The wryneck* her monotonous complaint Continues, harbinger of her who, doom'd Never the sympathetic joy to know
That warms the mother cowering o'er her young, A stranger robs, and to that stranger's love Her egg commits unnatural: the nurse, Unwitting of the change, her nestling feeds With toil augmented; its portentous throat Wondering she views with ceaseless hunger gape, Starts at the glare of its capacious eyes, Its giant bulk, and wings of hues unknown. Meanwhile the little songsters, prompt to cheer Their mates close brooding in the brake below, Strain their shrill throats; or, with parental care, From twig to twig their timid offspring lead, Teach them to seize the unwary gnat, to poise Their pinions,in short flights their strength to prove, And venturous trust the bosom of the air.
BIRDS BUILDING THEIR NESTS.
Now every feather'd tenant of the grove Labours his sweetest song, studious to cheer His busy mate, a pensive architect,
That builds the woven wonder of the nest! Laps in a gentle cradle lined with down Her future brood, or vigilant expects Day after day the pregnant egg to live And supplicate provision not in vain. Such care maternal needs the sweet relief
The Welsh consider this bird as the foreranner or servant of the cuckoo, and call it gwas y gog, or the cuckoo's attendant. The Swedes regard it in the same light. In the mid-' land counties of England the common people call it the cuckoo's maiden.
Of labour'd song, and sometimes, parent sir, The free existence of a silent beak; Enamour'd songsters, grateful is the task, While you from every brake the rising orb With sweet hosanna welcome, to admire And mark the several energies that fill Your morning anthem of spontaneous praise. The sparrow couple with industrious bill The scatter'd straw collect, contriving snug Under the cottage eave or low-roof'd barn Their genial couch. More than mere chirpers now, They watch the floating feather as it flies, Eye-serve the goose for his superfluous down, Or dressing fowl, or self-adorning drake, And bear triumphant the loose spoil away. Nor these alone are busy.
Feathery pairs, Innumerable as the kindling bud,
Of wedded cares partake, and build the nest, And hopes divide with constancy that shames Man's brittle contract and infirm regard. Lo! to the steeple with alternate wing Bears expeditious his long twig the daw, Nor seldom struggles with his awkward freight, And drops it, startled by the hooting boy That shouts beneath. The solitary dove, Which loves the still dilapidated tower Of desert castle or the time-cleft arch Of ancient chantry, whose unshelter'd shafts Ivy in pity clothes, and verdant moss Crowns in respect his weatherbeaten head, With frequent wing alighting in the field Bears the loose stubble thence, and builds on high Her bed unseen beyond the pilferer's reach. His airy nursery in the neighbouring elm Constructs the social rook, and makes the grove
That girds the crumbling edifice around, And every angle of its ruined pile
With the base note of his harsh love resound. Tell me, philosopher, in what sage school Of perfect wisdom were the feathery folk Taught to diversify and labour each The several nest of his peculiar race? Where learn'd the sloven sparrow, little wise, Or little studious to excel, his art Inferior, the maternal cell to thatch? Whence drew the marten his superior skill To knead and temper, masonlike, the slime Of street or stagnant pool, and build aloft Beneath the cornice brink or shady porch His snug depending couch, on nothing hung, Founded in air, and finish'd with a neat Convenient aperture, from whence he bolts Sudden, and whither brisk returns with mouth Fill'd for his hiant offspring? Whence received The daw his lesson, or the rook, the one Within his lonely unfrequented tower Weaving his basket of unnumber'd twigs, The other on the topmost elm sublime His wicker cradle fixing, to be rock'd By the rude nurse Adversity's strong gale? Whence knew the sprightly golden pinion'd finch, Of ruddy countenance, and ivory beak, And coat of sleekest umber, his fond art To line with locks and pave with neatest love The verdant nest of interwoven moss,
Fast to the blushing apple's forked branch, Amid the blossoms of the codlin tied?
Thou prying schoolboy, spare the neat design, And think of Him whose all-protecting hand
Secretes the nestling with innumerous leaves, And with abundant foliage makes obscure And to the sight impervious, branches erst Easily pierced, or by the solar ray Or beam of human eye or arrowy gale,— Dark and impenetrable now to all. Think of His mercy that protects the nest; And, kind to all, with more especial love The linnet spare and finch of crimson face, That twitter each the none-offending song Of quiet prettiness, and pluck the down Of the prolific thistle for their bread. Not to destroy be earnest, but to save.
SUBDUED by hunger the poor feathery tribes Small dread of man retain, though wounded oft, Oft slain or scared by his resounding tube. The fieldfare gray and he of ruddier wing Hop o'er the field unheeding, easy prey To him whose heart has adamant enough To level thunder at their humble race. The sable bird melodious from the bough No longer springs alert and clamorous, Short flight and sudden with transparent wing Along the dyke performing, fit by fit: Shuddering he sits in horrent coat outswoln; Despair has made him silent, and he falls From his loved hawthorn, of its berry spoil'd, A wasted skeleton shot through and through By the near-aiming sportsman. Lovely bird, So end thy sorrows, and so ends thy song! Never again in the still summer's eve,
Or early dawn of purple-vested morn, Shalt thou be heard, or solitary song Whistle contented from the watery bough, What time the sun flings o'er the dewy earth An unexpected beam, fringing with flame The cloud immense, whose shower-shedding folds Have all day dwelt upon a deluged world. No, thy sweet pipe is mute, it sings no more. High on the topmost branches of the elm In sable conversation sits the flock
Of social starlings, the withdrawing beam Enjoying, supperless, of hasty day.
Half starved and petrified the pigeon moves With bloated plumage on the dovehouse sill, And seems forgetful of his amorous bow And note of love profound. No more he starts With loud-applauding wing from his hush'd cove, Nor sweeps with swift career the snowy down. But most of all subdued, or fearful least Of man's society, with ruddy breast Against the window beats, sagacious bird, The robin. At the door half open left Or by the gale unlatch'd, or narrow pass Of air-admitting casement, or (to him Sufficient port) the splinter'd aperture Of attic pane demolish'd, with a flirt Enters the fledged intruder. He has left His haunt divine, the woodhouse and the barn, A feathery mendicant made bold by want, And every little action asks aloud
Alms the most indigent might well afford, A drop of water and a crumb of bread. Timid and sleek upon the floor he hops, His every feather clutch'd, all ear, all eye, And springing swift at the first sound he hears,
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