Class 'SSZS2I 
 
 Book_ Lxtj if 
 
 Copyright N". 
 
 /*|/^ 
 
 GOeyRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
v*' 
 
LILT O' THE BIRDS 
 
 BY 
 
 EMILE PICKHARDT 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 
 
 1912 
 

 COPTBIGHT, 1913 
 
 Shebmax, French l^•- Companx 
 
 //>^/• 
 
 /^ fW « •> »-V /-\ — •• 4 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 YE MERRY BIRDS 1 
 
 THE CAPTIVE BIRD 2 
 
 JENNY WREN 3 
 
 THE THRUSH 4 
 
 THE HOMING DOVE 5 
 
 O BIRD THAT CLEAVES THE AZURE SKIES 6 
 
 THE ORIOLE 7 
 
 THE SONG OF THE BOBOLINK 8 
 
 OH, TELL ME, YE BIRDS 9 
 
 THE SEA GULL 10 
 
 TO A HUMMING BIRD 11 
 
 THE SONG SPARROW 13 
 
 THE WOUNDED BIRD 1* 
 
 THE BEREAVED ROBIN 16 
 
 SPARE THE GENTLE SONGSTER 17 
 
 THE WHIPPOORWILL ^^ 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Facing page 
 FRONTISPIECE ^ 
 
 THE THRUSH 4 k 
 
 THE ORIOLE 7 "^ 
 
 THE HUMMING BIRD 11 i^ 
 
 THE SONG SPARROW 12 "^ 
 
 THE BEREAVED ROBIN 16 "^ 
 
YE MERRY BIRDS 
 
 Oh, where shall tongue or pen find words 
 To sing your praise, ye merry birds ; 
 
 Your pretty forms, your gentle eyes. 
 Your graceful flight athwart the skies ; 
 Your plumage soft of colors rare, 
 Your joy songs pulsing everj^vhere? 
 Nay, words of mine impotent seem 
 To fitly clothe the fertile theme. 
 
 Ah, what a cheerless world 'twould be 
 Without your song and flight so free ; 
 
 Nigh half the charm would disappear 
 Of springtime joys, were you not here 
 A sense of buoyancy to bring 
 And thoughts of heaven, when ye sing; 
 
 E'en summer's glow and autumn's hue 
 Were dulled and dreary without you. 
 
 And so I fain your charms would tell ; 
 
 Nor could I fail to sing them well, 
 Befittingly to voice your praise. 
 Could I but catch your thriUing lays; 
 
 Could my poor muse but with you rise 
 
 In flight amid the lambent skies — 
 
 Oh, surely then, I'd find the words 
 To sing of you, O merry birds. 
 
 [1] 
 
THE CAPTIVE BIRD 
 
 O HAPLESS captive, held by prison bars, 
 From all of joy and hope in life apart, 
 
 Once of the free and joyous woodland throng 
 That fills the fragrant air with vibrant song 
 From palest dawn till waking of the stars. 
 Dost thou still hold the image in thine heart 
 
 Of all those lovely scenes — the budding flower, 
 In verdant meadow, where the zephyr swayed 
 The crimson clover to the wand'ring bee ; 
 The glory of the bloom-crowned apple tree 
 Where, hid from rutliless gaze in April hour. 
 To thy dear mate thy trysting vows were made? 
 
 Oh, tell me, captive with the mournful lay. 
 
 That well might touch the coldest heart to hear, 
 Doth memory's torment follow also thee? 
 Is that the secret of the dews I see 
 Upon thine eyes, that gaze so far away. 
 
 As if through walls of granite thou could'st peer? 
 
 Does still the image of thy gentle mate 
 
 Dwell in thy soul, with whom thou e'er didst fly 
 With each recurring spring to seek again 
 Tliat loved spot where hope and joy did reign. 
 Where near the do^^^ly nest thou didst await 
 With swelling song thy tender brood's first cry? 
 
 Ah, surely, this the secret font must be 
 Of that supernal pathos in thy song. 
 
 That floods my soul with wistful memories 
 Of lost delights, as floods the twilight breeze 
 The swaying pines with mournful liarmony. 
 Whose sobbing chords to spirit choirs belong. 
 
 [2] 
 
JENNY WREN 
 
 O Jenny Wren, O Jenny Wren, 
 
 So you have found a resting place 
 To raise your little brood again, 
 
 Within the dear old nesting place: 
 There 'neath the eaves, where drooping leaves 
 
 Of willow branches swinging low. 
 Soft lullabys 'neath lambent skies 
 
 Are ever sweetly singing low. 
 
 Jenny Wren, O Jenny Wren, 
 
 I love your bright and funny ways ; 
 
 1 love to see j'ou building when 
 The world is glad with sunny days. 
 
 You primp and preen with knowing mien 
 When Johnny Wren conies flying near; 
 
 A true coquette as e'er I've met, 
 You are, without half trying, dear. 
 
 O Jenny Wren, O Jenny Wren, 
 
 With all your pert and canny ways, 
 I'm glad to welcome you again. 
 
 And hope j-ou'll bide here many days; 
 A brood to rear of birdlings, dear. 
 
 On whom you'll lavish dearest love. 
 And by and by teach them to fly. 
 
 And cleave the sunny skies above. 
 
 [3] 
 
THE THRUSH 
 
 When at the day-god's light caress, 
 
 Aurora, stiiTed from sweet repose. 
 Still thralled in drowsy listlessness, 
 
 Doth ti'embling eyehds half unclose; 
 Or when the garish day declines 
 
 And all the world seeks balmy rest. 
 When twilight softens forms and lines, 
 
 Then sings the wood-thrush at his best. 
 
 Alone, in some sequestered bow'r. 
 
 Where leafy arches cast their shade 
 And cool, at mid-day's torrid hour. 
 
 The brooklet winding through the glade; 
 Where human discord, all unknown. 
 
 Ne'er breaks of sacred hush the spell; 
 There, in his cloister, all alone. 
 
 In shy seclusion doth he dwell. 
 
 Now pause ; approach not all too near 
 
 His favored haunt with careless tread, 
 So you a chorister would hear 
 
 Whose rhapsodies might wake the dead. 
 Untutored, he has caught the art 
 
 Alone, where nature's spirit broods. 
 Of giving voice to nature's heart 
 
 And weaving chorals from her moods. 
 
 No suitor bold for men's applause. 
 
 Unconscious of his powers, he 
 From nature inspiration draws 
 
 And fills her halls with harmony. 
 In woodland haunts, inviolate 
 
 Bj' mortals' sordid clamorings, 
 To liis Creator and his mate 
 
 He brings his choicest offerings. 
 [4] 
 
THE THRUSH 
 
THE HOMING DOVE 
 
 O WINGED messenger of love, 
 
 Of hope and peace and life in sacred lore, 
 Tell me, O silent, s^\^ft, unerring minion. 
 What instinct guides thy flight on dowTiy pinion 
 Across the wastes of sea, the mountains o'er. 
 
 Through wind and murky storm, through night and day? 
 What hidden power bears thee on thy way 
 Safe, safe unto thy goal from foreign shore, 
 O gentle dove? 
 
 Nay, none but He who rules above 
 
 Could bear thee thus o'er sea and desert wade ; 
 'Na.y, none but God could clarify thy vision. 
 Thou sjTubol of the soul for realms elysian 
 Boimd. Naught but spirit-prescience e'er could guide 
 Thee true. Yea, thou a perfect sjonbol art 
 Of deathless soul, by heaven set apart — 
 Life's fairest emblem homing o'er death's tide — 
 O gentle dove ! 
 
 [5] 
 
O BlliD THAT CLEAVES THE AZURE SKIES 
 
 O BIRD that cleaves the azure skies 
 
 To poise the tieecy clouds among, 
 What glories greet your searching eyes 
 As to the vaulted dome you rise, 
 
 That tune your voice to thrilling song? 
 
 What visions of supernal spheres 
 Draw forth those melting melodies, 
 
 That lilting do>^ii upon mine ears 
 
 Bring to mine eyes unbidden tears — 
 Oh. tell me, whence those rhapsodies? 
 
 Oh, tell me, bird, the secret lore 
 
 That you have learned in heaven's dome; 
 Far, far, I watch you as you soar 
 The treetops and the mountains o'er — 
 Xay, heaven seems to be your home. 
 
 [6] 
 
THE ORIOLE 
 
THE ORIOLE 
 
 A FLASH of gold and scarlet 'mid the green 
 Of fragrant, blooming appletree, my dear 
 Old friend the oriole returns once more 
 To seek his last year's nesting jjlace, and rear 
 His little brood again; once more to cheer 
 My heart with his bright ways, from morn till e'en, 
 And sing above my window as of yore. 
 
 Behold the regal songster, as he sits 
 
 Upon the swaying bough and preens his bright, 
 
 Rich plumage. Now and then his head 
 He sidewise turns, as if he would in\'ite 
 The wonderment of every one in sight. 
 Now hear him warble, as he deftly flits 
 
 From bough to bough, by wayward fancy led. 
 
 Now hear that liquid, tender, golden note; 
 He calls his mate, a hidden place to show 
 
 Where gnarled branches form a perfect goal 
 To swing their nest, secure from wanton foe ; 
 Secure from rain and mid-day's torrid glow. 
 There they v,i\\ rear their brood, while from his throat 
 Will swell the song of matchless oriole. 
 
 [7] 
 
THE SOXG OF THE BOBOLINK 
 
 When the clover field is crimson and the daisies, like the snow, 
 
 O'er the pasture weave their mantle, pure and white; 
 When the fragrant apple blossoms to the breeze their perfume 
 throw, 
 And the heart of nature's throbbing with delight; 
 Then the bobolink, returning from his warmer southern home. 
 
 Comes again to meet the friends who've missed him long; 
 Comes again to spread his pinions 'neath the northern azure dome. 
 Comes again to greet us with his matchless song: 
 Bobolincon, bobolincon, ling, lang, ling; 
 Bobolincon, bobolincon, cling, clang, cling; 
 Oh, listen to his singing, to the jubilating ringing 
 
 Of the melody he's flinging to the breezes, on the wing! 
 
 Now he rises o'er the meadow in his wanton spiral flight, 
 
 Now he pauses, all a-flutter, in mid air; 
 Now he swings upon a swaying plume of meadow queen, alight, 
 
 With his wings outspread to keep him balanced there. 
 And anon he sounds a kejniote, soft and lute-like is its tone. 
 
 Low and liquid like aeolian harmony; 
 Now again he rises upward with a choral all his own. 
 
 With an outburst of exultant melody: 
 Bobolincon, bobolincon, ling, lang, ling; 
 Bobolincon, bobohncon, cling, clang, cling; 
 Oh, listen to his singing, to the jubilating ringing 
 
 Of the melody he's flinging to the breezes, on the wing! 
 
 [8] 
 
OH, TELL ME, YE BIRDS 
 
 Ye birds that to spheres empyrean belong, 
 
 And cleave the vast oceans of air, 
 Oh, tell me, why only ye revel in song. 
 
 Of all God's creation so fair. 
 No other plumed creatures that wander abroad 
 
 In field or in fen ever pour 
 Forth passionate utt'rance of worship to God 
 
 Like j^e, who in azure depths soar. 
 
 No creature that trails its slow progress along, 
 
 Ungifted with swift, easy flight. 
 E'er startles the silence with jubilant song, 
 
 Man's hstening ear to delight; 
 None other but ye that mount ever on high, 
 
 To heaven's imperial dome, 
 •With ravishing chorals bring dews to the eye. 
 
 And longings for heaven and home. 
 
 Ah, surely, 'tis that the good Father has bid 
 
 His angels reveal to ye birds 
 The glories of heaven in melodies hid, 
 
 Too pure for expression in words. 
 That, hearing, we also in spirit may rise 
 
 Above sordid pleasure and care. 
 And learn of the angels that dwell in the skies 
 
 The glories that wait for us there. 
 
 [9] 
 
THE SEA GULL 
 
 I GAZE afar where the stormy sea 
 Is merged with the sky in gloom, 
 
 And ever there comes a dream to me 
 Of a life beyond the tomb. 
 
 As the white gull stems the winds that play 
 
 Above the foamy crest 
 Of the curling wave that flings its spray 
 
 Against his downy breast ; 
 
 Though backward thrown again and again, 
 He mounts, unwearied, anew. 
 
 The eddying blast 'mid the surging rain. 
 To his haven ever true. 
 
 How like the spirit of man is he. 
 That rises from sorrow and woe 
 
 On the wings of hope o'er life's wild sea 
 When the storm winds wildest blow! 
 
 Oh, rise, my soul, to the vaulted dome. 
 Though trials come thick and fast, 
 
 For courage and hope will bear thee home 
 To a haven of rest at last! 
 
 [10] 
 
THE Hl'.MMING 15IU1) 
 
TO A HUMMING BIRD 
 
 REATioN rare! 
 
 O fairy bird — elusive phantom bright, 
 Now darting through my open window, 
 
 where 
 The drooping rose-spray scents the wood- 
 land air; 
 Now poising, fixt in space, a living gem 
 Well fit to grace a June queen's dia- 
 dem; 
 Now, like a sentient, pulsing ray of light, 
 Disporting 'mong the flow'rs, too swift for 
 sight, 
 To mingle there 
 
 Thy emerald with the gold, thy scarlet, 
 pure. 
 With warm shade, where the lilacs hide from 
 
 view 
 The crumbling wall — thy bronze, with pur- 
 ple hue 
 Of fragrant iris — thou, indeed, alone 
 The name of fairy queen of birds 
 shouldst own! 
 E'er peerless shall thy magic spell endure 
 My waj^vard fancy ever to allure, 
 O vision fair. 
 
 [11] 
 
THE SONG SPAKROW 
 
 When lately winter's blasts are laid 
 
 And, through the crusted snow 
 The bare brown fields in sheltered glade 
 
 Their sodden furrows show ; 
 When still the leafless trees resist 
 
 Fair virgin spring's caress 
 And but in sheltered nooks, sun-kissed, 
 
 Bold leaflets upward press. 
 
 Among the first of feathered friends 
 
 The waking earth to greet. 
 The bright song-sparrow early lends 
 
 His presence trim and neat. 
 Full bold, yet unobtrusive, he 
 
 Comes forth at peep o' day, 
 Exploring cranny, nook and tree 
 
 In daint)' vesture gray. 
 
 [12] 
 
THE SONG SPARROW 
 
His pleasing song falls on the ear 
 
 Of early passerby 
 With high-keyed tones, full, vibrant, clear. 
 
 And wakes a glad reply 
 In nature's heart and, like a call 
 
 Of spring's reveille, brings 
 The drowsy buds to life, while all 
 
 The earth with music rings. 
 
 [13] 
 
THE WOUNDED BIRD 
 
 O STRICKEN bird, what cruel fate 
 
 Has filled with woe thy gentle breast? 
 What wanton fiend hath lain in wait 
 To tear thee from thy loving mate, 
 Thy helpless fledglings in the nest? 
 
 Ah, struggle not in vain to fly 
 
 And torture more thy broken wing; 
 Thy mute appeal for help, wellnigh. 
 Would dim with tears a stoic's eye, 
 
 From hardest heart a sigh would wring. 
 
 Oh, couldst thou speak, what anguished tale 
 
 Wouldst thou outpour in Pity's ear! 
 Dost think of thy dear birdlings frail 
 As, bleeding there, thy pulses fail 
 And thou beholdest death so near? 
 
 They call — Ah me, thou canst not go ! 
 
 No more the shelter of thy wing 
 And downy breast thy young may know; 
 No more may mother-love bestow 
 
 On them its care, nor comfort bring. 
 
 That morsel, which thou boldest still 
 
 In death, tells of thy quest for food; 
 Tells of thy homeward flight to fill 
 Those hungry mouths, nor boding ill, 
 To nestle o'er thy little brood. 
 
 [14] 
 
Alas, alas ! In vain they call, 
 
 In vain their little mouths they ope. 
 What black despair on thee doth fall, 
 As death o'erspreads thee with its pall 
 And dims thy last fond ray of hope ! 
 
 No more wilt thou with gladsome song 
 
 Imbibe the vernal zephyr's breath, 
 Or wake thy young. One grievous wrong 
 Destruction wrought. They, too, ere long, 
 Like thee, will all be cold in death ! 
 
 [15] 
 
THE BEREAVED ROBIN 
 
 O PRETTY mother robin, 
 
 What makes your cry so shrill? 
 
 What makes you flit from bough to bough. 
 This April morning chill? 
 
 Ah, gentle mother robin. 
 
 What wonder that you cry! 
 Your young have fallen from the nest 
 
 And cold in death they lie. 
 
 O tender mother robin, 
 
 Those young you brooded o'er 
 
 So lovangly in downy nest 
 Will greet you nevermore. 
 
 O stricken mother robin. 
 
 The cruel, thoughtless boy 
 Who robbed you of yoiu* tender brood 
 
 Has reft your life of joy. 
 
 O frantic mother robin, 
 
 What words can tell the grief 
 
 That rends your gentle mother heart 
 With wounds beyond relief? 
 
 O childless mother robin, 
 
 My tears for you shall flow ; 
 May God grant you forgetfulness 
 
 From all your mother's woe. 
 
 0»>\VS'l 
 
 ,AVn'"^ 
 
 [16] 
 
THE BEREAVED ROBIN 
 
SPARE THE GENTLE SONGSTER 
 
 Oh, spare the gentle songster 
 
 Whose carols in the morn 
 Wake us, with joyous melody, 
 
 To day and hope new-born. 
 Still not his throbbing pulses, 
 
 JNIaim not his graceful wing; 
 Stay not his flight beneath the skies, — • 
 
 The bird was made to sing. 
 
 Stays hunter, stay that missile. 
 
 That messenger of death; 
 Mar not pure heaven's harmony, 
 
 Rob not its voice of breath, — 
 The voice that breaks, unbidden. 
 
 Forth from a joyous heart 
 To sing the love of nestlings dear. 
 
 In nature's purest art. 
 
 Think of the wee ones waiting 
 
 For mother care and love ; 
 Think of that dying agony 
 
 That calls to heaven above. 
 That calls for help and pity. 
 
 Where none to help is nigh, 
 On orphaned birdlings left alone 
 
 To hunger and to die. 
 
 Oh, spare the gentle songster 
 Whose lays at eve delight. 
 
 Whose vesper anthems glorify 
 The coming of the night; 
 
 [17] 
 
Still not Ills throbbing pulses, 
 Maim not his graceful wing ; 
 
 Stay not Iiis flight beneath the skies- 
 The bird was made to sing. 
 
 [18] 
 
THE WHIPPOORWILL 
 
 When the earth, from slumber waking, 
 
 Thrills to gentle spring's caress, 
 And all nature seems partaking 
 
 Of new joy and lovehness; 
 And the silvery moon in splendor 
 Mounts above the vale and hill. 
 Flooding earth with glory tender. 
 Comes again the whippoorwill. 
 Listen, listen! Hush — be still: 
 "Ku-whippoorwill ! Ku-whippoorwill !" 
 How his love-notes throb and thrill. 
 On the mystic silence falling, 
 As to distant mate he's calhng: 
 " 'Whippoorwill ! Ku-whippoorwill !" 
 
 Oft at eve, when gently drifting 
 
 In my quaint gondola, light, 
 Down the stream, and star-beams, sifting 
 
 Through the curtain of the night. 
 With their magic glow supernal 
 All the world around me fill, 
 Then I love to hear the vernal 
 Love-song of the whippoorwill. 
 Listen, listen! Hush — be still: 
 "Ku-whippoorwill ! Ku-whippoorwll !" 
 How his love-notes throb and thrill. 
 On the mystic silence falling. 
 As to distant mate he's calhng: 
 " 'Whippoorwill ! Ku-whippoorwill I" 
 
 [19] 
 
JAN 22 1913