The grave thrush sings

His love-call, and the nightingale's romance Throbs through the twilight; thou hast but thy

wings,

Thy sun-thrilled dance.

Yet doth love's glow

Burn in the ruby of thy restless throat,
Guiding thy voiceless ecstasy to know
The richest note

Of brooding thrush!

Now for thy joy the emptied air doth long;
Thine is the nested silence, and the hush
That needs no song.

FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW
By Frank Dempster Sherman

ORN is the winter rug of white,
And in the snow-bare spots

once more

Glimpses of faint green grass in sight,

Spring's footprints on the floor.

Upon the sombre forest gates

A crimson flush the mornings catch, The token of the Spring, who waits

With finger on the latch.

Blow, bugles of the south, and win

The warders from their dreams too long,
And bid them let the new guest in
With her glad hosts of song.

She shall make bright the dismal ways.
With broideries of bud and bloom,
With music fill the nights and days
And end the garden's gloom.

Her face is lovely with the sun;
Her voice ah, listen to it now !

The silence of the year is done :
The bird is on the bough!

Spring here,

by what magician's touch?

'Twas winter scarce an hour ago.

And yet I should have guessed as much,

Those footprints in the snow!

TO THE CAT-BIRD

Anonymous

OU, who would with wanton art
Counterfeit another's part,

You

And with noisy utterance claim

Right to an ignoble name,
Inharmonious! – why must you,
To a better self untrue,

Gifted with the charm of

song,

Do the generous gift such wrong?

Delicate and downy throat,
Shaped for pure, melodious note, -
Silvery wings of softest gray,

Bright eyes glancing every way, -
Graceful outline, motion free:

Types of perfect harmony!

Ah! you much mistake your duty,
Mating discord thus with beauty, -
'Mid these heavenly sunset gleams,
Vexing the smooth air with screams,
Burdening the dainty breeze
With insane discordancies.

I have heard you tell a tale
Tender as the nightingale,
Sweeter than the early thrush
Pipes at day-dawn from the bush.
Wake once more the liquid strain
That you poured, like music-rain,
When, last night, in the sweet weather,
You and I were out together.

Unto whom two notes are given,
One of earth, and one of heaven,
Were it not a shameful tale
That the earth-note should prevail?

For the sake of those who love us,
For the sake of God above us,
Each and all should do their best
To make music for the rest.

So will I no more reprove,
Though the chiding be in love:
Uttering harsh rebuke to you,
That were inharmonious, too.

THE WHITE-THROATED

SPARROW

By A. West

ARK! 't is our Northern Nightingale that sings

In far-off, leafy cloisters, dark and cool,

Flinging his flute-notes bounding from the skies!

Thou wild musician of the

mountain-streams,

Most tuneful minstrel of the forest-choirs,

Bird of all grace and harmony of soul,
Unseen, we hail thee for thy blissful voice!

Up in yon tremulous mist where morning wakes
Illimitable shadows from their dark abodes,
Or in this woodland glade tumultuous grown
With all the murmurous language of the trees,
No blither presence fills the vocal space.

The wandering rivulets dancing through the grass,
The gambols, low or loud, of insect-life,
The cheerful call of cattle in the vales,
Sweet natural sounds of the contented hours,
All seem less jubilant when thy song begins.

Deep in the shade we lie and listen long;
For human converse well may pause, and man
Learn from such notes fresh hints of praise,
That upward swelling from thy grateful tribe
Circles the hills with melodies of joy.

A CAGED BIRD

By Sarah Orne Jewett

IGH at the window in her cage
The old canary flits and sings,
Nor sees across the curtain pass
The shadow of a swallow's
wings.

A poor deceit and copy, this, Of larger lives that mark their span, Unreckoning of wider worlds

Or gifts that Heaven keeps for man.

She gathers piteous bits and shreds,
This solitary, mateless thing,
To patient build again the nest

So rudely scattered spring by spring;

And sings her brief, unlistened songs,
Her dreams of bird-life wild and free,
Yet never beats her prison bars

At sound of song from bush or tree.