THE BLOOD HORSE

GAMARRA is a dainty steed,

Strong, black, and of a noble breed,
Full of fire, and full of bone,
With all his line of fathers known;
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,

But blown abroad by the pride within!
His mane is like a river flowing,
And his eyes like embers glowing

In the darkness of the night,

And his pace as swift as light.

Look, how 'round his straining throat
Grace and shifting beauty float!

Sinewy strength is in his reins,

And the red blood gallops through his veins;

Richer, redder, never ran

Through the boasting heart of man.

He can trace his lineage higher
Than the Bourbon dare aspire,—
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
Or O'Brien's blood itself!

He, who hath no peer, was born,
Here, upon a red March morn;
But his famous fathers dead
Were Arabs all, and Arab bred,
And the last of that great line

Trod like one of a race divine!

And yet, he was but friend to one

Who fed him at the set of sun,

By some lone fountain fringed with green:

With him, a roving Bedouin,

He lived, (none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day),
And died untamed upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands.
Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]

SURE maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush

Whistlin' bould in March,

Before there's a primrose peepin' out,
Or a wee red cone on the larch;

Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud,
An' the wind to come over the sea,
But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud,
He's never the bird for me.

Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush
After an April rain

Slip from in-undher the drippin' leaves,

Wishful to sing again;

An' low wi' love when he's near the nest,

An' loud from the top o' the tree,

But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast,

He's never the bird for me.

Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo

Callin' his mate in May,

When one sweet thought is the whole of his life,

An' he tells it the one sweet way.
But my heart is sore at the cushadoo
Filled wid his own soft glee,

Over an' over his "me an' you!"
He's never the bird for me.

Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast
Singin' his lone on a thorn,

Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost,

Brave wid his heart forlorn.

The time is in dark November,
An' no spring hopes has he:
"Remember," he sings, "remember!"
Ay, thon's the wee bird for me.

Moira O'Neill [18

BIRDS

BIRDS are singing round my window,
Tunes the sweetest ever heard,
And I hang my cage there daily,
But I never catch a bird.

So with thoughts my brain is peopled,
And they sing there all day long:
But they will not fold their pinions
In the little cage of Song!

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

SEA-BIRDS

O LONESOME sea-gull, floating far
Over the ocean's icy waste,
Aimless and wide thy wanderings are,

Forever vainly seeking rest:

Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

"Twixt wintry sea and wintry sky,

Cleaving the keen air with thy breast,
Thou sailest slowly, solemnly;

No fetter on thy wing is pressed:--
Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

O restless, homeless human soul,

Following for aye thy nameless quest, The gulls float, and the billows roll;

Thou watchest still, and questionest:

Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD

THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea,

Why takest thou its melancholy voice,
And with that boding cry

Why o'er the waves dost fly?

O, rather, bird, with me

Through the fair land rejoice!

The Blackbird

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale,
As driven by a beating storm at sea;

Thy cry is weak and scared,

As if thy mates had shared

1523

What doth it bring to me?

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge,
Restless, and sad; as if, in strange accord

With the motion and the roar

Of waves that drive to shore,

One spirit did ye urge

The Mystery-the Word.

Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall,
Old Ocean! A requiem o'er the dead,

From out thy gloomy cells,

A tale of mourning tells,

Tells of man's woe and fall,

His sinless glory fled.

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring
Thy spirit nevermore.

Come, quit with me the shore,

For gladness and the light,

Where birds of summer sing.

Richard Henry Dana [1787-1879]

THE BLACKBIRD

How sweet the harmonies of afternoon:

The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon;

Rich breath of hayfields streams through whispering trees; And birds of morning trim their bustling wings,

And listen fondly-while the Blackbird sings.

How soft the lovelight of the West reposes
On this green valley's cheery solitude,
On the trim cottage with its screen of roses,
On the gray belfry with its ivy hood,

And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings
Its bubbling freshness-while the Blackbird sings.

The very dial on the village church

Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest;
The scribbled benches underneath the porch
Bask in the kindly welcome of the West;
But the broad casements of the old Three Kings
Blaze like a furnace-while the Blackbird sings.

And there beneath the immemorial elm

Three rosy revellers round a table sit,

And through gray clouds give laws unto the realm,
Curse good and great, but worship their own wit,
And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings,
Corn, colts, and curs-the while the Blackbird sings.

Before her home, in her accustomed seat,

The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet

The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid; To her low chair a little maiden clings,

And spells in silence-while the Blackbird sings.

Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud

Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green,
While the far fields with sunlight overflowed
Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen;
Again, the sunshine on the shadow springs,
And fires the thicket where the Blackbird sings.

The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manorhouse,
With its peach-covered walls, and rookery loud,
The trim, quaint garden alleys, screened with boughs,
The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud,
The mossy fountain with its murmurings,

Lie in warm sunshine—while the Blackbird sings.

The ring of silver voices, and the sheen

Of festal garments-and my Lady streams

With her gay court across the garden green;

Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love-dreams;