Читать книгу Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848 - Various - Страница 1

Thou, sitting on the hill-top bare,

Dost see the far hills disappear

In Autumn smoke, and all the air

Filled with bright leaves. Below thee spread

Are yellow harvests, rich in bread

For winter use; while over-head

The jays to one another call,

And through the stilly woods there fall,

Ripe nuts at intervals, where'er

The squirrel, perched in upper air,

From tree-top barks at thee his fear;

His cunning eyes, mistrustingly,

Do spy at thee around the tree;

Then, prompted by a sudden whim,

Down leaping on the quivering limb,

Gains the smooth hickory, from whence

He nimbly scours along the fence

To secret haunts.

But oftener,

When Mother Earth begins to stir,

And like a Hadji who hath been

To Mecca, wears a caftan green;

When jasmines and azalias fill

The air with sweets, and down the hill

Turbid no more descends the rill;

The wonder of thy hazel eyes,

Soft opening on the misty skies —

Dost smile within thyself to see

Things uncontained in, seemingly,

The open book upon thy knee,

And through the quiet woodlands hear

Sounds full of mystery to ear

Of grosser mould – the myriad cries

That from the teeming world arise;

Which we, self-confidently wise,

Pass by unheeding. Thou didst yearn

From thy weak babyhood to learn

Arcana of creation; turn

Thy eyes on things intangible

To mortals; when the earth was still.

Hear dreamy voices on the hill,

In wavy woods, that sent a thrill

Of joyousness through thy young veins.

Ah, happy thou! whose seeking gains

All that thou lovest, man disdains

A sympathy in joys and pains

With dwellers in the long, green lanes,

With wings that shady groves explore,

With watchers at the torrent's roar,

And waders by the reedy shore;

For thou, through purity of mind,

Dost hear, and art no longer blind.

Croak! croak! – who croaketh over-head

So hoarsely, with his pinion spread,

Dabbled in blood, and dripping red?

Croak! croak! – a raven's curse on him,

The giver of this shattered limb!

Albeit young, (a hundred years,

When next the forest leaved appears,)

Will Duskywing behold this breast

Shot-riddled, or divide my nest

With wearer of so tattered vest?

I see myself, with wing awry,

Approaching. Duskywing will spy

My altered mien, and shun my eye.

With laughter bursting, through the wood

The birds will scream – she's quite too good

For thee. And yonder meddling jay,

I hear him chatter all the day,

"He's crippled – send the thief away!"

At every hop – "don't let him stay."

I'll catch thee yet, despite my wing;

For all thy fine blue plumes, thou'lt sing

Another song!

Is't not enough

The carrion festering we snuff,

And gathering down upon the breeze,

Release the valley from disease;

If longing for more fresh a meal,

Around the tender flock we wheel,

A marksman doth some bush conceal.

This very morn, I heard an ewe

Bleat in the thicket; there I flew,

With lazy wing slow circling round,

Until I spied unto the ground

A lamb by tangled briars bound.

The ewe, meanwhile, on hillock-side,

Bleat to her young – so loudly cried,

She heard it not when it replied.

Ho, ho! – a feast! I 'gan to croak,

Alighting straightway on an oak;

Whence gloatingly I eyed aslant

The little trembler lie and pant.

Leapt nimbly thence upon its head;

Down its white nostril bubbled red

A gush of blood; ere life had fled,

My beak was buried in its eyes,

Turned tearfully upon the skies —

Strong grew my croak, as weak its cries.

No longer couldst thou sit and hear

This demon prate in upper air —

Deeds horrible to maiden ear.

Begone, thou spokest. Over-head

The startled fiend his pinion spread,

And croaking maledictions, fled.

But, hark! who at some secret door

Knocks loud, and knocketh evermore?

Thou seest how around the tree,

With scarlet head for hammer, he

Probes where the haunts of insects be.

The worm in labyrinthian hole

Begins his sluggard length to roll;

But crafty Rufus spies the prey,

And with his mallet beats away

The loose bark, crumbling to decay;

Then chirping loud, with wing elate,

He bears the morsel to his mate.

His mate, she sitteth on her nest,

In sober feather plumage dressed;

A matron underneath whose breast

Three little tender heads appear.

With bills distent from ear to ear,

Each clamors for the bigger share;

And whilst they clamor, climb – and, lo!

Upon the margin, to and fro,

Unsteady poised, one wavers slow.

Stay, stay! the parents anguished shriek,

Too late; for venturesome, yet weak,

His frail legs falter under him;

He falls – but from a lower limb

A moment dangles, thence again

Launched out upon the air, in vain

He spread his little plumeless wing,

A poor, blind, dizzy, helpless thing.

But thou, who all didst see and hear,

Young, active, wast already there,

And caught the flutterer in air.

Then up the tree to topmost limb,

A vine for ladder, borest him.

Against thy cheek his little heart

Beat soft. Ah, trembler that thou art,

Thou spokest smiling; comfort thee!

With joyous cries the parents flee

Thy presence none – confidingly

Pour out their very hearts to thee.

The mockbird sees thy tenderness

Of deed; doth with melodiousness,

In many tongues, thy praise express.

And all the while, his dappled wings

He claps his sides with, as he sings,

From perch to perch his body flings:

A poet he, to ecstasy

Wrought by the sweets his tongue doth say.

Stay, stay! – I hear a flutter now

Beneath yon flowering alder bough.

I hear a little plaintive voice

That did at early morn rejoice,

Make a most sad yet sweet complaint,

Saying, "my heart is very faint

With its unutterable wo.

What shall I do, where can I go,

My cruel anguish to abate.

Oh! my poor desolated mate,

Dear Cherry, will our haw-bush seek,

Joyful, and bearing in her beak

Fresh seeds, and such like dainties, won

By careful search. But they are gone

Whom she did brood and dote upon.

Oh! if there be a mortal ear

My sorrowful complaint to hear;

If manly breast is ever stirred

By wrong done to a helpless bird,

To them for quick redress I cry."

Moved by the tale, and drawing nigh,

On alder branch thou didst espy

How, sitting lonely and forlorn,

His breast was pressed upon a thorn,

Unknowing that he leant thereon;

Then bidding him take heart again,

Thou rannest down into the lane

To seek the doer of this wrong,

Nor under hedgerow hunted long,

When, sturdy, rude, and sun-embrowned,

A child thy earnest seeking found.

To him in sweet and modest tone

Thou madest straight thy errand known.

With gentle eloquence didst show

(Things erst he surely did not know)

How great an evil he had done;

How, when next year the mild May sun

Renewed its warmth, this shady lane

No timid birds would haunt again;

And how around his mother's door

The robins, yearly guests before —

He knew their names – would come no more;

But if his prisoners he released,

Before their little bosoms ceased

To palpitate, each coming year

Would find them gladly reappear

To sing his praises everywhere —

The sweetest, dearest songs to hear.

And afterward, when came the term

Of ripened corn, the robber worm

Would hunt through every blade and turn,

Impatient thus his smile to earn.

At first, flushed, angrily, and proud,

He answered thee with laughter loud

And brief retort. But thou didst speak

So mild, so earnestly did seek

To change his mood, in wonder first

He eyed thee; then no longer durst

Raise his bold glances to thy face,

But, looking down, began to trace,

With little, naked foot and hand,

Thoughtful devices in the sand;

And when at last thou didst relate

The sad affliction of the mate,

When to the well-known spot she came,

He hung his head for very shame;

His penitential tears to hide,

His face averted while he cried;

"Here, take them all, I've no more pride

In climbing up to rob a nest —

I've better feelings in my breast."

Then thanking him with heart and eyes,

Thou tookest from his grasp the prize,

And bid the little freedmen rise.

But when thou sawest how too weak

Their pinions were, the nest didst seek,

And called thy client. Down he flew

Instant, and with him Cherry too;

And fluttering after, not a few

Of the minuter feathered race

Filled with their warbling all the place.

From hedge and pendent branch and vine,

Recounted still that deed of thine;

Still sang thy praises o'er and o'er,

Gladly – more heartily, be sure,

Were praises never sung before.

Beholding thee, they understand

(These Minne-singers of the land)

How thou apart from all dost stand,

Full of great love and tenderness

For all God's creatures – these express

Thy hazel eyes. With life instinct

All things that are, to thee are linked

By subtle ties; and none so mean

Or loathsome hast thou ever seen,

But wonderous in make hath been.

Compassionate, thou seest none

Of insect tribes beneath the sun

That thou canst set thy heel upon.

A sympathy thou hast with wings

In groves, and with all living things.

Unmindful if they walk or crawl,

The same arm shelters each and all;

The shadow of the Curse and Fall

Alike impends. Ah! truly great,

Who strivest earnestly and late,

A single atom to abate,

Of helpless wo and misery.

For very often thou dost see

How sadly and how helplessly

A pleading face looks up to thee.

Therefore it is, thou canst not choose,

With petty tyranny to abuse

Thy higher gifts; and justly fear

The feeblest worm of earth or air,

In thy heart's judgment to condemn,

Since God made thee, and God made them.