TO A SEA-BIRD By Francis Bret Harte AUNTERING hither on listless Careless vagabond of the sea, Little thou heedest the surf that The bar that thunders, the shale that rings, Give me to keep thy company. Little thou hast, old friend, that's new; Sick am I of these changes too; Little to care for, little to rue, – I on the shore, and thou on the sea. All of thy wanderings, far and near, Bring thee at last to shore and me; All of my journeyings end them here, This our tether must be our cheer, I on the shore, and thou on the sea. Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, Something in common, old friend, have we; Thou on the shingle seekest thy nest, I to the waters look for rest, I on the shore, and thou on the sea. GRIZZLY By Francis Bret Harte OWARD,- of heroic size, O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard; Here, where Nature makes thy bed, Point to hidden Indian springs, Fit for thee, and better than Fearful spoils of dangerous man. In thy fat-jowled deviltry Friar Tuck shall live in thee; Thou mayest levy tithe and dole; Match thy cunning with his fear; NATURE By Jones Very HE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, Because my feet find measure with its call; The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, For I am known to them, both great and small. The flower that on the lonely hillside grows Expects me there when Spring its bloom has given; His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, Glad sights are common: Nature draws Remember those most dear. To me, when in the sudden spring The veil is parted wide, and lo, A moment, though my eyelids close, Once more I see that wooded hill Where the arbutus grows. I see the village dryad kneel, Trailing her slender fingers through The knotted tendrils, as she lifts Once more I dare to stoop beside My eager, wandering hands assist Till, at the last, those blossoms won, Close at her feet I lie. Fresh blows the breeze through hemlock trees, Hark! from the moss-clung apple-bough, I heard it, ay, and heard it not, For little then my glad heart wist What toil and time should come to pass, And what delight be missed; Nor thought thereafter, year by year, Hearing that fresh yet olden song, To yearn for unreturning joys |