Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/272

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268
I. M‘Lellan, Jr.
Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hearThe thrilling music of the forest birds.
 How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finchCalls from the distant hollows, and the wrenUttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times,And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangsIts crimson-spotted cups, or chirps, half hidAmid the lowly dogwood's snowy flowers,And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree,And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the earWith its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.
 With the sweet airs of Spring, the robin comes,And in her simple song there seems to gushA strain of sorrow when she visitethHer last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloomOf the deep twilight falls, she takes her perchUpon the red stemm'd hazel's slender twig,That overhangs the brook, and suits her songTo the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.
 In the last days of Autumn, when the cornLies sweet and yellow in the harvest field,And the gay company of reapers bindThe bearded wheat in sheaves, then peals abroadThe blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear,Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of songFloat from thy watchplace on the mossy treeClose at the cornfield edge.
Lone whipporwill,There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn,Heard in the drowsy watches of the night.Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out,And the wide air is still, I hear thee chantThy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takesHis lodging in the wilderness of woods,And lifts his anthem when the world is still:And the dim, solemn night, that brings to manAnd to the herds deep slumbers, and sweet dews
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