Hamlin Garland [1860-

THE CROW

With rakish eye and plenished crop, Oblivious of the farmer's gun, Upon the naked ash-tree top The Crow sits basking in the sun.

An old unG.o.dly rogue, I wot!

For, perched in black against the blue, His feathers, torn with beak and shot, Let woeful glints of April through.

The year's new gra.s.s, and, golden-eyed, The daisies sparkle underneath, And chestnut-trees on either side Have opened every ruddy sheath.

But doubtful still of frost and snow, The ash alone stands stark and bare, And on its topmost twig the Crow Takes the glad morning's sun and air.

William Canton [1845-

TO THE CUCKOO

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!

Thou messenger of Spring!

Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome ring.

What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear: Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fli'st thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No Winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!

We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the Spring.

John Logan [1748-1788]

THE CUCKOO

We heard it calling, clear and low, That tender April morn; we stood And listened in the quiet wood, We heard it, ay, long years ago.

It came, and with a strange, sweet cry, A friend, but from a far-off land; We stood and listened, hand in hand, And heart to heart, my Love and I.

In dreamland then we found our joy, And so it seemed as 'twere the Bird That Helen in old times had heard At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.

O time far off, and yet so near!

It came to her in that hushed grove, It warbled while the wooing throve, It sang the song she loved to hear.

And now I hear its voice again, And still its message is of peace, It sings of love that will not cease-- For me it never sings in vain.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]

TO THE CUCKOO

O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the gra.s.s Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pa.s.s, At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways, In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

THE EAGLE A Fragment

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]