is thundering over them!

And the dogs "mark" them, dead!

 

VIII.

When summer's o'er and autumn mild succeeds,

And quail or partridge on the heather feeds;

Before his lord the setter then should go,

And beat the cover carefully and slow.

 

IX.

When the days shorten and the nights grow chill,

And softer light doth rest on vale and hill,

The sportsman then will change his hunting ground

For lakes and streams where water-fowl abound.

Where heavy geese scream up against the sky,

And swift-winged teal almost our skill defy.

Where skies are darkened by mallard in their flight,

And the rice fields are garrisoned at night.

 

X.

Now comes the sport which gives such manly zest.

Wild fowl shooting, most difficult and best.

To measure speed and distance, and to bring

A teal at sixty yards upon the wing: —

Or land a widgeon with unerring skill,

On some safe log, convenient to your will;

Requires a master in the sportsman's art,

Whose every nerve obeys his head and heart.

 

XI.

Hunting in all phases, on the field or flood,

Makes men more hardy, more humane and good;

Gives health and pleasure, sets the spirit free,

Teaches love of nature — helps the memory;

And more than this, it teaches love of law,

Which will not kill to feed a greedy maw.

How the locks bristle and the eyebrows arch,

For quail or partridge massacred in March.

With what contempt true sportsmen shun the spot,

Whereon they meet some hunter for the pot: —

Poor worthless d — —, his head beneath a price,

Else Courts might ask if "Pott"-ers hunted twice.

 

XII.

Gladly would I sing when our hunt is o'er,

The pleasure which our camp has still in store;

The smoking viands of our morning air;

Appetites keen as is the morning air;

A hospitality that's no empty name —

Each guest a brother whencesoe'er he came.

 

XIII.

A cordial greeting, then, brothers of a race

Whose deeds are sung in many a loving chase; —

Heroes whose brows by fairer hands than mine

Are wreathed with chaplets-human, yet divine

May scenes like these their annual pleasures bring,

And bards more worthy of their merits sing;

While here with new fields and contests at bay,

I give you welcome in my humble lay.

June 23, 1881. Forest and Stream 16(21): 407.

Midsummer - An 1878 Poem

Around this lovely valley rise

The purple hills of Paradise.

O, softly on yon banks of haze

Her rosy face the summer lays!

Becalmed along the azure sky

The argosies of cloudland lie,

Whose stores with many a shining rift,

Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.

Through all the long midsummer day

The meadow sides are sweet with hay.

I seek the coolest sheltered seat,

Just where the field and forest meet —

Where grow the pine trees tall and bland,

The ancient oaks austere and grand,

The fringy roots and pebbles fret

The ripples of the rivulet.

I watch the mowers as they go

Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row;

With even strokes their scythes they swing,

In tune with their merry whetstones ring.

Behind the nimble youngsters run,

And toss the thick swaths in the sun;

The cattle graze, while warm and still,

Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill,

And bright, when summer breezes break,

The green wheat crinkles like a lake.

The butterfly and bumble-bee

Come to the pleasant woods with me;

Quickly before me runs the quail, 

The chickens skulk behind the rail,

High up the lone wood-pigeon sits,

And the woodpecker pecks and flits.

Sweet woodland music sinks and swells,

The brooklet rings its tinkling bells,

The swarming insects drone and hum,

The partridge beats his throbbing drum,

The squirrel leaps among the boughs,

And chatters in his leafy house;

The oriole flashes by; and look —

Into the mirror of the brook,

Where the vain blue-bird trims his coat,

Two tiny feathers fall and float.

As silently, as tenderly.

The dawn of peace descends on me.

O, this is peace! I have no need

Of friend to talk, or book to read;

A dear companion hear abides;

Close to my thrilling heart he bides;

The holy silence is His voice,

I lie, and listen, and rejoice.

August 22, 1878. Mower County Transcript 11(21): 5.

The Boblink or Bob-Lincoln - An 1841 Poem

By Thomas Fisher.

Upon New-Hampshire’s grassy hills

My cradle was a tussoc nest,

My lullaby the murmuring rills;

And there my infant dreams were blest

With visions of June’s laughing hours,

And butter-cups and clover-flowers;

And there my father's simple song

Was ‘happy as the day was long;’

I cannot tell, you cannot think,

How bravely there he sang Boblink!

How gay he sung Boblink, Boblink!

Link-link, Boblink! — Boblink, Link-link!

 

While yet the sunlight’s strongest hour

Sheds o’er those hills its genial power,

From day to day we nestlings grew,

And when the mowers struck, we flew:

Dreadful destruction came to pass

O’er all those lovely flowers and grass;

And when the men and maidens came

To spread and rake the fragrant hay,

You would not know the scene the same;

Vast ruin happens in a day!

I cannot tell, you cannot think,

How sad my father sang Boblink!

How mournfully he sang Boblink!

 

Swiftly our orb’s fixed zodiacs run,

That lift and lower the glorious sun,

And soon the slow-declining light

Fell feebly on my native height;

And summer’s scenes and gayest flowers

Gave place to Autumn’s sober hours.

Eternal Instinct’s guardian care,

That guides the wanderers of the air,

Called all the passage-birds away,

Impelled us, though we longed to stay.

The warblers in their native groves,

The web-foots by old ocean's shore,

Rallied their little ones and loves,

To trust the trackless air once more.

 

Albeit our native fields were bright,

And August flowers were blooming nigh,

Our kindred joined the general flight —

Glad pilgrims to a warmer sky;

We knew that Nature’s harvests there

Were spread for every bird of air:

On the free bounty of her store

Trusted our sires in days of yore.

Our beaux were not in summer dress;

They sang their plaintive autumn notes,

Not those the rattle-caps express

When love incites their merry throats;

So sad their hearts, you would not think

They ever sang Boblink—link-link!

 

Bright summer ripens many a seed,

But none more luscious than the reed

That robes the islands and broad shores,

Where to the sea Shanunga* pours;

Thither our countless flights repair,

Like starlings blackening all the air.

’Tis a vast festival; the sportsmen pour

A rolling volley on the shore;

Falcons are there; and all-devouring man

Feasts on fat reed-birds! as on ortolan ;

Till cool September bids our millions fly

To the warm mantle of a sunnier sky;

Then o’er Savannah's fertile delta spread,

The rice-plant waves its many-feeding head;

Your Boblink-Rice-bird takes a bounteous share,

And smooths his plumage in a genial air.

 

Till guardian Nature, that protects us all,

When heroes perish, or when sparrows fall,

Still bids us follow toward the southern zone,

And make the sun’s bright journey all our own.

O’er ‘lands of flowers,’ and o’er the tropic isles

Where all unblanched, perennial verdure smiles;

High o’er the sea-boy through the crimson air,

From isle to isle our myriad swarms repair;

Where Amazon’s luxuriant shores are rife,

And earth’s bright girdle teems with joyous life.

There, while stern winter's deadliest rigors blow,

Our native hills deep-whelmed in drifted snow,

Your Boblink-pilgrim, till life’s span is run,

Worships and migrates with the varying sun:

Until the day-star in his course on high

Wheels his proud chariot in the southern sky,

And strengthening sunlight on our native hills

Wakes from their winter sleep the frozen rills,

And calls the warblers from the orange groves

To the spring scenery of their summer loves:

We take Shanunga’s meadows by the way,

And there we’ll greet you on the third of May:

Our beaux and belles in summer feather,

Our mated birds, gallant and glorious,

We’ll sing for love and lovely weather,

And make the budding groves uproarious.

 

We stay not; for we seek again

Each his own native mountain glen;

And there, when some kind bird will share

Our fondest loves and parent care,

Near the same spot we'll build a nest,

Where erst our infant dreams were blest:

And when the mower whets his sithe,

He'll listen to the Boblink's song:

Earth cannot boast a bird more blithe,

When June's gay hours are bright and long.

September, 1841. The Knickbocker 18(3): 234-236. Only the poetic portion of this article is included.

The Blue Bird - A Poem From 1863

Know ye a note in all the year

So pleasant as the blue bird's song.

When some bright morning, calm and clear

He greets us as he flits along? —

 

Or, as on some tall tree he rests.

And warbles forth his clear wild notes,

So startling and so sweet, as blest

While on the air his music floats?

 

Yet blessing more, the woodman strong

Welcomes him with his upturned eyes,

As brighter visions swiftly throng

Before him at the glad surprise :

 

Visions of longer, brighter days;

Of buds, and flowers, and leafy grove,

Where many joyous roundelays

Proclaim the almighty power of love.

 

Herald of spring, we welcome thee:

The first of all returned to make

Our forests vocal — would that we

Thus by the forelock time might take :

 

For precious moments quickly pass.

And seasons swiftly glide along

Unmarked as grows the humble grass.

And transient as the wild-birds song.

 

"Up, and be doing!" we will take

The lesson thou so well dost teach,

And in our duties strive to make

Sweet music, though we may not reach

 

Thy joyous heights, yet we may bear

Thy happy spirit in our hearts,

And from the clouded brow of care

Disperse the footprints and the darts.

 

Still warble on, sweet bird, thy song

Inspires me more than many lays :

Still let it float our woods among,

The prophecy of brighter days.

 

And when from every tree and bush

Thy brother songsters fill the air,

Let thy sweet voice be heard at blush

Of morning, and at evening fair;

 

For midst them all no sweeter tone

Floats upward than thy gentle song,

And I would give to thee thy own

Full share of praise our birds among!

May 6, 1863. Raftsman's Journal 9(36): 1.

The Early Blue Bird - A Poem from 1860

By Mrs. L.H. Sigourny.

Blue bird! on yon leafless tree.

Dost thou carol thus to me.

"Spring is coming Spring is here!"

Say'st thou so my birdie dear?

What is that in misty shroud,

Stealing from the darkened cloud?

Lo! the snow flakes' gathering mound

Settles o'er the whitened ground,

Yet thou singest, blithe and clear,

"Spring is coming Spring is here!"

 

Strik'st thou not too bold a strain?

Winds are piping o'er the plains,

Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky,

With a black and threatening eye;

Urchins by the frozen rill,

Wrap their mantles closer still :

Yon poor man with doublet old,

Doth he shiver with the cold?

Hath he not n nose of blue?

Tell me, birdling — tell me true?

 

Spring's a maid of mirth and glee,

Rosy wreaths and revelry;

Hast thou wooed some winged love

To a nest in verdant grove?

Sung to her of greenwood bower,

Sunny skies that never lower?

Lured her with thy promise fair,

Prithee, bird in coat of blue,

Though a lover — tell her true.

 

Ask her, if, when storms are long,

She can sing a cheerful song?

When the rude winds rock the tree,

If she'll closer cling to thee?

Then the blasts that sweep the sky,

Unappalled, shall pass thee by;

Tho thy curtained chamber show,

Sittings of untimely snow,

Warm and glad thy heart shall be,

Love shall make it Spring for thee.

April 14, 1860. Vermont Phoenix 27(15): 4. Also: May 2, 1861. Holmes County Farmer 23(11):4, new series.

Summer Friends - A Poem from 1855

By Frederic S. Cozzens.

"When spring the fields in daisies dressed,

And flushed the woods with maple buds

I spied a little blue bird's nest

Within a cedar's branchy studs.

 

"It's old, gray grass, inlaid with hair,

The summer's sun had withered up,

And autumn's acorns still were there,

Though snows had brimmed its tiny cup.

 

"What then? I heard a pilgrim hymn;

And half forgave the long neglect,

Where perched upon the threshold rim

A little feathered architect.

 

"And straw by straw the walls he wrought,

And hair by hair the floor he spread,

And when his blue bird wife he brought,

They slept within the nuptial bed.

 

"Oh, how I loved my praenomen guest!

For him I loved his help-mate too;

With jealous care I fenced their nest,

And watched them as they sang or flew.

 

"So April passed, and gentle May

Went murmuring by with leaves and bees,

And two small blue-winged chicks had they

When summer broadened on the tree.

 

"My very solitude had made

That tiny household seem more sweet;

And often in the bank I strayed

To watch the nestlings chirp and eat.

 

"But when the paleted autumn came,

And shook the boughs, and bared the wood,

I scarce the feathered brood could blame,

Though void their puny wigwam stood;

 

"For summer friends had come like these,

Like these the summer friends had flown;

When stormy winter stripped the trees,

They left the cold and me alone."

February 3, 1855. Washington D.C. Evening Star 5(651): 1.

The Fowler - A Poem from 1841

By Delta. From Blackwood for Sept.

"And in there care in heav'n and is there love

In heav'nly spirits to these creature base.

That may compassion of their evils move

There is — else much more wretched were the case

Of men than beasts. But oh! the exceeding grace

Of highest God that loves his creatures so,

And all his works with mercy doth embrace,

That blessed angels he sends to and fro.

To serve on wicked man to serve his wicked foe."

Spenser.

 

I have an old remembrance — 'tis as old

As Childhood's visions, and 'tis mingled with

Dim thoughts, and scenes grotesque, by fantasy

From out Oblivion's twilight conjured up.

Ere Truth had shorn Imagination's beams,

Or to forlorn reality tamed down

The buoyant spirit. Yes! The shapes and hues

Of winter twilight, often as the year

Revolves, and hoar-frost grimes the window-sill,

Bring back the lone waste scene that gave it birth,

And make me, for a moment, what I was

Then, on that Polar morn, a little boy,

And Earth again the realm of fairyland.

 

A Fowler was our visitant; his talk

At eve beside the flickering hearth, while howled

The outward winds, and hail-drops on the pane

Tinkled, or flown the chimney in the flame

Whizzed as they melted, was of forest and field,

Wherein lay bright wild-birds and timorous beasts

That shunned the face of man; and oh! the joy,

The passion which lit up his brow, to con

The feats of slight and cunning skill by which

Their haunts were neared, or on the heathy hills,

Or 'mid the undergrove; on snowy moor,

Or by the rushy lake — what time the dawn

Reddens the east, or from on high the moon

In the smooth waters sees her picture's orb,

The white cloud slumbering in the windless sky.

And midnight mantling all the silent hills.

 

I do remember me the very time —

Tho' thirty shadowy years have lapsed between?

'Tis graved as by the hand of yesterday,

For weeks had raved the winds; the angry seas

Howl'd to the darkness, and downfallen the snows;

The red-breast to the window came for crumbs;

Hunger had to the coleworts driven the hate;

The crow, at noontide, pecked the traveled road;

And the wood-pigeon, timorously bold,

Starved from the forest, neared the homes of man.

It was the dreariest depth of winter-tide,

And on the ocean and its isles was felt

The iron sway of the North; yes, even the fowl —

That through the polar summer months could see

A beauty in Spitzbergen's naked isles,

Or on the drifting icebergs seek a home —

Even they had fled, on southern wing, in search

Of less inclement shores.

 

Perturbed by dreams

Passed o'er the slow night-watches; many a thought

And many a hope was forward bent on morn;

But weary was the tedious chime on chime,

And hour on hour 't was dark, and still it was dark

At length we rose — for now we counted five —

And by the flickering hearth arrayed ourselves

In coats and 'kerchiefs, for the early drift

And biting season fit; the fowling-piece

Was shouldered, and the blood-stained game pouch slung

On this side, and the gleaming flask on that:

In sooth, we were a most accordant pair;

And thus accoutred, 10 the lone sea-shore

In fond and fierce precipitance we flew.

 

There was no breath abroad; each in its cave,

As if enchanted, slept the winds, and left

Earth in a voiceless trance : around the porch

All stirlessly the darksome ivy clung;

All silently the leafless trees held up

Their bare boughs to the sky; the atmosphere,

Untroubled in its cold serenity,

Wept icy dews; and now the later stars,

As by some hidden necromantic charm,

Dilate, amid the death-like calm profound,

On the white slumber-mantled earth gazed down. —

Words may not tell, how to the temperament,

And to the hue of that enchanted hour,

The spirit was subdued: a wizard scene!

In the far west, the Peatland's gloomy ridge

Belted the pale blue sky, whereon a cloud,

Fantastic, grey, and tinged with solemn light,

Lay like a dreaming monster, and the moon,

Waning, above its silvery rim upheld

Her horns — as 't were the Spectre of the Past.

Silently, silently, on we trode and trode.

As if a spell had frozen up our words :

White lay the wolds around us, ankle deep

In new-fallen snows, which champ'd beneath our tread;

And, by the marge of winding Esk, which showed

The mirrored stars upon its map of ice,

Downward in haste we journeyed to the shore

Of Ocean, whose drear, multitudinous voice

Unto the listening spirit of silence sang.

 

Oh, leaf! from out the volume of far years

Dissevered, oft, how oft have the young buds

Of Spring unfolded, have the Summer skies

In their deep blue o'ercanopied the earth,

And Autumn, in September's ripening breeze,

Rustled her harvests, since the theme was one

Present, and darkly all that Future lay,

Which now is of the perished and the past,

Since then a generation's span hath fled,

With all its varied whirls of chance and change —

With all it's casualties of birth and death;

And, looking round, sadly I feel this world

Another, though the same; — another in

The eyes that gleam, the hearts that throb, the hopes,

The fears, the friendships of the soul; the same

In outward aspect — in the hills which cleave —

As landmarks of historical renown —

With azure peaks the sky; in the green plain,

That spreads its annual wild-flowers to the sun;

And in the river, whose blue course is marked

By many a well known bend and shadowy tree : —

Yet o'er the oblivious gulf, whose mazy gloom

Ensepulchres so many things, I see

As 't were of yesterday — yet robed in tints

Which yesterday has lost, or never had —

The desolate features of that Polar morn —

Its twilight shadows, and its twinkling stars —

The snows far spreading — the expanse of sand,

Ribbed by the roaring and receded sea.

And, shedding over all a wizard light,

The waning moon above the dim-seen hills.

 

At length, upon the solitary shore

We walked of ocean, which, with sullen voice,

Hollow and never-ceasing, to the north

Sang its primeval song. A weary waste!

We passed through pools, where mussel, clam and wilk

Clove to their gravelly beds; o'er slimy rocks,

Ridgy and dark, with dank fresh fuel green,

Where the prawn wriggled, and the tiny crab

Slid sideway from our path, until we gained

The land's extremest point, a sandy jut,

Narrow, and by the weltering waves begirt

Around; and there we laid us down and watched,

While from the west the pale moon disappeared,

Pronely, the sea-fowl and the coming dawn.

 

Now Day with Darkness for the mastery strove;

The stars had waned away — all, save the last

And fairest, Lucifer, whose sliver lamp,

In solitary beauty, twinkling, shone

'Mid the far west, where, through the clouds of rack

Floating around, peeped out at intervals

A patch of sky; — straightway the reign of Night

Was finished, and, as if instinctively,

The ocean flocks, or slumbering on the wave

Or on the isles, seemed the approach of dawn

To feel; and, rising from afar, were heard

Shrill shrieks and pipings desolate — a pause

Ensued, and then the same lone sounds returned,

And suddenly the whirring rush of wings

Went circling round us o'er the level sands,

Then died away : and, as we looked aloft

Between us and the sky, we saw a speck

Of black upon the blue — some huge, wild bird,

Osprey or eagle, high amid the clouds

Sailing majestic, on its plumes to catch

The earliest crimson of the approaching day.

 

'Twere sad to tell our murderous deeds that morn,

Silent upon the chilly beach we lay

Prone, while the drifting snow-flakes o'er us fell.

Like Nature's frozen tears, for our misdeeds

Of wanton cruelty. The eider ducks,

With their wild eyes, and necks of changeful blue,

We watched, now diving down, now on the surge

Flapping their pinions, of our ambuscade

Unconscious — till a sudden death was found :

While floating o'er us, in the graceful curves

Of silent beauty down the sea-mew fell :

The gilinot upon the shell-bank lay

Bleeding, and oft, in wonderment, its mate

Flew round, with mournful cry, to bid it rise;

Then shrieking, fled afar : the sandpipers,

A tiny flock, innumerable, as round

And round they, flew, bewailed their broken ranks :

And the scared heron sought his inland marsh.

With blood-bedabbled plume around us rose

A slaughtered hecatomb; and to my heart

(My heart then open to all-sympathies)

It spoke of tyrannous cruelty — of man

The desolator; and of some far day,

When the accountable shall make account,

And but the merciful shall mercy find.

 

Soul-sickened, satiate, and dissatisfied,

An altered being, homeward, I returned,

My thoughts revolting at the thirst for blood

So brutalizing, so destructive of

The finer sensibilities, which man

In boyhood owns, and which the world destroys. —

Nature had preached a sermon to my heart :

And from that moment, on that snowy morn,

I loathed the purpose and the power to kill.

October 4, 1841. New York Tribune 1(151): 4. Based upon terminology and other linguistic clues, this prose may have been originated on the east side of the North Atlantic Ocean. There may be transcription errors due to a lack of legibility associated with the online presentation of the source document.

The Closing Scene - A Poem from 1852

By T. Buchanan Read.

Within the sober realm of leafless trees

The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;

Like some tainted reaper in his hour or case,

When all the field are lying brown and bare.

 

The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills

O'er the dim wates, widening in the vales,

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,

On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

 

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued,

The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low;

As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed

His winter log with many a muffled blow.

 

The embattled forests, erewhile, armed in gold,

Their banners bright with every martial hue,

Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old,

Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

 

On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight;

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint;

And like a star, slow drowning in the light,

The village church vane seemed to pale and faint.

 

The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew —

Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before —

Silent till some replying warder blew

His alien born, and then was heard no more.

 

Where, erst, the jay within the elm's tall crest

Made garrulous trouble routed her unfledged young;

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,

By every light wind censer swung.

 

Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves,

The busy swallows circling ever near,

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,

An early harvest, and a plenteous year;—

 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast

Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,

To warn the reapers of the rosy east,—

All now was songless, empty and forlorn.

 

Alone, from out the stubble, piped the quail,

And croaked he crow, through all he dreamy gloom;

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,

Made echo to the distant cottage loom.

 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers,

The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night;

The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight.

 

Amid all this — in this most cheerless air,

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch

Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there,

Firing the floor with his inverted torch; —

 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene,

The white haired matron, with monotonous tread,

Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyous mien,

Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

 

She had known sorrow. he had walked with her,

Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust;

And, in the dead leaves, still she heard the stir

Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

 

While her cheek was bright with summer bloom

Her country summoned, and she gave her all,

And twice, warbowed to her his sable plume —

Re-gave the swords, to rust upon the wall.

 

Re-gave the swords — but not the hand that drew.

And struck for liberty the dying blow;

Nor him, who to his sire and country true,

Fell amid the ranks of the invading foe.

 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,

Like the low murmurs of a hive at noon;

Long, but not loud, the memory of the game,

Breathed through her lips, a sad and tremulous tone.

 

At last the thread was snapped — her head was bowed —

Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene,

And loving neighbors smoothed her careful surround,

While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.

October 7, 1852. Bardstown Herald 2(38): 4. Issued at Nelson County, Kentucky.

A Song of Spring - In Two Voices

Being the joint production of the Advocate's sentimental and practical editors.

The days of the summer are rapidly nearing,

The earth warms anew in the sun's fervid light;

The loafers again on the streets are appearing,

And ready, as usual, to drink or to fight.

 

The gales that so late from the northward were blowing

Are now by soft airs from the tropics replaced;

And women their sealskins in camphor are stowing

While lung-pads encircle each delicate waist.

 

Coming again in beneficent summer,

Filling with beauty the earth and the skies;

Coming the lightning-rod man and the drummer,

Bumblebees, hornets, mosquitoes and flies.

 

Now does the maid plant the flowering creeper,

To spread its rich blooms o'er her sleeping-room sash;

Now does the generous boarding-house keeper

Give us a rest from our surfeit of hash.

 

Up on the roof in the sunlight are basking

Doves that coo lovingly each to its mate;

Down in the beer-shop the young man is asking

William to hang up more drinks on the slate.

 

Glad is the heart of each far northern dweller

As Flora trips daintly over the grass;

Soon on the deck of the Goodrich propeller

Printers will ride on their annual pass.

 

Out in the porch the canary is hanging,

And trilling as only canary birds can;

The girl in her chamber her front hair is banging,

And using a lotion for freckles and tan.

 

Poplar, and maple, and basswood, and beech,

Soon will they open their swelling buds,

And the man of the house will give a screech

As he sits down plump in a pail of suds.

 

Soon in the fields will the lassies be seeking

Blossoms that come when the frost-king relents;

Soon in their rear will the old ram be sneaking

To hustle them over the neighboring fence.

 

Soon will the paths in the woodland be winning

Lovers to stroll 'mid their favorite haunts;

Soon will the boy up the fruit tree be shimming,

A brindle dog's teeth in the seat of his pants.

 

Soon from the clover the bees will be sipping

The banquet of honey that nature has spread;

Soon in kid boots will our damsels be tripping,

And kicking their overshoes under the bed.

 

Field and garden and valley and wood

Are slowly revealing their hidden riches;

And the shingle is put where it does most good

To the careless boy who soils his breeches.

 

Hark! In the forest the partridge is drumming;

Hark to the robin's delightful soprano!

Hark, Miss Angeline Scraggs is thrumming

That same old tune on her cracked piano.

 

Throw open the window! my spirit is yearning

To breathe the rich odor of rosemary shoots;

Shut it again! for the neighbors are burning

Ham-rinds and cabbage-stalks, rubbers and boots.

 

Rejoice, O my son! for the winter has fled;

No more shall its storms bring discomfort or harm;

No more shall the maid wear her stockings in bed,

Or rush down at morn with her clothes on her arm.

 

Rejoice! for the beautiful season is here

When the vernal sun shines and the yellow bird twitters;

When the doctors advise us to brace p with beer,

And tone up our systems with Hostetter's bitters.

May 12, 1881. Door County Advocate 20(2): 3.

Spring - A Poem from 1866

By Mrs. Clara H. Holmes.

Bright spring is here, and bashful March

His welcome opening, freely brings,

Of balmy winds from Southern lands,

And golden sunshine over us flings.

Beneath his kiss the starry eyes

Of blue forget-me-nots grow bright;

Though still beneath the last year's leaves

They hide their faces in affright;

And March at times so beautiful grows

He gives us back old winter's snows.

 

Fickle April, short-lived queen,

Will seize the abducted thrones,

And rule the earth in wayward mood,

With smiles and tears alternate shower;

Her emerald wreath thick set with gems,

Of purple, blue and gold combined,

On maple bough and willow lithe

Her gaily tasseled scepter find

The slender blades of meadow grass

Her footsteps kiss as on they pass.

 

The younger sister, smiling May,

The peach and apple buds will kiss,

And, waking from their sleeping, they

Will blush with life and bliss;

The honey bee, with happy hum,

Will woo the fair and fragrant flowers,

The blue bird and the robin come

With song to glorify the hours.

Then over serene May's early tomb

June's crimson roses bud and bloom.

April 4, 1866. Louisville Weekly Courier 20(1018): 1.

Lines to a Red-Bird - A Poem from 1873

Little, bird, so full of gladness,

Singing sweetly in yon tree,

Naught to thee is known of sadness,

Thou a wild-wood warbler free.

 

Night but brings thee rest and slumber,

Sitting by thy russet mate,

Pleasures only without number,

Crown thee, birdie, soon or late.

 

While at heart I wear the willow,

Pretty bird I envy thee;

Tears bedew my nightly pillow,

Soothing sleep comes not to me.

 

Had I like thee bright pinions,

Soon I'd fly across the sea,

seeking in those far dominions

Balm to make this anguish flee.

 

I would seek no more the dwelling

where we first together met;

Then my heart with joy was swelling,

Now it feels but vain regret.

 

Birdie, hush thy joyous singing!

Sick my heart turns, at thy lay!

Go, sweet bird! thy bright form winging,

To some happier home — away!

Inez. June 20, 1873. Cuthbert Appeal 7(25): 2. Written for the Cuthbert Appeal.

The Whip-poor-will - A Poem from 1879

When apple-branches, flushed with bloom,

Load June's warm evenings with perfume,

And balmier grows each perfect day,

And fields are sweet with new-mown hay,

Then, minstrel loud, I hear thy note,

Up from the pasture thickets float —

Whip-poor-will!

 

Thine are the hours to love endeared

And summoned by thy accents weird,

What wild regrets — what tender pain,

Recalls my youthful dreams again,

As trailing down the shadowy years,

That old refrain loved memory hears —

Whip-poor-will!

 

The garish day inspires thee not;

But hid in some deep-shaded grot,

Thee, like a sad recluse, dost wait

The silver hours inviolate,

When every harsher sound is flown,

And groves and glens are thine alone,

Whip-poor-will!

 

Thou, when the rapt voluptuous night

Pants in the young moon's tender night,

And woods, and cliffs, and shimmering streams

Are splendid in her argent beams —

How thrills the lover's heart to hear

Thy loud staccato, liquid clear,

Whip-poor-will!

 

Whence comes thy iterated phrase;

That to the wondering ear conveys

Half-human sounds, yet cheats the sense

With vagueness of intelligence,

And, like a wandering voice of air

Haunts the dim fields, we know not where,

Whip-poor-will!

Henry M. Cornwell. August 21, 1879. Georgetown Times and Courier 14(23): 2. From: July, 1879; Scribner's Monthly 18(3): 416.