The Posy Ring Part 11

How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Flitting about in each leafy tree; In the leafy trees so broad and tall, Like a green and beautiful palace hall, With its airy chambers, light and boon, That open to sun, and stars, and moon; That open unto the bright blue sky, And the frolicsome winds as they wander by!

They have left their nests in the forest bough; Those homes of delight they need not now; And the young and old they wander out, And traverse the green world round about; And hark at the top of this leafy hall, How, one to another, they lovingly call!

"Come up, come up!" they seem to say, "Where the topmost twigs in the breezes play!"

"Come up, come up, for the world is fair, Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air!"

And the birds below give back the cry, "We come, we come to the branches high!"

How pleasant the life of the birds must be, Living above in a leafy tree!

And away through the air what joy to go, And to look on the green, bright earth below!

How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Skimming about on the breezy sea, Cresting the billows like silvery foam, Then wheeling away to its cliff-built home!

What joy it must be to sail, upborne, By a strong free wing, through the rosy morn, To meet the young sun, face to face, And pierce, like a shaft, the boundless s.p.a.ce!

To pa.s.s through the bowers of the silver cloud; To sing in the thunder halls aloud: To spread out the wings for a wild, free flight With the upper cloud-winds,--oh, what delight!

Oh, what would I give, like a bird, to go, Right on through the arch of the sun-lit bow, And see how the water-drops are kissed Into green and yellow and amethyst.

How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Wherever it listeth, there to flee; To go, when a joyful fancy calls, Das.h.i.+ng down 'mong the waterfalls; Then wheeling about, with its mate at play, Above and below, and among the spray, Hither and thither, with screams as wild As the laughing mirth of a rosy child.

What joy it must be, like a living breeze, To flutter about 'mid the flowering trees; Lightly to soar and to see beneath, The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, And the yellow furze, like fields of gold, That gladden some fairy region old!

On mountain-tops, on the billowy sea, On the leafy stems of the forest-tree, How pleasant the life of a bird must be!

Mary Howitt.

_An Epitaph on a Robin Redbreast_

Tread lightly here; for here, 'tis said, When piping winds are hush'd around, A small note wakes from underground, Where now his tiny bones are laid.

No more in lone or leafless groves, With ruffled wing and faded breast, His friendless, homeless spirit roves; Gone to the world where birds are blest!

Where never cat glides o'er the green, Or school-boy's giant form is seen; But love, and joy, and smiling Spring Inspire their little souls to sing!

Samuel Rogers.

_The Bluebird_

I know the song that the bluebird is singing, Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging.

Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary, Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.

Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat!

Hark! was there ever so merry a note?

Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying, Up in the apple-tree, swinging and swaying:

"Dear little blossoms, down under the snow, You must be weary of winter, I know; Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer, Summer is coming and spring-time is here!

"Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise; Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes; Sweet little violets hid from the cold, Put on your mantles of purple and gold; Daffodils, daffodils! say, do you hear?

Summer is coming, and spring-time is here!"

Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller.

_Song_

I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving; Sweet little red feet! why should you die-- Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why?

You lived alone in the forest-tree, Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?

I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas; Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

John Keats.

_What Does Little Birdie Say?_

What does little birdie say, In her nest at peep of day?

"Let me fly," says little birdie, "Mother, let me fly away."

Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away.

What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day?

Baby says, like little birdie, "Let me rise and fly away."

Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger.

If she sleeps a little longer, Baby, too, shall fly away.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

_The Owl_

When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round; And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the c.o.c.k hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.