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Title: Voices for the Speechless
Author: Firth, Abraham [Editor]
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Voices for the Speechless" ***

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Selections for Schools and Private Reading



Secretary of the American Humane Association

               --which "plead the cause
    Of those dumb mouths that have no speech."


    And I am recompensed, and deem the toils
    Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine
    May stand between an animal and woe,
    And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge




The compiler of this little book has often heard inquiries by teachers of
schools, for selections suitable for reading and recitations by their
scholars, in which the duty of kindness to animals should be distinctly

To meet such calls, three successive pamphlets were published, and a fourth
consisting of selections from the Poems of Mr. Longfellow. All were
received with marked favor by the teachers to whom they became known.

This led to their collection afterwards in one volume for private
circulation, and now the volume is republished for public sale, with a few
omissions and additions.

All who desire our children to be awakened in their schools to the claims
of the humbler creatures are invited to see that copies are put in school
libraries, that they may be within the reach of all teachers. And this, not
for the sake of the creatures only.

As Pope has said, "Nothing stands alone; the chain holds on, and where it
ends, unknown."

Many readers may be surprised to find how many of the great poets have been
touched by the sufferings of the "innocent animals," and how loftily they
have pleaded their cause.

The poems in the collection are not all complete, because of their length
in some cases, and, in others, because a part only of each was suited to
the end in view. A very few, however, like "Geist's Grave" and "Don," could
not be divided satisfactorily.

To all who have aided in this humble undertaking, heartiest thanks are
given, and especially to its publishers who have accorded to it their
coveted approval and the benefit of their large facilities for making the
volume widely known.

May the lessons of kindness and dependence here taught with so much
poetical beauty and with such mingled justice, pathos and humor, find a
permanent lodgment in the hearts of all who may read them!

A. F.

BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A., June, 1883.


A Prayer
He Prayeth Best
Our Morality on Trial
Results and Duties of Man's Supremacy
Justice to the Brute Creation
Can they Suffer?
Growth of Humane Ideas
Moral Lessons
Duty to Animals not long recognized
Natural Rights
Care for the Lowest
Say Not
See, through this Air
The Right must win
Animated Nature
Animal Happiness
No Grain of Sand
Humanity, Mercy, and Benevolence
Living Creatures
Nothing Alone
Man's Rule
Dumb Souls
Little by Little
Animals and Human Speech
Learn from the Creatures
Pain to Animals
What might have been
Village Sounds
Old Hindoo
Our Pets
Egyptian Ritual
A Birthday Address
To Lydia Maria Child
Acts of Mercy
The Good Samaritan
Children at School
Membership of the Church
Feeling for Animals
Effect of Cruelty
The Poor Beetle
The Consummation
A Vision
Speak Gently
For the Sake of the Innocent Animals
Ring Out
Fame and Duty
No Ceremony
True Leaders
Be kind to Dumb Creatures
"In Him we Live"
Firm and Faithful
Heart Service
Exulting Sings
In Holy Books
The Bell of Atri
Among the Noblest
The Fallen Horse
The Horse
The Birth of the Horse
To his Horse
Sympathy for Horse and Hound
The Blood Horse
The Cid and Bavieca
The King of Denmark's Ride
Do you know
The Bedouin's Rebuke
From "The Lord of Butrago"
"Bay Billy"
The Ride of Collins Graves
Paul Revere's Ride
Sheridan's Ride
Good News to Aix
Dying in Harness
Plutarch's Humanity
The Horses of Achilles
The War Horse
Pegasus in Pound
The Horse
From "The Foray"
On Landseer's Picture, "Waiting for Master"
The Waterfowl
Sea Fowl
The Sandpiper
The Birds of Killingworth
The Magpie
The Mocking-Bird
Early Songs and Sounds
The Sparrow's Note
The Glow-Worm
St. Francis to the Birds
Wordsworth's Skylark
Shelley's Skylark
Hogg's Skylark
The Sweet-Voiced Quire
A Caged Lark
The Woodlark
Keats's Nightingale
Lark and Nightingale
Flight of the Birds
A Child's Wish
The Humming-Bird
The Humming-Bird's Wedding
The Hen and the Honey-Bee
Song of the Robin
Sir Robin
The Dear Old Robins
Robins quit the Nest
Lost--Three Little Robins
The Terrible Scarecrow and Robins
The Song Sparrow
The Field Sparrow
The Sparrow
Piccola and Sparrow
Little Sparrow
The Swallow
The Emperor's Bird's-Nest
To a Swallow building under our Eaves
The Swallow, the Owl, and the Cock's Shrill Clarion in the "Elegy"
The Statue over the Cathedral Door
The Bird let Loose
The Brown Thrush
The Golden-Crowned Thrush
The Thrush
The Aziola
The Marten
Judge You as You Are
Robert of Lincoln
My Doves
The Doves of Venice
Song of the Dove
What the Quail says
The Linnet
Hear the Woodland Linnet
The Parrot
The Common Question
Why not do it, Sir, To-day
To a Redbreast
To the Stork
The Storks of Delft
The Pheasant
The Herons of Elmwood
Walter von der Vogelweid
The Legend of the Cross-Bill
Pretty Birds
The Little Bird sits
The Living Swan
The Stormy Petrel
To the Cuckoo
Birds at Dawn
Evening Songs
Little Brown Bird
Life's Sign
A Bird's Ministry
Of Birds
Birds in Spring
The Canary in his Cage
Who stole the Bird's-Nest
Who stole the Eggs
What the Birds say
The Wren's Nest
On Another's Sorrow
The Shepherd's Home
The Wood-Pigeon's Home
The Shag
The Lost Bird
The Bird's must know
The Bird King
Shadows of Birds
The Bird and the Ship
A Myth
Cuvier on the Dog
A Hindoo Legend
Ulysses and Argus
William of Orange saved by his Dog
The Bloodhound
Llewellyn and his Dog
Looking for Pearls
To my Dog "Blanco"
The Beggar and his Dog
Geist's Grave
On the Death of a Favorite Old Spaniel
Epitaph in Grey Friars' Churchyard
From an Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog
The Dog
Johnny's Private Argument
The Harper
The Irish Wolf-Hound
Six Feet
There's Room enough for all
His Faithful Dog
The Faithful Hound
The Spider's Lesson
The Spider and Stork
The Homestead at Evening
The Cattle of a Hundred Farms
The Newsboy's Cat
The Child and her Pussy
The Alpine Sheep
Little Lamb
Cowper's Hare
Turn thy Hasty Foot aside
The Worm turns
Grasshopper and Cricket
The Honey-Bees
Cunning Bee
An Insect
The Chipmunk
Mountain and Squirrel
To a Field-Mouse
A Sea-Shell
The Chambered Nautilus
Hiawatha's Brothers
Unoffending Creatures
The Lark
The Swallow
Returning Birds
The Birds
Mohammedanism--The Cattle
The Spider and the Dove
The Young Doves
Dumb Mouths
The Parsees
The Tiger
Value of Animals
Societies for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals


       *       *       *       *       *


And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very
good.--Gen. i. 31.

But the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt
not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy man-servant, nor
thy maid-servant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy
gates.--Ex. xx. 10.

For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand

I know all the fowls of the mountains: and the wild beasts of the field are
mine.--Psa. l. 10, 11.

The Lord is good to all: and his tender mercies are over all his works.

The eyes of all wait upon thee: and thou givest them their meat in due

Thou openest thine hand, and satisfiest the desire of every living
thing.--Psa. cxlv. 9, 15, 16.

A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast.--Prov. xii. 10.

Open thy mouth for the dumb in the cause of all such as are appointed to
destruction.--Prov. xxxi. 8.

But ask now the beasts, and they shall teach thee; and the fowls of the
air, and they shall tell thee.--Job xii. 7.

Thou shalt not see thy brother's ox or his sheep go astray, and hide
thyself from them: thou shalt in any case bring them again unto thy
brother. And if thy brother be not nigh unto thee, or if thou know him not,
then thou shalt bring it unto thine own house, and it shall be with thee
until thy brother seek after it, and thou shalt restore it to him again.

In like manner shalt thou do with his ass; and so shalt thou do with his
raiment: and with all lost things of thy brother's, which he hath lost, and
thou hast found, shalt thou do likewise: thou mayest not hide thyself.

Thou shalt not see thy brother's ass or his ox fall down by the way, and
hide thyself from them: thou shalt surely HELP him to lift them up
again.--Deut. xxii. 1-4.

Who _is_ a God like unto thee, that pardoneth iniquity, and passeth by the
transgression of the remnant of his heritage? he retaineth not his anger
for ever, because he DELIGHTETH IN MERCY. He will turn again, he will have
compassion upon us; he will subdue our iniquities: and thou wilt cast all
their sins into the depths of the sea.--Mic. vii. 18, 19.

Doth the hawk fly by thy wisdom, and stretch her wings toward the south?
Doth the eagle mount up at thy command, and make her nest on high?--Job
xxxix. 26, 27.

  Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise:
  Which having no guide, overseer, or ruler,
  Provideth her meat in summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest.
  --Prov. vi. 6-8.

And the Lord sent Nathan unto David. And he came unto him, and said unto
him, There were two men in one city: the one was rich, and the other poor.

The rich man had exceeding many flocks and herds: But the poor man had
nothing save one little ewe-lamb, which he had bought and nourished up: and
it grew up together with him, and with his children; it did eat of his own
meat, and drank of his own cup, and lay in his bosom, and was unto him as a

And there came a traveller unto the rich man, and he spared to take of his
own flock, and of his own herd, to dress for the wayfaring man that was
come to him; but took the poor man's lamb, and dressed it for the man that
was come to him.

And David's anger was greatly kindled against the man; and he said to
Nathan, As the Lord liveth, the man that hath done this thing shall surely
die. And he shall restore the lamb fourfold, because he did this thing, and
because HE HAD NO PITY.--2 Sam. xii. 1-6.

Praise ye the Lord from the heavens: praise him in the heights. Praise ye
him, all his angels: praise ye him, all his hosts.

Beasts and all cattle: creeping things, and flying fowl.--Psa. cxlviii. 1,
2, 10.

Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may lay her young, even thine altars, O Lord of hosts, my King
and my God.--Psa. lxxxiv. 3.

And should not I spare Nineveh, that great city, wherein are more than
sixscore thousand persons that cannot discern between their right hand and
their left hand, and also much cattle?--Jonah iv. 11.

For the scripture saith, Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the
corn.--1 Tim. v. 18.

Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Matt. v. 7.

Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor
gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them.--Matt. vi. 26.

Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is
forgotten before God?--Luke xii. 6.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Maker of earth and sea and sky,
      Creation's sovereign, Lord and King,
    Who hung the starry worlds on high,
      And formed alike the sparrow's wing:
    Bless the dumb creatures of thy care,
    And listen to their voiceless prayer.

    For us they toil, for us they die,
      These humble creatures Thou hast made;
    How shall we dare their rights deny,
      On whom thy seal of love is laid?
    Teach Thou our hearts to hear their plea,
    As Thou dost man's in prayer to Thee!


       *       *       *       *       *


    O wedding guest! this soul hath been
      Alone on a wide, wide sea:
    So lonely 'twas, that God himself
      Scarce seeméd there to be.

    O sweeter than the marriage feast,
      'Tis sweeter far to me,
    To walk together to the kirk
      With a goodly company!--

    To walk together to the kirk,
      And all together pray,
    While each to his great Father bends,
    Old man, and babes, and loving friends,
      And youths and maidens gay!

    Farewell! farewell! but this I tell
      To thee, thou wedding guest!
    He prayeth well, who loveth well
      Both man and bird and beast.

    He prayeth best, who loveth best
      All things both great and small;
    For the dear God who loveth us,
      He made and loveth all.


       *       *       *       *       *


Bishop Butler affirmed that it was on the simple fact of a creature being
_sentient_, i.e. capable of pain and pleasure, that rests our
responsibility to save it pain and give it pleasure. There is no evading
this obligation, then, as regards the lower animals, by the plea that they
are not moral beings; it is _our_ morality, not _theirs_, which is in


       *       *       *       *       *

"Never," said my aunt, "be mean in anything; never be false, never BE
CRUEL. Avoid those three vices, Trot, and I can always be hopeful of you."

C. DICKENS, in _David Copperfield_.

       *       *       *       *       *


Wherefore it is evident that even the ordinary exercise of this faculty of
sympathy implies a condition of the whole moral being in some measure right
and healthy, and that to the entire exercise of it there is necessary the
entire perfection of the Christian character, for he who loves not God, nor
his brother, cannot love the grass beneath his feet and the creatures that
fill those spaces in the universe which he needs not, and which live not
for his uses; nay, he has seldom grace to be grateful even to those that
love and serve him, while, on the other hand, none can love God nor his
human brother without loving all things which his Father loves, nor without
looking upon them every one as in that respect his brethren also, and
perhaps worthier than he, if in the under concords they have to fill their
part is touched more truly.


       *       *       *       *       *


    The quality of mercy is not strained;
    It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
    Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
    It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
    'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
    The throned monarch better than his crown:
    His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
    The attribute to awe and majesty,
    Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings.
    But mercy is above this sceptred sway:
    It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
    It is an attribute to God himself;
    And earthly power doth then show likest God's
    When mercy seasons justice. Therefore,...
    Though justice be thy plea, consider this,--
    That, in the course of justice, none of us
    Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy;
    And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
    The deeds of mercy.

SHAKESPEARE: _Merchant of Venice_, Act 4, Sc. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *


And in that primeval account of Creation which the second chapter of
Genesis gives us, the first peculiar characteristic of the Human Being is
that he assumes the rank of the Guardian and Master of every fowl of the
air and every beast of the field. They gather round him, he names them, he
classifies them, he seeks for companionship from them. It is the fit
likeness and emblem of their relation to him in the course of history. That
"earnest expectation of the creature" which the Apostle describes, that,
"stretching forth the head" of the whole creation towards a brighter and
better state as ages have rolled on, has received even here a fulfilment
which in earlier times could not have been dreamed of. The savage animals
have, before the tread of the Lord of Creation, gradually disappeared.
Those creatures which show capacity for improvement have been cherished and
strengthened and humanized by their intercourse with man. The wild horse
has been brought under his protecting care, has become a faithful
ministering servant, rejoicing in his master's voice, fondled by his
master's children. The huge elephant has had his "half-reasoning" powers
turned into the faculties of a gentle, benevolent giant, starting aside
from his course to befriend a little child, listening with the docility of
a child to his driver's rebuke or exhortation. The light, airy, volatile
bird seems to glow with a new instinct of affection and of perseverance
under the shelter of the firm hand and eye of man. The dog, in all Eastern
nations, even under the Old Testament itself, represented as an outcast,
the emblem of all that was unclean and shameful, has, through the Gentile
Western nations, been admitted within the pale of human fellowship. Truly,
if man has thus, as it were, infused a soul into the dumb, lawless animals,
what a community of feeling, what tenderness should it require from him in
dealing with them. What a heartless, in one word, what an _inhuman_ spirit
is implied by any cruelty towards those, his dependents, his followers, his
grateful, innocent companions, placed under his charge by Him who is at
once their Father and ours. Remember our common origin and our common
infirmities. Remember that we are bound to feel for their hunger, their
thirst, their pains, which they share with us, and which we, the
controllers of their destiny, ought to alleviate by the means which our
advancing civilization enables us to use for ourselves. Remember how
completely each of us is a god to them, and, as a god, bound to them by
godlike duties.


       *       *       *       *       *


The rights of all creatures are to be respected, but especially of those
kinds which man domesticates and subsidizes for his peculiar use. Their
nearer contact with the human world creates a claim on our loving-kindness
beyond what is due to more foreign and untamed tribes. Respect that claim.
"The righteous man," says the proverb, "regardeth the life of his beast."
Note that word "righteous." The proverb does not say the merciful man, but
the righteous, the just. Not mercy only, but justice, is due to the brute.
Your horse, your ox, your kine, your dog, are not mere chattels, but
sentient souls. They are not your own so proper as to make your will the
true and only measure of their lot. Beware of contravening their nature's
law, of taxing unduly their nature's strength. Their powers and gifts are a
sacred trust. The gift of the horse is his fleetness, but when that gift is
strained to excess and put to wager for exorbitant tasks, murderous
injustice is done to the beast. They have their rights, which every
right-minded owner will respect. We owe them return for the service they
yield, all needful comfort, kind usage, rest in old age, and an easy death.


       *       *       *       *       *


The day may come when the rest of the animal creation may acquire those
rights which never could have been withheld from them but by the hand of
tyranny. It may come one day to be recognized that the number of legs, or
the villosity of the skin, are reasons insufficient for abandoning a
sensitive being to the caprice of a tormentor. What else is it that should
trace the insuperable line? Is it the faculty of reason, or perhaps the
faculty of discourse? But a full-grown horse or dog is beyond comparison a
more rational as well as a more conversable animal than an infant of a day,
a week, or even a month old. But suppose the case were otherwise, what
could it avail? The question is not "Can they reason?" nor "Can they
speak?" but "Can they suffer?"


       *       *       *       *       *


The disposition to raise the fallen, to befriend the friendless, is now one
of the governing powers of the world. Every year its dominion widens, and
even now a strong and growing public opinion is enlisted in its support.
Many men still spend lives that are merely selfish. But such lives are
already regarded with general disapproval. The man on whom public opinion,
anticipating the award of the highest tribunal, bestows its approbation, is
the man who labors that he may leave other men better and happier than he
found them. With the noblest spirits of our race this disposition to be
useful grows into a passion. With an increasing number it is becoming at
least an agreeable and interesting employment. On the monument to John
Howard in St. Paul's, it is said that the man who devotes himself to the
good of mankind treads "an open but unfrequented path to immortality." The
remark, so true of Howard's time, is happily not true of ours.

MACKENZIE'S _Nineteenth Century._

       *       *       *       *       *


And let us take to ourselves the moral lessons which these creatures preach
to all who have studied and learned to love what I venture to call the
moral in brutes. Look at that faithful servant, the ox! What an emblem in
all generations of patient, plodding, meek endurance and serviceable toil!
Of the horse and the dog, what countless anecdotes declare the generous
loyalty, the tireless zeal, the inalienable love! No human devotion has
ever surpassed the recorded examples of brutes in that line. The story is
told of an Arab horse who, when his master was taken captive and bound hand
and foot, sought him out in the dark amidst other victims, seized him by
the girdle with his teeth, ran with him all night at the top of his speed,
conveyed him to his home, and then, exhausted with the effort, fell down
and died. Did ever man evince more devoted affection?

Surely, something of a moral nature is present also in the brute creation.
If nowhere else we may find it in the brute mother's care for her young.
Through universal nature throbs the divine pulse of the universal Love, and
binds all being to the Father-heart of the author and lover of all.
Therefore is sympathy with animated nature, a holy affection, an extended
humanity, a projection of the human heart by which we live, beyond the
precincts of the human house, into all the wards of the many creatured city
of God, as He with his wisdom and love is co-present to all. Sympathy with
nature is a part of the good man's religion.


       *       *       *       *       *

Whenever any trait of justice, or generosity, or far-sighted wisdom, or
wide tolerance, or compassion, or purity, is seen in any man or woman
throughout the whole human race, as in the fragments of a broken mirror we
see the reflection of the Divine image.


       *       *       *       *       *


It is not, however, to be reckoned as surprising, that our forefathers did
not dream of such a thing as Duty to Animals. They learned very slowly that
they owed duties to _men_ of other races than their own. Only in the
generation which recognized thoroughly for the first time that the negro
was a man and brother, did it dawn that beyond the negro there were other
still humbler claimants for benevolence and justice. Within a few years,
passed both the Emancipation of the West Indian slaves and the first act
for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, of which Lord Erskine so truly
prophesied that it would prove not only an honor to the Parliament of
England, but an era in the civilization of the world.


       *       *       *       *       *


But what is needed for the present is due regard for the natural rights of
animals, due sense of the fact that they are not created for man's pleasure
and behoof alone, but have, independent of him, their own meaning and place
in the universal order; that the God who gave them being, who out of the
manifoldness of his creative thought let them pass into life, has not cast
them off, but is with them, in them, still. A portion of his Spirit, though
unconscious and unreflecting, is theirs. What else but the Spirit of God
could guide the crane and the stork across pathless seas to their winter
retreats, and back again to their summer haunts? What else could reveal to
the petrel the coming storm? What but the Spirit of God could so geometrize
the wondrous architecture of the spider and the bee, or hang the
hill-star's nest in the air, or sling the hammock of the tiger-moth, or
curve the ramparts of the beaver's fort, and build the myriad "homes
without hands" in which fish, bird, and insect make their abode? The Spirit
of God is with them as with us,--consciously with us, unconsciously with
them. We are not divided, but one in his care and love. They have their
mansions in the Father's house, and we have ours; but the house is one, and
the Master and keeper is one for us and them.


       *       *       *       *       *


I can hardly express to you how much I feel there is to be thought of,
arising from the word "dumb" applied to animals. Dumb animals! What an
immense exhortation that is to pity. It is a remarkable thing that this
word dumb should have been so largely applied to animals, for, in reality,
there are very few dumb animals. But, doubtless, the word is often used to
convey a larger idea than that of dumbness; namely, the want of power in
animals to convey by sound to mankind what they feel, or, perhaps, I should
rather say, the want of power in men to understand the meaning of the
various sounds uttered by animals. But as regards those animals which are
mostly dumb, such as the horse, which, except on rare occasions of extreme
suffering, makes no sound at all, but only expresses pain by certain
movements indicating pain--how tender we ought to be of them, and how
observant of these movements, considering their dumbness. The human baby
guides and governs us by its cries. In fact, it will nearly rule a
household by these cries, and woe would betide it, if it had not this power
of making its afflictions known. It is a sad thing to reflect upon, that
the animal which has the most to endure from man is the one which has the
least powers of protesting by noise against any of his evil treatment.


       *       *       *       *       *


                His parent hand
    From the mute shell-fish gasping on the shore,
    To men, to angels, to celestial minds,
    Forever leads the generations on
    To higher scenes of being; while supplied
    From day to day with His enlivening breath,
    Inferior orders in succession rise
    To fill the void below.

AKENSIDE: _Pleasures of Imagination._

       *       *       *       *       *


    I would not enter on my list of friends
    (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
    Yet wanting sensibility) the man
    Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
    An inadvertent step may crush the snail
    That crawls at evening in the public path;
    But he that has humanity, forewarned,
    Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.
    The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight,
    And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes,
    A visitor unwelcome, into scenes
    Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove,
    The chamber, or refectory, may die:
    A necessary act incurs no blame.
    Not so when, held within their proper bounds,
    And guiltless of offence, they range the air,
    Or take their pastime in the spacious field:
    There they are privileged; and he that hunts
    Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong,
    Disturbs the economy of nature's realm,
    Who, when she formed, designed them an abode.
    The sum is this: If man's convenience, health,
    Or safety, interfere, his rights and claims
    Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.
    Else they are all--the meanest things that are--
    As free to live, and to enjoy that life,
    As God was free to form them at the first,
    Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all.
    Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons
    To love it too.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
      Will be the final goal of ill,
      To pangs of nature, sins of will,
    Defects of doubt and taints of blood;

    That nothing walks with aimless feet;
      That not one life shall be destroyed,
      Or cast as rubbish to the void,
    When God hath made the pile complete;

    That not a worm is cloven in vain;
      That not a moth with vain desire
      Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire,
    Or but subserves another's gain.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Say not, the struggle naught availeth,
      The labor and the wounds are vain,
    The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
      And as things have been they remain.

    If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
      It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
    Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
      And, but for you, possess the field.

    For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
      Seem here no painful inch to gain,
    Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
      Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

    And not by eastern windows only,
      When daylight comes, comes in the light;
    In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
      But westward, look, the land is bright.


       *       *       *       *       *


    See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth,
    All matter quick, and bursting into birth.
    Above, how high progressive life may go!
    Around, how wide! how deep extend below!
    Vast chain of being! which from God began,
    Natures ethereal, human, angel, man,
    Beast, bird, fish, insect, which no eye can see,
    No glass can reach; from infinite to thee;
    From thee to nothing. On superior powers
    Were we to press, inferior might on ours;
    Or in the full creation leave a void,
    Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed:
    From Nature's chain whatever link you strike,
    Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.
    All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
    Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;
    That, changed through all, and yet in all the same,
    Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame;
    Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
    Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees;
    Lives through all life, extends through all extent,
    Spreads undivided, operates unspent;
    Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
    As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart;
    As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
    As the rapt seraph that adores and burns:
    To Him no high, no low, no great, no small;
    He fills, He bounds, connects, and equals all.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Oh, it is hard to work for God,
      To rise and take his part
    Upon this battle-field of earth,
      And not sometimes lose heart!

    Ill masters good; good seems to change
      To ill with greatest ease;
    And, worst of all, the good with good
      Is at cross purposes.

    It is not so, but so it looks;
      And we lose courage then;
    And doubts will come if God hath kept
      His promises to men.

    Workman of God! Oh lose not heart,
      But learn what God is like;
    And in the darkest battle-field
      Thou shalt know where to strike.

    For right is right, since God is God;
      And right the day must win;
    To doubt would be disloyalty,
      To falter would be sin!


       *       *       *       *       *


    Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
    But animated nature sweeter still
    To soothe and satisfy the human ear.
    Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
    The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes
    Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain;
    But coying rooks, and kites that swim sublime
    In still repeated circles, screaming loud,
    The jay, the pie, and ev'n the boding owl
    That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.
    Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,
    Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns,
    And only there, please highly for their sake.


       *       *       *       *       *


    The heart is hard in nature, and unfit
    For human fellowship, as being void
    Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike
    To love and friendship both, that is not pleased
    With sight of animals enjoying life,
    Nor feels their happiness augment his own.
    The bounding fawn that darts along the glade
    When none pursues, through mere delight of heart,
    And spirits buoyant with excess of glee;
    The horse as wanton, and almost as fleet,
    That skips the spacious meadow at full speed,
    Then stops, and snorts, and throwing high his heels,
    Starts to the voluntary race again;
    The very kine that gambol at high noon,
    The total herd receiving first from one
    That leads the dance a summons to be gay,
    Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth
    Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent
    To give such act and utterance as they may
    To ecstasy too big to be suppressed--
    These and a thousand images of bliss,
    With which kind Nature graces every scene,
    Where cruel man defeats not her design,
    Impart to the benevolent, who wish
    All that are capable of pleasure pleased,
    A far superior happiness to theirs,
    The comfort of a reasonable joy.


       *       *       *       *       *


    The very meanest things are made supreme
      With innate ecstasy. No grain of sand
      But moves a bright and million-peopled land,
    And hath its Edens and its Eves, I deem.
    For love, though blind himself, a curious eye
      Hath lent me, to behold the heart of things,
    And touched mine ear with power. Thus, far or nigh,
      Minute or mighty, fixed or free with wings,
    Delight, from many a nameless covert sly,
      Peeps sparkling, and in tones familiar sings.


       *       *       *       *       *


When that great and far-reaching softener of hearts, the sense of our
failures and offences, is vividly present, the position we hold to
creatures who have never done wrong is always found inexpressibly touching.
To be kind to them, and rejoice in their happiness, seems just one of the
few ways in which we can act a godlike part in our little sphere, and
display the mercy for which we hope in turn. The only befitting feeling for
human beings to entertain toward brutes is--as the very word suggests--the
feeling of _Humanity_; or, as we may interpret it, the sentiment of
sympathy, as far as we can cultivate fellow feeling; of Pity so far so we
know them to suffer; of Mercy so far as we can spare their sufferings; of
Kindness and Benevolence, so far as it is in our power to make them happy.


       *       *       *       *       *


    What call'st thou solitude? Is mother earth
    With various living creatures, and the air
    Replenished, and all these at thy command
    To come and play before thee? Know'st thou not
    Their language and their ways? They also know,
    And reason not contemptibly; with these
    Find pastime, and bear rule; thy realm is large.

_Paradise Lost_, bk. 8.

       *       *       *       *       *


    One all-extending, all-preserving Soul
    Connects each being, greatest with the least;
    Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast;
    All served, all serving: nothing stands alone:
    The chain holds on, and where it ends, unknown.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Thou gavest me wide nature for my kingdom,
    And power to feel it, to enjoy it. Not
    Cold gaze of winder gav'st thou me alone,
    But even into her bosom's depth to look,
    As it might be the bosom of a friend;
    The grand array of living things thou madest
    To pass before me, mak'st me know my brothers
    In silent bush, in water, and in air.

_Blackie's Translation of Goethe's Faust._

       *       *       *       *       *


    Even the she-wolf with young, on rapine bent,
    He caught and tethered in his mat-walled tent,
    And cherished all her little sharp-nosed young,
    Till the small race with hope and terror clung
    About his footsteps, till each new-reared brood,
    Remoter from the memories of the wood
    More glad discerned their common home with man.
      This was the work of Jubal: he began
    The pastoral life, and, sire of joys to be,
    Spread the sweet ties that bind the family
    O'er dear dumb souls that thrilled at man's caress,
    And shared his pain with patient helpfulness.

GEORGE ELIOT: _Legend of Jubal_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nor must we childishly feel contempt for the study of the lower animals,
since in all nature's work there is something wonderful. And if any one
thinks the study of other animals despicable, he must despise the study of
his own nature.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Thus born alike, from virtue first began
    The diff'rence that distinguished man from man:
    He claimed no title from descent of blood;
    But that which made him noble made him good.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Little by little the time goes by--
    Short if you sing through it, long if you sigh.
    Little by little--an hour, a day,
    Gone with the years that have vanished away;
    Little by little the race is run,
    Trouble and waiting and toil are done!

    Little by little the skies grow clear;
    Little by little the sun comes near;
    Little by little the days smile out
    Gladder and brighter on pain and doubt;
    Little by little the seed we sow
    Into a beautiful yield will grow.

    Little by little the world grows strong,
    Fighting the battle of Right and Wrong:
    Little by little the Wrong gives way,
    Little by little the Right has sway;
    Little by little all longing souls
    Struggle up nearer the shining goals!

    Little by little the good in men
    Blossoms to beauty for human ken;
    Little by little the angels see
    Prophecies better of good to be;
    Little by little the God of all
    Lifts the world nearer the pleading call.

_Cincinnati Humane Appeal_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Life may be given in many ways
    And loyalty to truth be sealed
    As bravely in the closet as the field,
        So generous is fate;
    But then to stand beside her,
    When craven churls deride her,
    To front a lie in arms, and not to yield,
    This shows, methinks, God's plan
    And measure of a stalwart man,
    Limbed like the old heroic breeds,
    Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth,
    Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,
    Fed from within with all the strength he needs.


       *       *       *       *       *


Animals have much more capacity to understand human speech than is
generally supposed. The Hindoos invariably talk to their elephants, and it
is amazing how much the latter comprehend. The Arabs govern their camels
with a few cries, and my associates in the African desert were always
amused whenever I addressed a remark to the big dromedary who was my
property for two months; yet at the end of that time the beast evidently
knew the meaning of a number of simple sentences. Some years ago, seeing
the hippopotamus in Barnum's museum looking very stolid and dejected, I
spoke to him in English, but he did not even open his eyes. Then I went to
the opposite corner of the cage, and said in Arabic, "I know you; come here
to me." He instantly turned his head toward me; I repeated the words, and
thereupon he came to the corner where I was standing, pressed his huge,
ungainly head against the bars of the cage, and looked in my face with a
touch of delight while I stroked his muzzle. I have two or three times
found a lion who recognized the same language, and the expression of his
eyes, for an instant, seemed positively human.


       *       *       *       *       *


    And I, contented with a humble theme,
    Have poured my stream of panegyric down
    The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds
    Among her lovely works, with a secure
    And unambitious course, reflecting clear
    If not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes.
    And I am recompensed, and deem the toils
    Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine
    May stand between an animal and woe,
    And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.


       *       *       *       *       *


    See him from Nature, rising slow to Art!
    To copy Instinct, that was Reason's part;
    Thus then to man the voice of Nature spake:--
    "Go, from the creatures thy instructions take;
    Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield;
    Learn from the beasts the physic of the field;
    Thy arts of building from the bee receive;
    Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave;
    Learn of the little nautilus to sail,
    Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.
    Here, too, all forms of social union find,
    And hence let reason, late, instruct mankind:
    Here subterranean works and cities see;
    There towns aerial on the waving tree.
    Learn each small people's genius, policies,
    The Ant's republic, and the realm of Bees:
    How those in common all their wealth bestow,
    And Anarchy without confusion know;
    And these forever, though a monarch reign,
    Their sep'rate cells and properties maintain.
    Mark what unvaryed laws preserve each state,
    Laws wise as Nature, and as fixed as Fate.
    In fine, thy Reason finer webs shall draw,
    Entangle Justice in her net of Law,
    And Right, too rigid, harden into Wrong;
    Still for the strong too weak, the weak too strong.
    Yet go! and thus o'er all the creatures sway,
    Thus let the wiser make the rest obey;
    And, for those Arts mere Instinct could afford,
    Be crowned as Monarchs, or as God adored."


       *       *       *       *       *


Granted that any practice causes more pain to animals than it gives
pleasure to man; is that practice moral or immoral? And if exactly in
proportion as human beings raise their heads out of the slough of
selfishness, they do not answer "immoral," let the morality of the
principle of utility be forever condemned.


       *       *       *       *       *


    It might have been that the sky was green, and the grass serenely blue;
    It might have been that grapes on thorns and figs on thistles grew;
    It might have been that rainbows gleamed before the showers came;
    It might have been that lambs were fierce and bears and tigers tame;
    It might have been that cold would melt and summer heat would freeze;
    It might have been that ships at sea would sail against the breeze--
    And there may be worlds unknown, dear, where we would find the change
    From all that we have seen or heard, to others just as strange--
    But it never could be wise, dear, in haste to act or speak;
    It never could be noble to harm the poor and weak;
    It never could be kind, dear, to give a needless pain;
    It never could be honest, dear, to sin for greed or gain;
    And there could not be a world, dear, while God is true above,
    Where right and wrong were governed by any law but love.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close,
    Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
    There as I passed with careless steps and slow,
    The mingling notes came softening from below;
    The swain responsive to the milkmaid sung:
    _The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
    The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool:_
    The playful children just let loose from school;
    _The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind_,
    And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,--
    These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
    And filled each pause the nightingale had made.


       *       *       *       *       *


The Buddhist duty of universal love enfolds in its embraces not only the
brethren and sisters of the new faith, not only our neighbors, _but every
thing that has life_.


       *       *       *       *       *

As a mother, even at the risk of her own life, protects her son, her only
son, so let a man _cultivate good-will without measure toward all beings_.
Let him cultivate good-will without measure, unhindered love and
friendliness toward the whole world, above, below, around. Standing,
walking, sitting, or lying, let him be firm in this mind so long as he is
awake; this state of heart, they say, is the best in the world.

_Metta Sutta._

       *       *       *       *       *

He who lives pure in thought, free from malice, contented, leading a holy
life, _feeling tenderly for all creatures_, speaking wisely and kindly,
humbly and sincerely, has the Deity ever in his breast. The Eternal makes
not his abode within the breast of that man who covets another's wealth,
who _injures living creatures_, who is proud of his iniquity, whose mind is


       *       *       *       *       *


The discontinuance of the murder of human beings and of cruelty to animals,
respect for parents, obedience to father and mother, obedience to holy
elders, these are good deeds.--_No. IV._

And now the joyful chorus resounds again and again that henceforward not a
single animal shall be put to death.--_No. V._

In a summary of the inscriptions by Arthur Lillie, in "Buddhism and Early
Buddhism," he says, they require also, for the benefit of both beast and
men, "that gardens be cultivated everywhere of healing shrubs and herbs."

[The inscriptions were written on "rocks, temples, and monuments" in India
for the instruction of the people, by order of the Emperor Asoka, who lived
about 250 years before Christ.]

       *       *       *       *       *


God is within this universe, and yet outside this universe; whoever beholds
all living creatures as in Him, and Him the universal Spirit, as in all,
henceforth regards no creature with contempt.

_Quoted by_ REV. J. E. CARPENTER.

       *       *       *       *       *


    It fortifies my soul to know
      That though I perish, truth is so,
    That howsoe'er I stray and range,
      Whate'er I do, thou dost not change.
    I steadier step when I recall
      That, if I slip, thou dost not fall.


       *       *       *       *       *


    We, dying, fondly hope the life immortal
              To win at last;
    Yet all that live must through death's dreary portal
              At length have passed.

    And from the hope which shines so bright above us,
              My spirit turns,
    And for the lowlier ones, that serve and love us,
              Half sadly yearns.

    Never a bird its glad way safely winging
              Through those blest skies?
    Never, through pauses in the joyful singing,
              Its notes to rise?

    Not one of those who toil's severest burdens
              So meekly bear,
    To find at last of faithful labor's guerdons
              An humble share?

    Ah, well! I need not question; gladly rather,
              I'll trust in all--
    Assured that not without our Heavenly "Father"
              The sparrows fall.

    And if He foldeth in a sleep eternal
              Their wings to rest;
    Or waketh them to fly the skies supernal--
              He knoweth best?


       *       *       *       *       *


God is the causer of pleasure and light, _maker of grass for the cattle_,
and of fruitful trees for man, _causing the fish to live in the river and
the birds to fill the air_, lying awake when all men sleep, to seek out the
good of His creatures.

_Quoted by_ REV. J. E. CARPENTER.

       *       *       *       *       *


There is a higher consanguinity than that of the blood which runs through
our veins,--that of the blood which makes our hearts beat with the same
indignation and the same joy. And there is a higher nationality than that
of being governed by the same imperial dynasty,--that of our common
allegiance to the Father and Ruler of all mankind.


       *       *       *       *       *



    For eighty years! Many will count them over,
      But none but He who knoweth all may guess
    What those long years have held of high endeavor,
      Of world-wide blessing and of blessedness.

    For eighty years the champion of the right
      Of hapless child neglected and forlorn;
    Of maniac dungeoned in his double night;
      Of woman overtasked and labor-worn;

    Of homeless boy, in streets with peril rife;
      Of workman, sickened in his airless den;
    Of Indian parching for the streams of life;
      Of negro slave in bond of cruel men.

    O Friend of all the friendless 'neath the sun,
      Whose hand hath wiped away a thousand tears,
    Whose fervent lips and clear strong brain have done
      God's holy service, lo! these eighty years,--

    How meet it seems thy grand and vigorous age
      Should find beyond man's race fresh pangs to spare,
    And for the wronged and tortured brutes engage
      In yet fresh labors and ungrudging care!

    Oh, tarry long amongst us! Live, we pray,
      Hasten not yet to hear thy Lord's "Well done!"
    Let this world still seem better while it may
      Contain one soul like thine amid its throng.

    Whilst thou art here our inmost hearts confess,
      Truth spake the kingly seer of old who said,--
    "Found in the way of God and righteousness,
      A crown of glory is the hoary head."


       *       *       *       *       *


    Pain, terror, mortal agonies which scare
    Thy heart in man, to brutes thou wilt not spare.
      Are these less sad and real? Pain in man
    Bears the high mission of the flail and fear;
      In brutes 'tis purely piteous.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Who knows thy love most royal power,
      With largess free and brave,
    Which crowns the helper of the poor,
      The suffering and the slave.

    Yet springs as freely and as warm,
      To greet the near and small,
    The prosy neighbor at the farm,
      The squirrel on the wall.


       *       *       *       *       *


It is the simple idea of dealing with a living, conscious, sensitive, and
intelligent creature as if it were dead and senseless matter, against which
the whole spirit of true humanity revolts. It is the notion of such
absolute despotism as shall justify, not merely taking life, but converting
the entire existence of the animal into a misfortune which we denounce as
a misconception of the relations between the higher and lower creatures. A
hundred years ago had physiologists frankly avowed that they recognized no
claims on the part of the brutes which should stop them from torturing
them, they would have been only on a level with their contemporaries. But
to-day they are behind the age.

As I have said ere now, the battle of Mercy, like that of Freedom,

                       "Once begun,
    Though often lost, is always won."


       *       *       *       *       *


      From yon blue heavens above us bent
    The grand old gardener and his wife
      Smile at the claims of long descent.
    Howe'er it be, it seems to me
      'Tis only noble to be good;
    Kind hearts are more than coronets,
      And simple faith than Norman blood.


       *       *       *       *       *


Yes, any act of mercy, even to the humblest and lowliest of God's
creatures, is an act that brings us near to God. Although "the mercy of
God," as the Psalmist says, "reaches to the heavens, although his judgments
are like the great deep," yet still, as the Psalmist adds, it is the same
mercy, the same justice as that which we know in ourselves. "Thou
preservest both man and beast; how exalted is thy mercy, O Lord; therefore
the children of men take refuge under the shadow of thy wings." That mercy
which we see in the complex arrangements of the animal creation, extending
down to the minutest portions of their frames--that same Divine mercy it is
which we are bid to imitate. He whose soul burns with indignation against
the brutal ruffian who misuses the poor, helpless, suffering horse, or dog,
or ass, or bird, or worm, shares for the moment that Divine companion wrath
which burns against the oppressors of the weak and defenceless everywhere.
He who puts forth his hand to save from ill treatment, or add to the
happiness of any of those dumb creatures, has opened his heart to that
Divine compassion which our Heavenly Father has shown to the whole range of
created things--which our blessed Saviour has shown to the human race, his
own peculiar charge, by living and dying for us. "Be ye merciful" to dumb
animals, for ye have a common nature with them. Be ye merciful, for the
worst part of the nature of brutes is to be unmerciful. Be ye merciful, for
ye are raised far above them, to be their appointed lords and guardians. Be
ye merciful, for ye are made in the image of him who is All-Merciful and


       *       *       *       *       *


    He beheld the poor man's need;
    Bound his wounds, and with all speed
    Set him on his own good steed,
    And brought him to the inn.

    When our Judge shall reappear,
    Thinkest thou this man will hear,
    Wherefore didst thou interfere
    With what concerned not thee?

    No! the words of Christ will run
    "Whatsoever thou hast done
    To the poor and suffering one
    That hast thou done to me."


       *       *       *       *       *


Thus, when Christianity announced its fundamental idea of love, it, by an
immovable logic, enveloped all things in that affection, and every dumb
brute of the street comes within the colored curtains of the sanctuary. The
Humane Society is a branch of God's Church, and we Christian church-members
are all members of all such associations, so far as we are intelligent
members of the Church of Christ. Love does not mean love of me or you, but
it means love always and for all.


       *       *       *       *       *


If children at school can be made to understand how it is just and noble to
be humane even to what we term inferior animals, it will do much to give
them a higher character and tone through life. There is nothing meaner than
barbarous and cruel treatment of the dumb creatures, who cannot answer us
or resent the misery which is so often needlessly inflicted upon them.


       *       *       *       *       *


Love and charity being the basis of Christianity, it is as much a question
for the Church to ask, when a person wishes to be admitted into her bosom,
"Are you kind to animals?" as it is to ask, "Do you believe in such or such
a doctrine?" Certainly the question would be pertinent to Christian life
and consonant with the fundamental and distinguishing principle of the
Christian religion; and the mere asking of it at so solemn a juncture could
not but do much to assimilate and draw closer the heart and life of the
novitiate to Him who sees every sparrow that falls.


       *       *       *       *       *


The power of feeling for animals, realizing their wants and making their
pains our own, is one which is most irregularly shown by human beings. A
Timon may have it, and a Howard be devoid of it. A rough shepherd's heart
may overflow with it, and that of an exquisite fine gentleman and
distinguished man of science may be as utterly without it as the nether
millstone. One thing I think must be clear: till man has learnt to feel for
all his sentient fellow-creatures, whether in human or in brutal form, of
his own class and sex and country, or of another, he has not yet ascended
the first step towards true civilization nor applied the first lesson from
the love of God.


       *       *       *       *       *


Nay, on the strength of that same element of self-sacrifice, I will not
grudge the epithet "heroic" which my revered friend Darwin justly applies
to the poor little monkey who once in his life did that which was above his
duty; who lived in continual terror of the great baboon, and yet, when the
brute had sprung upon his friend the keeper, and was tearing out his
throat, conquered his fear by love, and, at the risk of instant death,
sprung in turn upon his dreaded enemy, and hit and shrieked until help


       *       *       *       *       *


The effect of the barbarous treatment of inferior creatures on the minds of
those who practise it is still more deplorable than its effects upon the
animals themselves. The man who kicks dumb brutes kicks brutality into his
own heart. He who can see the wistful imploring eyes of half-starved
creatures without making earnest efforts to relieve them, is on the road to
lose his manhood, if he has not already lost it. And the boy who delights
in torturing frogs or insects, or robbing birds'-nests, or dogging cattle
and hogs wantonly and cruelly, can awaken no hope of an honorable after


       *       *       *       *       *


    Oh may I join the choir invisible
    Of those immortal dead who live again
    In minds made better by their presence: live
    In pulses stirred to generosity:
    In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
    For miserable aims that end with self;
    In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
    And with their mild persistence urge men's search
    To vaster issues.


       *       *       *       *       *


    The sense of death is most in apprehension;
    And the poor beetle that we tread upon,
    In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
    As when a giant dies.

_Measure for Measure_, Act 3, Sc. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *


It is little indeed that each of us can accomplish within the limits of our
little day. Small indeed is the contribution which the best of us can make
to the advancement of the world in knowledge and goodness. But slight
though it be, if the work we do is real and noble work, it is never lost;
it is taken up into and becomes an integral moment of that immortal life to
which all the good and great of the past, every wise thinker, every true
and tender heart, every fair and saintly spirit, have contributed, and
which, never hasting, never resting, onward through ages is advancing to
its consummation.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Salt of the earth, ye virtuous few
      Who season human kind!
    Light of the world, whose cheering ray
      Illumes the realms of mind!

    Where misery spreads her deepest shade,
      Your strong compassion glows;
    From your blest lips the balm distils
      That softens mortal woes.

    Proceed: your race of glory run,
      Your virtuous toils endure;
    You come, commissioned from on high,
      And your reward is sure.


       *       *       *       *       *


    When 'twixt the drawn forces of Night and of Morning,
      Strange visions steal down to the slumbers of men,
    From heaven's bright stronghold once issued a warning,
      Which baffled all scorning, when brought to my ken.

    Methought there descended the Saints and the Sages,
      With grief-stricken aspect and wringing of hands,
    Till Dreamland seemed filled with the anguish of ages,
      The blots of Time's pages, the woes of all lands.

    And I, who had deemed that their bliss knew no morrow
      (Half vexed with their advent, half awed with their might)--
    Cried, "Come ye from heaven, Earth's aspect to borrow,
      To mar with weird sorrow the peace of the night?"

    They answered me sternly, "Thy knowledge is mortal;
      Thou hear'st not as we must, the plaints without tongue:
    The wrongs that come beating the crystalline portal,
      Inflicted by mortals on those who are dumb.

    "Ye bleed for the nation, ye give to the altar,
      Ye heal the great sorrows that clamor and cry,
    Yet care not how oft 'neath the spur and the halter,
      The brutes of the universe falter and die.

    "Yet Jesus forgets not that while ye ensnared Him,
      And drove Him with curses of burden and goad,
    These gentle ones watched where the Magi declared Him,
      And often have spared Him the long desert road.

    "They crumble to dust; but we, watchers remaining,
      Attest their endurance through centuries past,
    Oh, fear! lest in future to Judgment attaining,
      These woes, uncomplaining, confront you at last!"


       *       *       *       *       *


    Speak gently! it is better far
      To rule by love than fear:
    Speak gently! let not harsh words mar
      The good we might do here.

    Speak gently! 'tis a little thing,
      Dropped in the heart's deep well,
    The good, the joy, which it may bring,
      Eternity shall tell.

       *       *       *       *       *

                            O, it is excellent
    To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous
    To use it like a giant.

_Measure for Measure_, Act 2, Sc. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Is there not something in the pleading eye
    Of the poor brute that suffers, which arraigns
    The law that bids it suffer? Has it not
    A claim for some remembrance in the book,
    That fills its pages with the idle words
    Spoken of man? Or is it only clay,
    Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand,
    Yet all his own to treat it as he will,
    And when he will to cast it at his feet,
    Shattered, dishonored, lost for evermore?
    My dog loves me, but could he look beyond
    His earthly master, would his love extend
    To Him who--Hush! I will not doubt that He
    Is better than our fears, and will not wrong
    The least, the meanest of created things.


       *       *       *       *       *


    The heroes are not all six feet tall,
    Large souls, may dwell in bodies small,
    The heart that will melt with sympathy
    For the poor and the weak, whoe'er it be,
    Is a thing of beauty, whether it shine
    In a man of forty or lad of nine.

_Scattered Seed._

       *       *       *       *       *


During his march to conquer the world, Alexander, the Macedonian, came to a
people in Africa, who dwelt in a remote and secluded corner, in peaceful
huts, and knew neither war nor conqueror. They led him to the hut of their
chief, and placed before him golden dates, golden figs, and bread of gold.
"Do you eat gold in this country?" said Alexander. "I take it for granted,"
replied the chief, "that thou wert able to find eatables in thine own
country. For what reason, then, art thou come among us?" "Your gold has
not tempted me hither," said Alexander; "but I would become acquainted with
your manner and customs." "So be it," rejoined the other; "sojourn among us
as long as it pleaseth thee." At, the close of this conversation two
citizens entered, as into their court of justice. The plaintiff said: "I
bought of this man a piece of land, and as I was making a deep drain
through it, I found a treasure. This is not mine, for I only bargained for
the land, and not for any treasure that might be concealed beneath it; and
yet the former owner of the land will not receive it." The defendant
answered: "I hope I have a conscience as well as my fellow-citizen. I sold
him the land with all its contingent, as well as existing advantages, and
consequently the treasure inclusively."

The chief, who was also their supreme judge, recapitulated their words, in
order that the parties might see whether or not he understood them aright.
Then, after some reflection, he said, "Thou hast a son, friend, I believe?"
"Yes." "And thou (addressing the other) a daughter?" "Yes." "Well, then,
let thy son marry thy daughter, and bestow the treasure on the young couple
for a marriage portion." Alexander seemed surprised and perplexed. "Think
you my sentence unjust?" the chief asked him. "Oh, no!" replied Alexander;
"but it astonishes me." "And how, then," rejoined the chief, "would the
case have been decided in your country?" "To confess the truth," said
Alexander, "we should have taken both into custody, and have seized the
treasure for the king's use." "For the king's use!" exclaimed the chief.
"Does the sun shine on that country?" "Oh, yes." "Does it rain there?"
"Assuredly." "Wonderful! But are there tame animals in the country that
live on the grass and green herbs?" "Very many, and of many kinds." "Ay,
that must then be the cause," said the chief; "for the sake of those
innocent animals the all-gracious Being continues to let the sun shine and
the rain drop down on your own country, since its inhabitants are unworthy
of such blessings."


       *       *       *       *       *


    Ring out a slowly dying cause,
      And ancient forms of party strife;
      Ring in the nobler modes of life,
    _With sweeter manners, purer laws._

    Ring out false pride in place and blood,
      The civic slander and the spite;
      Ring in the love of truth and right,
    _Ring in the common love of good._

    Ring in the valiant man and free,
      _The larger heart, the kindlier hand;_
      Ring out the darkness of the land,
    Ring in the Christ that is to be.


       *       *       *       *       *


    "What shall I do, lest life in silence pass?"
        "And if it do,
    And never prompt the bray of noisy brass,
        What need'st thou rue?
    Remember, aye the ocean-deeps are mute;
        The shallows roar:
    Worth is the ocean,--fame is but the bruit
        Along the shore."

    "What shall I do to be forever known?"
        "Thy duty ever."
    "This did full many who yet slept unknown."
        "Oh, never, never!
    Think'st thou perchance that they remain unknown
        Whom thou know'st not?
    By angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown--
        Divine their lot."

    "What shall I do to gain eternal life?"
        "Discharge aright
    _The simple dues with which each day is rife,
        Yea, with thy might_.
    Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise,
        Will life be fled,
    Where he, who ever acts as conscience cries,
        Shall live though dead."


       *       *       *       *       *


    No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,
    Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,
    The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,
    Become them with one half so good a grace
    As mercy does. If he had been as you,
    And you as he, you would have slipt like him;
    But he, like you, would not have been so stern.

_Measure for Measure_, Act 2, Sc. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Languor is not in your heart,
    Weakness is not in your word,
    Weariness not in your brow.
    Ye alight in our van! at your voice.
    Panic, despair flee away.
    Ye move through the ranks, recall
    The stragglers, refresh the outworn,
    Praise, reinspire the brave.

    Order, courage return;
    Eyes rekindling, and prayers
    Follow your steps as you go.
    Ye fill up the gaps in our files,
    Strengthen the wavering line,
    Stablish, continue our march,
    On, to the bound of the waste,
    On, to the City of God.


       *       *       *       *       *



    Be kind to dumb creatures, be gentle, be true,
    For food and protection they look up to you;
    For affection and help to your bounty they turn.
    Oh, do not their trusting hearts wantonly spurn!

      Be kind to dumb creatures, nor grudge them your care,
      God gave them their life, and your love they must share;
      And He who the sparrow's fall tenderly heeds,
      Will lovingly look on compassionate deeds.

    The brave are the tender,--then do not refuse
    To carefully cherish the brutes you must use;
    Make their life's labor sweet, not dreary and sad,
    Their working and serving you, easy and glad.
      _Chorus:_ "Be kind," etc.

    He made them and blessed them, the least are his care:
    The swallow that wings her swift flight through the air,
    The dog on your hearthstone, the horse in your barn,
    The cow in your pasture, the sheep on your farm.
      _Chorus:_ "Be kind," etc.

_Our Dumb Animals._

       *       *       *       *       *


    Do something! do it soon! with all thy might;
      An angel's wing would droop if long at rest,
      And God inactive were no longer blest.
    Some high or humble enterprise of good
      Contemplate till it shall possess thy mind,
    Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,
      And kindle in thy heart a flame refined:
    Pray heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind
      To this high purpose: to begin, pursue,
    With thoughts all fixed, and feelings purely kind;
      Strength to complete, and with delight review,
      And strength to give the praise where all is due.


       *       *       *       *       *


    The measureless gulfs of air are full of Thee:
      Thou art, and therefore hang the stars: they wait
    And swim, and shine in God who bade them be,
      And hold their sundering voids inviolate.

    A God concerned (veiled in pure light) to bless,
      With sweet revealing of his love, the soul;
    _Towards things piteous, full of piteousness;
      The Cause, the Life, and the continuing Whole.

    He is more present to all things He made
      Than anything unto itself can be;
    Full-foliaged boughs of Eden could not shade
      Afford, since God was also 'neath the tree._


       *       *       *       *       *


    Be firm and be faithful; desert not the right;
    The brave are the bolder, the darker the night;
    Then up and be doing, though cowards may fail;
    Thy duty pursuing, dare all, and prevail.

    If scorn be thy portion, if hatred and loss,
    If stripes or a prison, remember the cross!
    God watches above thee, and He will requite;
    Stand firm and be faithful, desert not the right.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Our hearts' pure service, Love, be thine,
    Who clothest all with rights divine,
    Whose great Soul burns, though ne'er so dim,
    In all that walk, or fly, or swim.

    All Father! who on Mercy's throne
    Hear'st thy dumb creatures' faintest moan,--
    Thy love be ours, and ours shall be
    Returned in deeds to thine and Thee.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Sweet morn! from countless cups of gold
      Thou liftest reverently on high
    More incense fine than earth can hold,
            To fill the sky.

    _The lark by his own carol blest_,
      From thy green harbors eager springs;
    And his large heart in little breast
            Exulting sings.

    The fly his jocund round unweaves,
      _With choral strain the birds salute
    The voiceful flocks_, and nothing grieves,
            And naught is mute.

    To thousand tasks of fruitful hope,
      With skill against his toil, man bends
    And finds his work's determined scope
            Where'er he wends.

    From earth, and earthly toil and strife,
      To deathless aims his love may rise,
    Each dawn may wake to better life,
            With purer eyes.


       *       *       *       *       *


    In holy books we read how God hath spoken
      To holy men in many different ways;
    But hath the present worked no sign nor token?
      Is God quite silent in these latter days?

    The word were but a blank, a hollow sound,
      If He that spake it were not speaking still;
    If all the light and all the shade around
      Were aught but issues of Almighty Will.

    So, then, _believe that every bird that sings_,
      And every flower that stars the elastic sod,
    And every thought the happy summer brings,
      To the pure spirit is a word of God.


       *       *       *       *       *


    At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town
    Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown,
    One of those little places that have run
    Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun,
    And then sat down to rest, as if to say,
    "I climb no farther upward, come what may,"--
    The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,
    So many monarchs since have borne the name,
    Had a great bell hung in the market-place
    Beneath a roof, projecting some small space,
    By way of shelter from the sun and rain.
    Then rode he through the streets with all his train,
    And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long,
    Made proclamation, that whenever wrong
    Was done to any man, he should but ring
    The great bell in the square, and he, the King,
    Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.
    Such was the proclamation of King John.

    How swift the happy days in Atri sped,
    What wrongs were righted, need not here be said.
    Suffice it that, as all things must decay,
    The hempen rope at length was worn away,
    Unravelled at the end, and strand by strand,
    Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand,
    Till one, who noted this in passing by,
    Mended the rope with braids of briony,
    So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine
    Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.

    By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt
    A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt,
    Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods,
    Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods,
    Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports
    And prodigalities of camps and courts;--
    Loved, or had loved them: for at last, grown old,
    His only passion was the love of gold.

    He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds,
    Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds,
    Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all,
    To starve and shiver in a naked stall,
    And day by day sat brooding in his chair,
    Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.

    At length he said: "What is the use or need
    To keep at my own cost this lazy steed,
    Eating his head off in my stables here,
    When rents are low and provender is dear?
    Let him go feed upon the public ways;
    I want him only for the holidays."
    So the old steed was turned into the heat
    Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street;
    And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn,
    Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn.

    One afternoon, as in that sultry clime
    It is the custom in the summer-time,
    With bolted doors and window-shutters closed,
    The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed;
    When suddenly upon their senses fell
    The loud alarum of the accusing bell!
    The Syndic started from his deep repose,
    Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose
    And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace
    Went panting forth into the market-place,
    Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung
    Reiterating with persistent tongue,
    In half-articulate jargon, the old song:
    "Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!"

    But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade
    He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade,
    No shape of human form of woman born,
    But a poor steed dejected and forlorn,
    Who with uplifted head and eager eye
    Was tugging at the vines of briony.
    "Domeneddio!" cried the Syndic straight,
    "This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state!
    He calls for justice, being sore distressed,
    And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."

    Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd
    Had rolled together like a summer cloud,
    And told the story of the wretched beast
    In five-and-twenty different ways at least,
    With much gesticulation and appeal
    To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal.
    The Knight was called and questioned; in reply
    Did not confess the fact, did not deny;
    Treated the matter as a pleasant jest,
    And set at naught the Syndic and the rest,
    Maintaining, in an angry undertone,
    That he should do what pleased him with his own.

    And thereupon the Syndic gravely read
    The proclamation of the King; then said:
    "Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay,
    But cometh back on foot, and begs its way;
    Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds,
    Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds!
    These are familiar proverbs; but I fear
    They never yet have reached your knightly ear.
    What fair renown, what honor, what repute
    Can come to you from starving this poor brute?
    He who serves well and speaks not, merits more
    Then they who clamor loudest at the door.
    Therefore the law decrees that, as this steed
    Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed
    To comfort his old age, and to provide
    Shelter in stall, and food and field beside."

    The Knight withdrew abashed; the people all
    Led home the steed in triumph to his stall.
    The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee,
    And cried aloud: "Right well it pleaseth me!
    Church-bells at best but ring us to the door;
    But go not in to mass; my bell doth more:
    It cometh into court and pleads the cause
    Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws;
    And this shall make, in every Christian clime,
    The Bell of Atri famous for all time."

_Tales of a Wayside Inn, second day, 1872._

       *       *       *       *       *


    "Yes, well your story pleads the cause
    Of those dumb mouths that have no speech,
    Only a cry from each to each
    In its own kind, with its own laws;
    Something that is beyond the reach
    Of human power to learn or teach,--
    An inarticulate moan of pain,
    Like the immeasurable main
    Breaking upon an unknown beach."

    Thus spake the poet with a sigh;
    Then added, with impassioned cry,
    As one who feels the words he speaks,
    The color flushing in his cheeks,
    The fervor burning in his eye:
    "Among the noblest in the land,
    Though he may count himself the least,
    That man I honor and revere
    Who without favor, without fear,
    In the great city dares to stand
    The friend of every friendless beast,
    And tames with his unflinching hand
    The brutes that wear our form and face,
    The were-wolves of the human race!"

_Tales of a Wayside Inn, second day, 1872._

       *       *       *       *       *


Mr. George Herbert's love to music was such that he went usually twice
every week, on certain appointed days, to the Cathedral Church in
Salisbury. When rector of Bemerton, in one of his walks to Salisbury, he
saw a poor man with a poorer horse, that was fallen under his load; they
were both in distress, and needed present help, which Mr. Herbert
perceiving, put off his canonical coat and helped the poor man to unload,
and after to load his horse. The poor man blessed him for it, and he
blessed the poor man; and was so like the good Samaritan, that he gave him
money to refresh both himself and his horse; and told him, "_That if he

Thus he left the poor man: and at his coming to his musical friends at
Salisbury, they began to wonder that Mr. George Herbert, who used to be so
trim and clean, came into that company so soiled and discomposed; but he
told them the occasion. And when one of the company told him "he had
disparaged himself by so dirty an employment," his answer was: "That the
thought of what he had done would prove music to him at midnight; and that
the omission of it would have upbraided and made discord in his conscience,
whensoever he should pass by that place; for if I be bound to pray for all
that be in distress, I am sure that I am bound, so far at it is in my
power, to practise what I pray for. And though I do not wish for a like
occasion every day, yet let me tell you, I would not willingly pass one day
of my life without comforting a sad soul, or showing mercy, and I praise
God for this occasion."


       *       *       *       *       *


    Hast thou given the horse strength?
    Hast thou clothed his neck with his trembling mane?
    Hast thou taught him to bound like the locust?
    How majestic his snorting! how terrible!
    He paweth in the valley; he exulteth in his strength,
    And rusheth into the midst of arms.
    He laugheth at fear; he trembleth not,
    And turneth not back from the sword.
    Against him rattle the quiver,
    The flaming spear, and the lance.
    With rage and fury he devoureth the ground;
    He will not believe that the trumpet soundeth.
    At every blast of the trumpet, he saith, Aha!
    And snuffeth the battle afar off,--
    The thunder of the captains, and the war-shout.

_Job, chap._ 39, NOYES' _Translation_.

       *       *       *       *       *



    When Allah's breath created first
      The noble Arab steed,--
    The conqueror of all his race
      In courage and in speed,--

    To the South-wind He spake: From thee
      A creature shall have birth,
    To be the bearer of my arms
      And my renown on earth.

    Then to the perfect horse He spake:
      Fortune to thee I bring;
    Fortune, as long as rolls the earth,
      Shall to thy forelock cling.

    Without a pinion winged thou art,
      And fleetest with thy load;
    Bridled art thou without a rein,
      And spurred without a goad.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Come, my beauty! come, my desert darling!
      On my shoulder lay thy glossy head!
    Fear not, though the barley-sack be empty,
      Here's the half of Hassan's scanty bread.

    Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty!
      And thou know'st my water-skin is free:
    Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant,
      And my strength and safety lie in thee.

    Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses!
      Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye:
    Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddle,--
      Thou art proud he owns thee: so am I.

    Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses,
      Prancing with their diamond-studded reins;
    They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness
      When they course with thee the desert plains!

    We have seen Damascus, O my beauty!
      And the splendor of the Pashas there;
    What's their pomp and riches? why, I would not
      Take them for a handful of thy hair!


       *       *       *       *       *


      Yet pity for a horse o'erdriven,
    And love in which my hound has part,
    Can hang no weight upon my heart,
      In its assumptions up to heaven:

      And I am so much more than these
    As thou, perchance, art more than I,
    And yet I would spare them sympathy,
      And I would set their pains at ease.

TENNYSON'S _In Memoriam._

       *       *       *       *       *


    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 shining 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 Arabs 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!


       *       *       *       *       *


    The king looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true;
    Then to the king Ruy Diaz spake, after reverence due,
    "O king! the thing is shameful, that any man beside
    The liege lord of Castile himself, should Bavieca ride.

    "For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bring
    So good as he, and certes, the best befits my king,
    But, that you may behold him, and know him to the core,
    I'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the Moor."

    With that the Cid, clad as he was, in mantle furred and wide,
    On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side;
    And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career,
    Streamed like a pennon on the wind, Ruy Diaz' minivere.

    And all that saw them praised them,--they lauded man and horse,
    As matchéd well, and rivals for gallantry and force;
    Ne'er had they looked on horsemen might to this knight come near,
    Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.

    Thus, to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furious steed,
    He snapped in twain his nether rein: "God pity now the Cid!
    God pity Diaz!" cried the lords,--but when they looked again,
    They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him with the fragment of his rein;
    They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm,
    Like a true lord commanding, and obeyed as by a lamb.

    And so he led him foaming and panting to the king,
    But, "No," said Don Alphonso, "it were a shameful thing,
    That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid
    By any mortal but Bivar,--mount, mount again, my Cid!"

LOCKHART'S _Spanish Ballads._

       *       *       *       *       *


    Word was brought to the Danish king,
    That the love of his heart lay suffering,
    And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;
      (Oh! ride as though you were flying!)
    Better he loves each golden curl
    On the brow of that Scandinavian girl
    Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl;
      And his Rose of the Isles is dying.

    Thirty nobles saddled with speed;
    Each one mounted a gallant steed
    Which he kept for battle and days of need;
      (Oh! ride as though you were flying!)
    Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
    Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
    Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst:
    But ride as they would, the king rode first;
      For his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

    His nobles are beaten, one by one;
    They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone;
    His little fair page now follows alone,
      For strength and for courage trying,
    The king looked back at that faithful child:
    Wan was the face that answering smiled.
    They passed the drawbridge with clattering din:
    Then he dropped; and only the king rode in
      Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

    The king blew a blast on his bugle horn;
    No answer came, but faint and forlorn
    An echo returned on the cold gray morn,
      Like the breath of a spirit sighing.
    The castle portal stood grimly wide;
    None welcomed the king from that weary ride;
    For, dead in the light of the dawning day,
    The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,
    Who had yearned for his voice while dying.

    The panting steed with a drooping crest
        Stood weary.
    The king returned from her chamber of rest,
    The thick sobs choking in his breast;
      And that dumb companion eying,
    The tears gushed forth, which he strove to check;
    He bowed his head on his charger's neck:
    "O steed, that every nerve didst strain,
    Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain,
      To the halls where my love lay dying!"


       *       *       *       *       *

    Go forth under the open sky and list
    To Nature's teachings.


       *       *       *       *       *


"Yesterday we buried my pretty brown mare under the wild-cherry tree. End
of poor Bess."

    When a human being dies,
    Seeming scarce so good or wise,
    Scarce so high in scale of mind
    As the horse he leaves behind,
    "Lo," we cry, "the fleeting spirit
    Doth a newer garb inherit;
    Through eternity doth soar,
    Growing, greatening, evermore."
    But our beautiful dumb creatures
    Yield their gentle, generous natures,
    With their mute, appealing eyes,
    Haunted by earth's mysteries,
    Wistfully upon us cast,
    Loving, trusting, to the last;
    And we arrogantly say,
    "They have had their little day;
    Nothing of them but was clay."

    Has all perished? Was no mind
    In that graceful form enshrined?
    Can the love that filled those eyes
    With most eloquent replies,
    When the glossy head close pressing,
    Grateful met your hand's caressing;
    Can the mute intelligence,
    Baffling oft our human sense
    With strange wisdom, buried be
    "Under the wild-cherry tree?"
    Are these elements that spring
    In a daisy's blossoming,
    Or in long dark grasses wave
    Plume-like o'er your favorite's grave?
    Can they live in us, and fade
    In all else that God has made!
    Is there aught of harm believing
    That, some newer form receiving,
    They may find a wider sphere,
    Live a larger life than here?
    That the meek, appealing eyes,
    Haunted by strange mysteries,
    Find a more extended field,
    To new destinies unsealed;
    Or that in the ripened prime
    Of some far-off summer time,
    Ranging that unknown domain,
    We may find our pets again?


       *       *       *       *       *


    A Bedouin of true honor, good Nebar,
    Possessed a horse whose fame was spread afar;
    No other horse was half so proud and strong;
    His feet were like the north wind swept along;
    In his curved neck, and in his flashing eye,
    You saw the harbingers of victory.

    So, many came to Nebar day by day,
    And longed to take his noble horse away;
    Large sums they offered, and with grace besought.
    But, all in vain; the horse could not be bought.

    With these came Daher, of another tribe,
    To see if he might not the owner bribe;
    Yet purposeless,--no money, skill, nor breath
    Could part the owner from his horse till death.

    Then Daher, who was subtle, mean, and sly,
    Concluded, next, some stratagem to try;
    So, clothed in rags, and masked in form and face,
    He as a beggar walked with limping pace,
    And, meeting Nebar with the horse one day,
    He fell, and prostrate on the desert lay.

    The ruse succeeded; for, when Nebar found
    A helpless man in sorrow on the ground,
    He took him up, and on the noble steed
    Gave him a place; but what a thankless deed!
    For Daher shouted, laughed, and, giving rein,
    Said, "You will never see your horse again!"

    "Take him," said Nebar, "but, for Mercy's sake,
    Tell no man in what way you choose to take,
    Lest others, seeing what has happened me,
    Omit to do some needed charity."
    Pierced by these words, the robber's keen remorse
    Thwarted his plan, and he returned the horse,
    Shame-faced and sorrowful; then slunk away
    As if he feared the very light of day!


       *       *       *       *       *


    Your horse is faint, my King, my lord! your gallant horse is sick,--
    His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick;
    Mount, mount on mine, O mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly!
    Or in my arms I'll lift your Grace,--their trampling hoofs are nigh!

    My King, my King! you're wounded sore,--the blood runs from your feet;
    But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat;
    Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!--I hear their coming cry,--
    Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy,--I'll save you, though I die!

    Stand, noble steed! this hour of need,--be gentle as a lamb;
    I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth,--thy master dear I am,--
    Mount, Juan, mount; whate'er betide, away the bridle fling,
    Drive on, drive on with utmost speed,--My horse shall save my King!

LOCKART'S _Spanish Ballads._

       *       *       *       *       *

"BAY BILLY."--(Extracts.)

    At last from out the centre fight
      Spurred up a general's aid.
    "That battery must silenced be!"
      He cried, as past he sped.
    Our colonel simply touched his cap,
      And then, with measured tread,

    To lead the crouching line once more
      The grand old fellow came.
    No wounded man but raised his head
      And strove to gasp his name,
    And those who could not speak nor stir,
      "God blessed him" just the same.

    This time we were not half-way up,
      When, midst the storm of shell,
    Our leader, with his sword upraised,
      Beneath our bayonets fell.
    And, as we bore him back, the foe
      Set up a joyous yell.

    Just then before the laggard line
      The colonel's horse we spied,
    Bay Billy with his trappings on,
      His nostrils swelling wide,
    As though still on his gallant back
      The master sat astride.

    Right royally he took the place
      That was of old his wont,
    And with a neigh that seemed to say,
      Above the battle's brunt,
    "How can the Twenty-second charge
      If I am not in front?"

    No bugle-call could rouse us all
      As that brave sight had done.
    Down all the battered line we felt
      A lightning impulse run.
    Up! up! the hill we followed Bill,
      And we captured every gun!

    And then the dusk and dew of night
      Fell softly o'er the plain,
    As though o'er man's dread work of death
      The angels wept again,
    And drew night's curtain gently round
      A thousand beds of pain.

    At last the morning broke. The lark
      Sang in the merry skies
    As if to e'en the sleepers there
      It bade awake, and rise!
    Though naught but that last trump of all
      Could ope their heavy eyes.

    And as in faltering tone and slow,
      The last few names were said,
    Across the field some missing horse
      Toiled up with weary tread,
    It caught the sergeant's eye, and quick
      Bay Billy's name he read.

    Not all the shoulder-straps on earth
      Could still our mighty cheer;
    And ever from that famous day,
      When rang the roll-call clear,
    Bay Billy's name was read, and then
      The whole line answered, "Here!"


       *       *       *       *       *

    We cannot kindle when we will,
    The fire that in the heart resides;
    But tasks in hours of insight willed,
    Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled.


       *       *       *       *       *



    What was it, that passed like an ominous breath--
    Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death?
    What is it? The valley is peaceful still,
    And the leaves are afire on top of the hill.
    It was not a sound--nor a thing of sense--
    But a pain, like the pang of the short suspense
    That thrills the being of those who see
    At their feet the gulf of Eternity!

    The air of the valley has felt the chill:
    The workers pause at the door of the mill;
    The housewife, keen to the shivering air,
    Arrests her foot on the cottage stair,
    Instinctive taught by the mother-love,
    And thinks of the sleeping ones above.
    Why start the listeners? Why does the course
    Of the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse--
    Hark to the sound of his hoofs, they say--
    That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way!
    God! what was that, like a human shriek
    From the winding valley? Will nobody speak?
    Will nobody answer those women who cry
    As the awful warnings thunder by?

    Whence come they? Listen! And now they hear
    The sound of galloping horse-hoofs near;
    They watch the trend of the vale, and see
    The rider who thunders so menacingly,
    With waving arms and warning scream
    To the home-filled banks of the valley stream.
    He draws no rein, but he shakes the street
    With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet;
    And this the cry he flings to the wind;
    "To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!"

                                        But onward still,
    In front of the roaring flood is heard
    The galloping horse and the warning word.
    Thank God! the brave man's life is spared!
    From Williamsburg town he nobly dared
    To race with the flood and take the road
    In front of the terrible swath it mowed.
    For miles it thundered and crashed behind,
    But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind;
    "They must be warned!" was all he said,
    As away on his terrible ride he sped.


       *       *       *       *       *


    A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
    A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
    And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
    Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
    That was all! and yet, through the gloom and the light,
    The fate of a nation was riding that night;
    And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight,
    Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

    He has left the village and mounted the steep,
    And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
    Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
    And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
    Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
    Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

    It was twelve by the village clock
    When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
    He heard the crowing of the cock,
    And the barking of the farmer's dog,
    And felt the damp of the river fog,
    That rises after the sun goes down.

    It was one by the village clock,
    When he galloped into Lexington.
    He saw the gilded weathercock
    Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
    And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
    Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
    As if they already stood aghast
    At the bloody work they would look upon.

    It was two by the village clock,
    When he came to the bridge in Concord town
    He heard the bleating of the flock,
    And the twitter of birds among the trees,
    And felt the breath of the morning breeze
    Blowing over the meadows brown.
    And one was safe and asleep in his bed
    Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
    Who that day would be lying dead,
    Pierced by a British musket-ball.

    You know the rest. In the books you have read,
    How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
    How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
    From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
    Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
    Then crossing the fields to emerge again
    Under the trees at the turn of the road,
    And only pausing to fire and load.

    So through the night rode Paul Revere;
    And so through the night went his cry of alarm
    To every Middlesex village and farm,--
    A cry of defiance and not of fear,
    A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
    And a word that shall echo for evermore!
    For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
    Through all our history, to the last,
    In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
    The people will waken and listen to hear
    The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
    And the midnight message of Paul Revere.


       *       *       *       *       *

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.--(Extracts.)

    Up from the South at break of day,
    Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
    The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
    Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door
    The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,
    Telling the battle was on once more,
    And Sheridan twenty miles away.

    But there is a road from Winchester town,
    A good broad highway leading down;
    And there, through the flush of the morning light,
    A steed as black as the steeds of night,
    Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
    As if he knew the terrible need;
    He stretched away with his utmost speed;
    Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
    With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

    Under his spurning feet the road
    Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
    And the landscape sped away behind
    Like an ocean flying before the wind,
    And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire,
    Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire.
    But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;
    He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
    With Sheridan only five miles away.

    The first that the general saw were the groups
    Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops,
    What was done? what to do? a glance told him both,
    Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath,
    He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas,
    And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because
    The sight of the master compelled it to pause.
    With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;
    By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play,
    He seemed to the whole great army to say,
    "I have brought you Sheridan all the way
    From Winchester down, to save the day!"

    Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!
    Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!
    And when their statues are placed on high,
    Under the dome of the Union sky,
    The American soldiers' Temple of Fame;
    There with the glorious general's name,
    Be it said, in letters both bold and bright,
    "Here is the steed that saved the day,
    By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
    From Winchester, twenty miles away!"


       *       *       *       *       *

GOOD NEWS TO AIX.--(Extract.)

    I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he;
    I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
    "Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew,
    "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through.
    Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
    And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

    Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace,--
    Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
    I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
    Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right,
    Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,
    Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

    'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
    Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
    At Boom a great yellow star came out to see;
    At Düffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be;
    And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,--
    So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"

    At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
    And against him the cattle stood, black every one,
    To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
    And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last,
    With resolute shoulders, each butting away
    The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.
       *       *       *       *       *

(But "Roos" and the "Roan" fell dead on the way; the latter, when Aix was
in sight!)

    And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
    Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
    With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
    And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

    Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
    Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
    Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
    Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
    Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
    Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

    And all I remember is, friends flocking round
    As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
    And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
    As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
    Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
    Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Only a fallen horse, stretched out there on the road,
    Stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by the heavy load;
    Only a fallen horse, and a circle of wondering eyes
    Watching the 'frighted teamster goading the beast to rise.

    Hold! for his toil is over--no more labor for him;
    See the poor neck outstretched, and the patient eyes grow dim;
    See on the friendly stones now peacefully rests his head--
    Thinking, if dumb beasts think, how good it is to be dead;
    After the burdened journey, how restful it is to lie
    With the broken shafts and the cruel load--waiting only to die.

    Watchers, he died in harness--died in the shafts and straps--
    Fell, and the great load killed him; one of the day's mishaps--
    One of the passing wonders marking the city road--
    A toiler dying in harness, heedless of call or goad.

    Passers, crowding the pathway, staying your steps awhile,
    What is the symbol? "Only death? why should you cease to smile
    At death for a beast of burden?" On through the busy street
    That is ever and ever echoing the tread of the hurrying feet!

    What was the sign? A symbol to touch the tireless will.
    Does he who taught in parables speak in parables still?
    The seed on the rock is wasted--on heedless hearts of men,
    That gather and sow and grasp and lose--labor and sleep--and then--
    Then for the prize! A crowd in the street of ever-echoing tread--
    The toiler, crushed by the heavy load, is there in his harness--dead.


       *       *       *       *       *


For my part, I cannot but charge his using his servants like so many beasts
of burden, and turning them off, or selling them when they grew old, to the
account of a mean and ungenerous spirit which thinks that the sole tie
between man and man is interest or necessity. But goodness moves in a
larger sphere than justice. The obligations of law and equity reach only to
mankind, but kindness and beneficence should be extended to creatures of
every species; and these still flow from the breast of a well-natured man,
as streams that issue from the living fountain. A good man will take care
of his horses and dogs, not only while they are young, but when old and
past service. Thus the people of Athens, when they had finished the temple
called Hecatompedon, set at liberty the beasts of burden that had been
chiefly employed in the work, suffering them to pasture at large, free from
any other service. It is said that one of these afterwards came of its own
accord to work, and, putting itself at the head of the laboring cattle,
marched before them to the citadel. This pleased the people, and they made
a decree that it should be kept at the public charge so long as it lived.
The graves of Cimon's mares, with which he thrice conquered at the Olympic
games, are still to be seen near his own tomb. Many have shown particular
marks of regard, in burying the dogs which they had cherished and been fond
of; and amongst the rest Xantippus of old, whose dog swam by the side of
his galley to Salamis, when the Athenians were forced to abandon their
city, and was afterwards buried by him upon a promontory, which to this day
is called the Dog's Grave. We certainly ought not to treat living creatures
like shoes or household goods, which, when worn out with use, we throw
away; and were it only to learn benevolence to humankind, we should be
merciful to other creatures. For my own part, I would not sell even an old
ox that had labored for me; much less would I remove, for the sake of a
little money, a man grown old in my service, from his usual lodgings and
diet; for to him, poor man! it would be as bad as banishment, since he
could be of no more use to the buyer than he was to the seller. But Cato,
as if he took a pride in these things, tells us, that when consul, he left
his war-horse in Spain to save the public the charge of his conveyance.
Whether such things as these are instances of greatness or littleness of
soul, let the reader judge for himself.

_From "Cato the Censor," in the "Lives."_

       *       *       *       *       *


The gentleness of chivalry, properly so called, depends on the recognition
of the order and awe of lower and loftier animal life, first clearly
taught in the myth of Chiron, and in his bringing up of Jason, Æsculapius,
and Achilles, but most perfectly by Homer, in the fable of the horses of
Achilles, and the part assigned to them, in relation to the death of his
friend, and in prophecy of his own. There is, perhaps, in all the "Iliad,"
nothing more deep in significance--there is nothing in all literature more
perfect in human tenderness, and honor for the mystery of inferior
life--than the verses that describe the sorrow of the divine horses at the
death of Patroclus, and the comfort given them by the greatest of gods.


       *       *       *       *       *


Sir Robert Clayton, a British cavalry officer, says of some war horses
which had been humanely turned out to perpetual pasture, that while the
horses were grazing on one occasion, a violent thunderstorm arose; at once
the animals fell into line and faced the blazing lightning under an
impression that it was the flash of artillery and the fire of battle.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Once into a quiet village,
      Without haste and without heed,
    In the golden prime of morning,
      Strayed the poet's wingèd steed.

    It was Autumn, and incessant
      Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
    And, like living coals, the apples
      Burned among the withering leaves.

    Loud the clamorous bell was ringing
      From its belfry gaunt and grim;
    'Twas the daily call to labor,
      Not a triumph meant for him.

    Not the less he saw the landscape,
      In its gleaming vapor veiled;
    Not the less he breathed the odors
      That the dying leaves exhaled.

    Thus, upon the village common,
      By the school-boys he was found;
    And the wise men, in their wisdom,
      Put him straightway into pound.

    Then the sombre village crier,
      Ringing loud his brazen bell,
    Wandered down the street proclaiming:
      There was an estray to sell.

    And the curious country people,
      Rich and poor, and young and old,
    Came in haste to see the wondrous
      Wingèd steed with mane of gold.

    Thus the day passed, and the evening
      Fell, with vapors cold and dim;
    But it brought no food nor shelter,
      Brought no straw nor stall, for him.

    Patiently, and still expectant,
      Looked he through the wooden bars,
    Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape.
      Saw the tranquil, patient stars;

    Till at length the bell at midnight
      Sounded from its dark abode,
    And, from out a neighboring farm-yard,
      Loud the cock Alectryon crowed.

    Then, with nostrils wide distended,
      Breaking from his iron chain,
    And unfolding far his pinions,
      To those stars he soared again.

    On the morrow, when the village
      Woke to all its toil and care,
    Lo! the strange steed had departed,
      And they knew not when nor where.

    But they found, upon the greensward
      Where his struggling hoofs had trod,
    Pure and bright, a fountain flowing
      From the hoof-marks in the sod.

    From that hour, the fount unfailing
      Gladdens the whole region round,
    Strengthening all who drink its waters,
      While it soothes them with its sound.


       *       *       *       *       *


Nay, the man hath no wit, that cannot, from the rising of the lark to the
lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey; it is a theme as
fluent as the sea; turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and my horse is
argument for them all; 'tis a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and for
a sovereign's sovereign to ride on; and for the world (familiar to us and
unknown), to lay apart their particular functions and wonder at him.

_Henry V._ Act 3, Sec. 7.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Gray!
    There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh;
    Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane
    Shall marshal your march through the darkness and rain.


       *       *       *       *       *


    The proud steed bends his stately neck
      And patient waits his master's word,
    While Fido listens for his step,
      Welcome, whenever heard.
    King Charlie shakes his curly ears,
    Secure his home, no harm he fears;
    Above the peaceful pigeons coo
    Their happy hymn, the long day through.

    What means this scene of quiet joy,
    This peaceful scene without alloy!
    Kind words, kind care, and tender thought
    This picture beautiful have wrought.
    Its lesson tells of care for all
    God's creatures, whether great or small,
    And they who love "the least of these,"
    Are sure a loving God to please.

_Our Dumb Animals._

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


            Whither, 'midst falling dew,
    While glow the heavens with the last steps of day
    Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
            Thy solitary way?

            Vainly the fowler's eye
    Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
    As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
            Thy figure floats along.

            Seek'st thou the plashy brink
    Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
    Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
            On the chafed ocean side?

            There is a Power whose care
    Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,--
    The desert and illimitable air,--
            Lone wandering, but not lost.

            All day thy wings have fanned,
    At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;
    Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
            Though the dark night is near.

            And soon that toil shall end;
    Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
    And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
            Some o'er thy sheltered nest.

            Thou'rt gone--the abyss of heaven
    Hath swallowed up thy form--yet on my heart
    Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
            And shall not soon depart.

            He, who from zone to zone
    Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
    In the long way that I must tread alone
            Will lead my steps aright.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Through my north window, in the wintry weather,--
      My airy oriel on the river shore,--
    I watch the sea-fowl as they flock together
      Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar.

    I see the solemn gulls in council sitting
      On some broad ice-floe, pondering long and late,
    While overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting,
      And leave the tardy conclave in debate,

    Those weighty questions in their breasts revolving,
      Whose deeper meaning science never learns,
    Till at some reverend elder's look dissolving,
      The speechless senate silently adjourns.

    He knows you! "sportsman" from suburban alleys,
      Stretched under seaweed in the treacherous punt;
    Knows every lazy, shiftless lout that sallies
      Forth to waste powder--as _he_ says, to "hunt."

    I watch you with a patient satisfaction,
      Well pleased to discount your predestined luck;
    The float that figures in your sly transaction
      Will carry back a goose, but not a duck.

    Shrewd is our bird; not easy to outwit him!
      Sharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes;
    Still, he is mortal and a shot may hit him;
      One cannot always miss him if he tries!

    O Thou who carest for the falling sparrow,
      Canst Thou the sinless sufferer's pang forget?
    Or is thy dread account-book's page so narrow
      Its one long column scores thy creature's debt?

    Poor, gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished,
      A world grows dark with thee in blinding death;
    One little gasp,--thy universe has perished,
      Wrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath!

_From "My Aviary," by_ O. W. HOLMES.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Across the narrow beach we flit,
      One little sandpiper and I,
    And fast I gather, bit by bit,
      The scattered driftwood bleached and dry.
    The wild waves reach their hands for it,
      The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
    As up and down the beach we flit,--
      One little sandpiper and I.

    Above our heads the sullen clouds
      Scud black and swift across the sky;
    Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
      Stand out the white lighthouses high.
    Almost as far as eye can reach,
      I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
    As fast we flit along the beach,--
      One little sandpiper and I.

    I watch him as he skims along,
      Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.
    He starts not at my fitful song,
      Or flash of fluttering drapery.
    He has no thought of any wrong;
      He scans me with a fearless eye.
    Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong,
      The little sandpiper and I.

    Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,
      When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
    My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
      To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
    I do not fear for thee, though wroth
      The tempest rushes through the sky:
    For are we not God's children both,
      Thou, little sandpiper, and I?


       *       *       *       *       *


    The robin and the bluebird, piping loud,
      Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee;
    The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud
      Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be;
    And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd,
      Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly,
    Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said:
    "Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!"

           *       *       *       *       *

    Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth,
      In fabulous days, some hundred years ago;
    And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth,
      Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow,
    That mingled with the universal mirth,
      Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe;
    They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words
    To swift destruction the whole race of birds.

    And a town-meeting was convened straightway
      To set a price upon the guilty heads
    Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay,
      Levied black-mail upon the garden beds
    And cornfields, and beheld without dismay
      The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds;
    The skeleton that waited at their feast,
    Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Rose the Preceptor,...
      To speak out what was in him, clear and strong.

           *       *       *       *       *

    "Plato, anticipating the Reviewers,
      From his Republic banished without pity
    The Poets; in this little town of yours,
      You put to death, by means of a Committee,
    The ballad-singers and the troubadours,
      The street-musicians of the heavenly city,
    The birds who make sweet music for us all
    In our dark hours, as David did for Saul.

        THEIR SONGS.

    "The thrush that carols at the dawn of day
      From the green steeples of the piny wood;
    The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay,
      Jargoning like a foreigner at his food;
    The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray,
      Flooding with melody the neighborhood;
    Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng
    That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song.

    "You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain
      Of a scant handful more or less of wheat,
    Or rye, or barley, or some other grain,
      Scratched up at random by industrious feet,
    Searching for worm or weevil after rain!
      Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet
    As are the songs these uninvited guests
    Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts.

    "Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?
      Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught
    The dialect they speak, where melodies
      Alone are the interpreters of thought?
    Whose household words are songs in many keys,
      Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!
    Whose habitations in the tree-tops even
    Are half-way houses on the road to heaven!

    "Think, every morning when the sun peeps through
      The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove,
    How jubilant the happy birds renew
      Their old melodious madrigals of love!
    And when you think of this, remember too
      'Tis always morning somewhere, and above
    The awakening continents, from shore to shore,
    Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.


    "Think of your woods and orchards without birds!
      Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams
    As in an idiot's brain remembered words
      Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!
    Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds
      Make up for the lost music, when your teams
    Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more
    The feathered gleaners follow to your door?

    "What! would you rather see the incessant stir
      Of insects in the windrows of the hay,
    And hear the locust and the grasshopper
      Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play?
    Is this more pleasant to you than the whir
      Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay,
    Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take
    Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake?

    "You call them thieves and pillagers; but know,
      They are the winged wardens of your farms,
    Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe,
      And from your harvest keep a hundred harms.
    Even the blackest of them all, the crow,
      Renders good service as your man-at-arms,
    Crushing the beetle in his coat-of-mail,
    And crying havoc on the slug and snail.


    "How can I teach your children gentleness,
      And mercy to the weak, and reverence
    For Life, which, in its weakness or excess,
      Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence,
    Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less
      The selfsame light, although averted hence,
    When by your laws, your actions, and your speech,
    You contradict the very things I teach?"

           *       *       *       *       *

    The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows,
    A bounty offered for the heads of crows.

           *       *       *       *       *


    Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town,
      Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly
    Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down
      The canker-worms upon the passers-by,
    Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown,
      Who shook them off with just a little cry;
    They were the terror of each favorite walk,
    The endless theme of all the village talk.

    The farmers grew impatient, but a few
      Confessed their error, and would not complain,
    For after all, the best thing one can do
      When it is raining, is to let it rain.
    Then they repealed the law, although they knew
      It would not call the dead to life again;
    As school-boys, finding their mistake too late,
    Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate.

    That year in Killingworth the Autumn came
      Without the light of his majestic look,
    The wonder of the falling tongues of flame,
      The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book.
    A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame,
      And drowned themselves despairing in the brook,
    While the wild wind went moaning everywhere,
    Lamenting the dead children of the air!


    But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen,
      A sight that never yet by bard was sung,
    As great a wonder as it would have been
      If some dumb animal had found a tongue!
    A wagon, overarched with evergreen,
      Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung,
    All full of singing birds, came down the street,
    Filling the air with music wild and sweet.

    From all the country round these birds were brought,
      By order of the town, with anxious quest,
    And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought
      In woods and fields the places they loved best,
    Singing loud canticles, which many thought
      Were satires to the authorities addressed,
    While others, listening in green lanes, averred
    Such lovely music never had been heard!


       *       *       *       *       *


    "Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice
    Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,
    When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."
    This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it
    When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.
    "Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,
    Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice
    Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in his left hand,
    And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided
    Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.
    Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,
    Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.
    But in course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;
    Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the
    Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace
    That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion
    Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.
    She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,
    Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.
    As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,
    Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder
    Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand
    Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,
    And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,
    Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."

H. W. LONGFELLOW, in _Evangeline_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers,
    Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,
    Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,
    That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.
    Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness
    Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.
    Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;
    Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,
    As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops
    Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.

H. W. LONGFELLOW, in _Evangeline_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    To hear the lark begin his flight,
    And singing startle the dull night
    From his watch-tower in the skies
    Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
    Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
    And at my window bid good-morrow
    Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
    Or the twisted eglantine;
    While the cock with lively din
    Scatters the rear of darkness thin;
    And to the stack, or the barn door,
    Stoutly struts his dames before;
    Oft listening how the hounds and horn
    Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn
    From the side of some hoar hill,
    Through the high wood echoing shrill.


       *       *       *       *       *


    I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
      Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
    I brought him home, in his nest, at even,
      He sings the song, but it pleases not now,
    For I did not bring home the river and sky;
    He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Nor crush a worm, whose useful light
    Might serve, however small,
    To show a stumbling-stone by night,
    And save man from a fall.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Up soared the lark into the air,
    A shaft of song, a wingèd prayer,
    As if a soul, released from pain,
    Were flying back to heaven again.

    St. Francis heard; it was to him
    An emblem of the Seraphim;
    The upward motion of the fire,
    The light, the heat, the heart's desire.

    Around Assisi's convent gate
    The birds, God's poor who cannot wait,
    From moor and mere and darksome wood
    Came flocking for their dole of food.

    "O brother birds," St. Francis said,
    "Ye come to me and ask for bread,
    But not with bread alone to-day
    Shall ye be fed and sent away.

    "Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds,
    With manna of celestial words;
    Not mine, though mine they seem to be,
    Not mine, though they be spoken through me.

    "Oh, doubly are ye bound to praise
    The great Creator in your lays;
    He giveth you your plumes of down,
    Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.

    "He giveth you your wings to fly
    And breathe a purer air on high,
    And careth for you everywhere,
    Who for yourselves so little care!"

    With flutter of swift wings and songs
    Together rose the feathered throngs,
    And singing scattered far apart;
    Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart.

    He knew not if the brotherhood
    His homily had understood;
    He only knew that to one ear
    The meaning of his words was clear.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!
    Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
    Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
    Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
    Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
    Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

    To the last point of vision, and beyond,
    Mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain,
    ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)
    Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
    Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
    All independent of the leafy spring.

    Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
    A privacy of glorious light is thine;
    Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
    Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
    Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
    True to the kindred points of heaven and home!


       *       *       *       *       *


          Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
            Bird thou never wert,
          That from heaven, or near it,
            Pourest thy full heart
    In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

          Higher still and higher
            From the earth thou springest,
          Like a cloud of fire,
            The blue deep thou wingest,
    And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

          Teach us, sprite or bird,
            What sweet thoughts are thine:
          I have never heard
            Praise of love or wine
    That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

          Chorus hymeneal
            Or triumphal chant
          Matched with thine, would be all
            But an empty vaunt--
    A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

          What objects are the fountains
            Of thy happy strain?
          What fields, or waves, or mountains?
            What shapes of sky or plain?
    What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

          Better than all measures
            Of delightful sound,
          Better than all treasures
            That in books are found,
    Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

          Teach me half the gladness
            That thy brain must know,
          Such harmonious madness
            From my lips would flow
    The world should listen then, as I am listening now!


       *       *       *       *       *


          Bird of the wilderness,
          Blithesome and cumberless,
    Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
          Emblem of happiness,
          Blest is thy dwelling-place,--
    Oh to abide in the desert with thee!
          Wild is the day and loud
          Far in the downy cloud,
    Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
          Where, on thy dewy wing,
          Where art thou journeying?
    Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
          O'er fell and mountain sheen,
          O'er moor and mountain green,
    O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
          Over the cloudlet dim,
          Over the rainbow's rim,
    Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
          Then, when the gloaming comes,
          Low in the heather blooms
    Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
          Emblem of happiness,
          Blest is thy dwelling-place,
    Oh to abide in the desert with thee!


       *       *       *       *       *

    A skylark wounded on the wing
    Doth make a cherub cease to sing.

    He who shall hurt a little wren
    Shall never be beloved by men.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Lord, should we oft forget to sing
      A thankful evening hymn of praise,
    This duty, they to mind might bring,
      Who chirp among the bushy sprays.

    For in their perches they retire,
      When first the twilight waxeth dim;
    And every night the sweet-voiced quire
      Shuts up the daylight with a hymn.

    Ten thousand fold more cause have we
      To close each day with praiseful voice,
    To offer thankful hearts to Thee,
      And in thy mercies to rejoice.


       *       *       *       *       *


            A cruel deed
        It is, sweet bird, to cage thee up
        Prisoner for life, with just a cup
            And a box of seed,
    And sod to move on barely one foot square,
    Hung o'er dark street, midst foul and murky air.

            From freedom brought,
        And robbed of every chance of wing,
        Thou couldst have had no heart to sing,
            One would have thought.
    But though thy song is sung, men little know
    The yearning source from which those sweet notes flow.

            Poor little bird!
        As often as I think of thee,
        And how thou longest to be free,
            My heart is stirred,
    And, were my strength but equal to my rage,
    Methinks thy cager would be in his cage.

            The selfish man!
        To take thee from thy broader sphere,
        Where thousands heard thy music clear,
            On Nature's plan;
    And where the listening landscape far and wide
    Had joy, and thou thy liberty beside.

            A singing slave
        Made now; with no return but food;
        No mate to love, nor little brood
            To feed and save;
    No cool and leafy haunts; the cruel wires
    Chafe thy young life and check thy just desires.

            Brave little bird!
        Still striving with thy sweetest song
        To melt the hearts that do thee wrong,
            I give my word
    To stand with those who for thy freedom fight,
    Who claim for thee that freedom as thy right.

_Chambers's Journal._

       *       *       *       *       *


    I have a friend across the street,
      We never yet exchanged a word,
    Yet dear to me his accents sweet--
      I am a woman, he a bird.

    And here we twain in exile dwell,
      Far from our native woods and skies,
    And dewy lawns with healthful smell,
      Where daisies lift their laughing eyes.

    Never again from moss-built nest
      Shall the caged woodlark blithely soar;
    Never again the heath be pressed
      By foot of mine for evermore!

    Yet from that feathered, quivering throat
      A blessing wings across to me;
    No thrall can hold that mellow note,
      Or quench its flame in slavery.

    When morning dawns in holy calm,
      And each true heart to worship calls,
    Mine is the prayer, but his the psalm,
      That floats about our prison walls.

    And as behind the thwarting wires
      The captive creature throbs and sings,
    With him my mounting soul aspires
      On Music's strong and cleaving wings.

    My chains fall off, the prison gates
      Fly open, as with magic key;
    And far from life's perplexing straits,
      My spirit wanders, swift and free.

    Back to the heather, breathing deep
      The fragrance of the mountain breeze,
    I hear the wind's melodious sweep
      Through tossing boughs of ancient trees.

    Beneath a porch where roses climb
      I stand as I was used to stand,
    Where cattle-bells with drowsy chime
      Make music in the quiet land.

    Fast fades the dream in distance dim,
      Tears rouse me with a sudden shock;
    Lo! at my door, erect and trim,
      The postman gives his double knock.

    And a great city's lumbering noise
      Arises with confusing hum,
    And whistling shrill of butchers' boys;
      My day begins, my bird is dumb.

_Temple Bar._

       *       *       *       *       *


    Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
      No hungry generations tread thee down:
    The voice I heard this passing night was heard
      In ancient days by emperor and clown:
    Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
      Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home,
        She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
              The same that ofttimes hath
      Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
        Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

    Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
      To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
    Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
      As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
    Adieu! Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
      Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
        Up the hill-side: and now 'tis buried deep
              In the next valley-glades
      Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
        Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?


       *       *       *       *       *


    Color and form may be conveyed by words,
      But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains
    That from the throats of these celestial birds
      Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains;
    There was the meadow-lark with voice as sweet,
      But robed in richer raiment than our own;
    And as the moon smiled on his green retreat,
      The painted nightingale sang out alone.

    Words cannot echo music's wingèd note,
      One voice alone exhausts their utmost power;
    'Tis that strange bird, whose many-voicèd throat
      Mocks all his brethren of the woodlawn bower,
    To whom, indeed, the gift of tongues is given,
      The musical, rich tongues that fill the grove;
    Now, like the lark, dropping his notes from heaven,
      Now cooing the soft notes of the dove.

    Oft have I seen him, scorning all control,
      Winging his arrowy flight, rapid and strong,
    As if in search of his evanished soul,
      Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song;
    And as I wandered on and upward gazed,
      Half lost in admiration, half in fear,
    I left the brothers wondering and amazed,
      Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Meanwhile the tepid caves, and fens, and shores,
    Their brood as numerous hatch from the egg that soon
    Bursting with kindly rupture, forth disclosed
    Their callow young; but feathered soon and fledge
    They summed their pens; and, soaring the air sublime,
    With clang despised the ground, under a cloud
    In prospect: there the eagle and the stork
    On cliffs and cedar-tops their eyries build;
    Part loosely wing the region; part, more wise,
    In common ranged in figure, wedge their way,
    Intelligent of seasons, and set forth
    Their aery caravan, high over seas
    Flying, and over lands, with mutual wing
    Easing their flight; so steers the prudent crane
    Her annual voyage, borne on winds; the air
    Floats as they pass, fanned with unnumbered plumes:
    From branch to branch the smaller birds with song
    Solaced the woods, and spread their painted wings
    Till even; nor then the solemn nightingale
    Ceased warbling, but all night tuned her soft lays:
    Others, on silver lakes and rivers, bathed
    Their downy breasts; the swan with archèd neck
    Between her white wings, mantling proudly, rows
    Her state with oary feet; yet oft they quit
    The dank, and, rising on stiff pennons, tower
    The mid aerial sky: others on ground
    Walked firm; the crested cock, whose clarion sounds
    The silent hours; and the other, whose gay train
    Adorns him, colored with the florid hue
    Of rainbows and starry eyes.

MILTON: _Paradise Lost_, book 7.

       *       *       *       *       *


    I would I were a note
    From a sweet bird's throat!
    I'd float on forever,
    And melt away never!
    I would I were a note
    From a sweet bird's throat!

    But I am what I am!
    As content as a lamb.
    No new state I'll covet;
    For how long should I love it?
    No, I'll be what I am,--
    As content as a lamb!

_Poetry for Children._

       *       *       *       *       *


          Emerald-plumèd, ruby-throated,
            Flashing like a fair star
          Where the humid, dew-becoated,
            Sun-illumined blossoms are--
          See the fleet humming-bird!
          Hark to his humming, heard
        Loud as the whirr of a fairy king's car!
    Sightliest, sprightliest, lightest, and brightest one,
            Child of the summer sun,
                Shining afar!

          Brave little humming-bird!
            Every eye blesses thee;
            Sunlight caresses thee,
        Forest and field are the fairer for thee.
          Blooms, at thy coming stirred,
            Bend on each brittle stem,
            Nod to the little gem,
        Bow to the humming-bird, frolic and free.
          Now around the woodbine hovering,
          Now the morning-glory covering,
          Now the honeysuckle sipping,
          Now the sweet clematis tipping,
          Now into the bluebell dipping;
        Hither, thither, flashing, bright'ning,
        Like a streak of emerald lightning:
          Round the box, with milk-white plox;
          Round the fragrant four-o'-clocks;
          O'er the crimson quamoclit,
          Lightly dost thou wheel and flit;
            Into each tubèd throat
            Dives little Ruby-throat.

            Bright-glowing airy thing,
            Light-going fairy thing,
              Not the grand lyre-bird
            Rivals thee, splendid one!--
            Fairy-attended one,
              Green-coated fire-bird!
            Shiniest fragile one,
            Tiniest agile one,
        Falcon and eagle tremble before thee!
        Dim is the regal peacock and lory,
          And the pheasant, iridescent,
        Pales before the gleam and glory
          Of the jewel-change incessant,
        When the sun is streaming o'er thee!

          Hear thy soft humming,
          Like a sylph's drumming!


       *       *       *       *       *


    A little brown mother-bird sat in her nest,
    With four sleepy birdlings tucked under her breast,
    And her querulous chirrup fell ceaseless and low,
    While the wind rocked the lilac-tree nest to and fro.

    "Lie still, little nestlings! lie still while I tell,
    For a lullaby story, a thing that befell
    Your plain little mother one midsummer morn,
    A month ago, birdies--before you were born.

    "I'd been dozing and dreaming the long summer night,
    Till the dawn flushed its pink through the waning moonlight;
    When--I wish you could hear it once!--faintly there fell
    All around me the silvery sound of a bell.

    "Then a chorus of bells! So, with just half an eye,
    I peeped from the nest, and those lilies close by,
    With threads of a cobweb, were swung to and fro
    By three little rollicking midgets below.

    "Then the air was astir as with humming-birds' wings!
    And a cloud of the tiniest, daintiest things
    That ever one dreamed of, came fluttering where
    A cluster of trumpet-flowers swayed in the air.

    "As I sat all a-tremble, my heart in my bill--
    'I will stay by the nest,' thought I, 'happen what will;'
    So I saw with these eyes by that trumpet-vine fair,
    A whole fairy bridal train poised in the air.

    "Such a bit of a bride! Such a marvel of grace!
    In a shimmer of rainbows and gossamer lace;
    No wonder the groom dropped his diamond-dust ring,
    Which a little elf-usher just caught with his wing.

    "Then into a trumpet-flower glided the train,
    And I thought (for a dimness crept over my brain,
    And I tucked my head under my wing), 'Deary me!
    What a sight for a plain little mother like me!'"


       *       *       *       *       *


    A lazy hen, the story goes,
    Loquacious, pert, and self-conceited,
    Espied a bee upon a rose,
    And thus the busy insect greeted:

    "I've marked you well for many a day,
    In garden blooms and meadow clover;
    Now here, now there, in wanton play,
    From morn till night an idle rover.

    "While I discreetly bide at home,
    A faithful wife, the best of mothers,
    About the fields you idly roam,
    Without the least regard for others.

    "While I lay eggs and hatch them out,
    You seek the flowers most sweet and fragrant;
    And, sipping honey, stroll about,
    At best a good for nothing vagrant."

    "Nay," said the bee, "you do me wrong:
    I'm useful, too,--perhaps you doubt it:
    Because, though toiling all day long,
    I scorn to make a fuss about it.

    "Come now with me and see my hive,
    And note how folks may work in quiet;
    To useful arts much more alive
    Than you with all your cackling riot!"


       *       *       *       *       *


    When the willows gleam along the brooks,
    And the grass grows green in sunny nooks,
    In the sunshine and the rain
    I hear the robin in the lane
      Singing "Cheerily,
      Cheer up, cheer up;
      Cheerily, cheerily,
        Cheer up."

    But the snow is still
    Along the walls and on the hill.
    The days are cold, the nights forlorn,
    For one is here and one is gone.
      "Tut, tut. Cheerily,
      Cheer up, cheer up;
      Cheerily, cheerily,
        Cheer up."

    When spring hopes seem to wane,
    I hear the joyful strain--
    A song at night, a song at morn,
    A lesson deep to me is borne,
      Hearing, "Cheerily,
      Cheer up, cheer up;
      Cheerily, cheerily,
        Cheer up."

_Masque of Poets._

       *       *       *       *       *


    Rollicking Robin is here again.
    What does he care for the April rain?
    Care for it? Glad of it. Doesn't he know
    That the April rain carries off the snow,
    And coaxes out leaves to shadow his nest,
    And washes his pretty red Easter vest,
    And makes the juice of the cherry sweet,
    For his hungry little robins to eat?
      "Ha! ha! ha!" hear the jolly bird laugh.
      "That isn't the best of the story, by half!"

    Gentleman Robin, he walks up and down,
    Dressed in orange-tawney and black and brown.
    Though his eye is so proud and his step so firm,
    He can always stoop to pick up a worm.
    With a twist of his head, and a strut and a hop,
    To his Robin-wife, in the peach-tree top,
    Chirping her heart out, he calls: "My dear
    You don't earn your living! Come here! Come here!
      Ha! ha! ha! Life is lovely and sweet;
      But what would it be if we'd nothing to eat?"

    Robin, Sir Robin, gay, red-vested knight,
    Now you have come to us, summer's in sight.
    You never dream of the wonders you bring,--
    Visions that follow the flash of your wing.
    How all the beautiful By-and-by
    Around you and after you seems to fly!
    Sing on, or eat on, as pleases your mind!
    Well have you earned every morsel you find.
      "Aye! Ha! ha! ha!" whistles robin. "My dear,
      Let us all take our own choice of good cheer!"


       *       *       *       *       *


    There's a call upon the housetop, an answer from the plain,
    There's a warble in the sunshine, a twitter in the rain.
          And through my heart, at sound of these,
            There comes a nameless thrill,
          As sweet as odor to the rose,
            Or verdure to the hill;
          And all the joyous mornings
            My heart pours forth this strain:
          "God bless the dear old robins
            Who have come back again."

    For they bring a thought of summer, of dreamy, precious days,
    Of king-cups in the summer, making a golden haze;
          A longing for the clover blooms,
            For roses all aglow,
          For fragrant blossoms where the bees
            With droning murmurs go;
          I dream of all the beauties
            Of summer's golden reign,
          And sing: "God keep the robins
            Who have come back again."


       *       *       *       *       *


    "Now, robins, my darlings, I think it is best,"
    Said old mother bird, "that you all quit the nest.
    You've grown very plump, and the nest is so small
    That really there isn't quite room for you all.

    "The day is so fair and the sun is so bright,
    I think I can teach you to fly before night:
    And, when you have learned, you can go where you please,
    As high as the gable,--yes! high as the trees.

    "Come, Dickey, hop out, and stand up here by me;
    The rest of you stand on the branch of the tree;
    Don't be frightened, my dears; there's no danger at all,
    For mother will not let her dear birdies fall.

    "Now all spread your wings. Ah! but that is too high;
    Just see how _I_ do it. Now, all again try!
    Ah! that is much better. Now try it once more.
    Bravo! much better than ever before!

    "Now flutter about, up and down, here and there:
    My dears, you'll be flying before you're aware.
    Now carefully drop from the tree to the ground;
    There's nothing to fear, for there's grass all around.

    "All starting but Robbie. 'Afraid you shall fall?'
    Ah! don't be a craven, be bravest of all.
    Now up and now down, now away to yon spire:
    Go on: don't be frightened: fly higher and higher."

           *       *       *       *       *

    "I've waited one hour, right here on the tree:
    Not one of my robins has come back to me.
    How soon they forget all the trouble they bring!
    Never mind: I'll fly up on the tree-top and sing."


       *       *       *       *       *


    Oh, where is the boy, dressed in jacket of gray,
    Who climbed up a tree in the orchard to-day,
    And carried my three little birdies away?
            They hardly were dressed,
            When he took from the nest
    My three little robins, and left me bereft.

    O wrens! have you seen, in your travels to-day,
    A very small boy, dressed in jacket of gray,
    Who carried my three little robins away?
            He had light-colored hair,
            And his feet were both bare.
    Ah me! he was cruel and mean, I declare.

    O butterfly! stop just one moment, I pray:
    Have you seen a boy dressed in jacket of gray,
    Who carried my three little birdies away?
            He had pretty blue eyes,
            And was small of his size.
    Ah! he must be wicked, and not very wise.

    O bees! with your bags of sweet nectarine, stay;
    Have you seen a boy dressed in jacket of gray,
    And carrying three little birdies away?
            Did he go through the town,
            Or go sneaking aroun'
    Through hedges and byways, with head hanging down?

    O boy with blue eyes, dressed in jacket of gray!
    If you will bring back my three robins to-day,
    With sweetest of music the gift I'll repay;
            I'll sing all day long
            My merriest song,
    And I will forgive you this terrible wrong.

    Bobolinks! did you see my birdies and me--
    How happy we were on the old apple-tree?
    Until I was robbed of my young, as you see?
            Oh, how can I sing,
            Unless he will bring
    My three robins back, to sleep under my wing?

MRS. C. F. BERRY: _Songs for Our Darlings_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    The farmer looked at his cherry-tree,
      With thick buds clustered on every bough.
    "I wish I could cheat the robins," said he.
      "If somebody only would show me how!

      "I'll make a terrible scarecrow grim,
      With threatening arms and with bristling head;
    And up in the tree I'll fasten him,
      To frighten them half to death," he said.

    He fashioned a scarecrow all tattered and torn,--
      Oh, 'twas a horrible thing to see!
    And very early, one summer morn,
      He set it up in his cherry-tree.

    The blossoms were white as the light sea-foam,
      The beautiful tree was a lovely sight;
    But the scarecrow stood there so much at home
      That the birds flew screaming away in fright.

    But the robins, watching him day after day,
      With heads on one side and eyes so bright,
    Surveying the monster, began to say,
      "Why should this fellow our prospects blight?

    "He never moves round for the roughest weather,
      He's a harmless, comical, tough old fellow.
    Let's all go into the tree together,
      For he won't budge till the fruit is mellow!"

    So up they flew; and the sauciest pair
      'Mid the shady branches peered and perked,
    Selected a spot with the utmost care,
      And all day merrily sang and worked.

    And where do you think they built their nest?
      In the scarecrow's pocket, if you please,
    That, half-concealed on his ragged breast,
      Made a charming covert of safety and ease!

    By the time the cherries were ruby-red,
      A thriving family hungry and brisk,
    The whole long day on the ripe food fed.
      'Twas so convenient! they saw no risk!

    Until the children were ready to fly,
      All undisturbed they lived in the tree;
    For nobody thought to look at the guy
      For a robin's flourishing family!


       *       *       *       *       *


    A little gray bird with a speckled breast,
    Under my window has built his nest;
    He sits on at twig and singeth clear
    A song that overfloweth with cheer:
        "Love! Love! Love!
        Let us be happy, my love.
                    Sing of cheer."

    Sweet and true are the notes of his song;
    Sweet--and yet always full and strong,
    True--and yet they are never sad,
    Serene with that peace that maketh glad:
        "Life! Life! Life!
        Oh, what a blessing is life;
                    Life is glad!"

    Of all the birds, I love thee best,
    Dear Sparrow, singing of joy and rest;
    Rest--but life and hope increase,
    Joy--whose spring is deepest peace:
        "Joy! Life! Love!
        Oh, to love and live is joy,--
                    Joy and peace."

MISS HARRIET E. PAINE: _Bird Songs of New England._

       *       *       *       *       *


    A bubble of music floats
      The slope of the hillside over--
    A little wandering sparrow's notes--
      On the bloom of yarrow and clover.
    And the smell of sweet-fern and the bayberry-leaf
      On his ripple of song are stealing;
    For he is a chartered thief,
      The wealth of the fields revealing.

    One syllable, clear and soft
      As a raindrop's silvery patter,
    Or a tinkling fairy-bell, heard aloft,
      In the midst of the merry chatter
    Of robin and linnet and wren and jay,
      One syllable, oft-repeated:
    He has but a word to say,
      And of that he will not be cheated.

    The singer I have not seen;
      But the song I arise and follow
    The brown hills over, the pastures green,
      And into the sunlit hollow.
    With the joy of a lowly heart's content
      I can feel my glad eyes glisten,
    Though he hides in his happy tent,
      While I stand outside and listen.

    This way would I also sing,
      My dear little hillside neighbor!
    A tender carol of peace to bring
      To the sunburnt fields of labor,
    Is better than making a loud ado.
      Trill on, amid clover and yarrow:
    There's a heart-beat echoing you,
      And blessing you, blithe little sparrow!


       *       *       *       *       *


    Glad to see you, little bird;
    'Twas your little chirp I heard:
    What did you intend to say?
    "Give me something this cold day?"

    That I will, and plenty too;
    All the crumbs I saved for you.
    Don't be frightened: here's a treat.
    I will wait and see you eat.

    Shocking tales I hear of you;
    Chirp, and tell me, are they true?
    Robbing all the summer long;
    Don't you think it very wrong?

    Thomas says you steal his wheat;
    John complains his plums you eat,
    Choose the ripest for your share,
    Never asking whose they are?

    But I will not try to know
    What you did so long ago:
    There's your breakfast; eat away;
    Come and see me every day.

_Child's Book of Poetry._

       *       *       *       *       *


    Poor, sweet Piccola! Did you hear
    What happened to Piccola, children dear?
    'Tis seldom Fortune such favor grants
    As fell to this little maid of France.

    'Twas Christmas-time, and her parents poor
    Could hardly drive the wolf from the door,
    Striving with poverty's patient pain
    Only to live till summer again.

    No gifts for Piccola! Sad were they
    When dawned the morning of Christmas Day;
    Their little darling no joy might stir,
    St. Nicholas nothing would bring to her!

    But Piccola never doubted at all
    That something beautiful must befall
    Every child upon Christmas Day,
    And so she slept till the dawn was gray.

    And, full of faith, when at last she woke,
    She stole to her shoe as the morning broke;
    Such sounds of gladness tilled all the air,
    'Twas plain St. Nicholas had been there!

    In rushed Piccola sweet, half wild:
    Never was seen such a joyful child.
    "See what the good saint brought!" she cried,
    And mother and father must peep inside.

    Now such a story who ever heard?
    There was a little shivering bird!
    A sparrow, that in at the window flew,
    Had crept into Piccola's tiny shoe!

    "How good Piccola must have been!"
    She cried as happy as any queen,
    While the starving sparrow she fed and warmed,
    And danced with rapture, she was so charmed.

    Children, this story I tell to you,
    Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true.
    In the far-off land of France, they say,
    Still do they live to this very day.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Touch not the little sparrow who doth build
    His home so near us. He doth follow us,
    From spot to spot, amidst the turbulent town,
    And ne'er deserts us. To all other birds
    The woods suffice, the rivers, the sweet fields,
    And Nature in her aspect mute and fair;
    But he doth herd with men. Blithe servant! live,
    Feed, and grow cheerful! on my window's ledge
    I'll leave thee every morning some fit food
    In payment for thy service.


       *       *       *       *       *


        A swallow in the spring
    Came to our granary, and beneath the eaves
    Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring
        Wet earth and straw and leaves.

        Day after day she toiled
    With patient art; but, ere her work was crowned,
    Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,
        And dashed it to the ground.

        She found the ruin wrought;
    But, not cast down, forth from the place she flew,
    And, with her mate, fresh earth and grasses brought,
        And built her nest anew.

        But scarcely had she placed
    The last soft feather on its ample floor,
    When wicked hands, on chance, again laid waste,
        And wrought the ruin o'er.

        But still her heart she kept,
    And toiled again; and last night, hearing calls,
    I looked,--and, lo! three little swallows slept
        Within the earth-made walls.

        What truth is here, O man!
    Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn?
    Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, truth, or plan?
        Have faith, and struggle on!


       *       *       *       *       *


    Once the Emperor Charles of Spain,
      With his swarthy, grave commanders,
    I forget in what campaign,
    Long besieged, in mud and rain,
      Some old frontier town of Flanders.

    Up and down the dreary camp,
      In great boots of Spanish leather,
    Striding with a measured tramp,
    These Hidalgos, dull and damp,
      Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather.

    Thus as to and fro they went,
      Over upland and through hollow,
    Giving their impatience vent,
    Perched upon the Emperor's tent,
      In her nest, they spied a swallow.

    Yes, it was a swallow's nest,
      Built of clay and hair of horses,
    Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest,
    Found on hedge-rows east and west,
      After skirmish of the forces.

    Then an old Hidalgo said,
      As he twirled his gray mustachio,
    "Sure this swallow overhead
    Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed,
      And the Emperor but a Macho!"

    Hearing his imperial name
      Coupled with those words of malice,
    Half in anger, half in shame,
    Forth the great campaigner came
      Slowly from his canvas palace.

    "Let no hand the bird molest,"
      Said he solemnly, "nor hurt her!"
    Adding then, by way of jest,
    "Golondrina is my guest,
      'Tis the wife of some deserter!"

    Swift as bowstring speed, a shaft,
      Through the camp was spread the rumor,
    And the soldiers, as they quaffed
    Flemish beer at dinner, laughed
      At the Emperor's pleasant humor.

    So unharmed and unafraid
      Sat the swallow still and brooded,
    Till the constant cannonade
    Through the walls a breach had made,
      And the siege was thus concluded.

    Then the army, elsewhere bent,
      Struck its tents as if disbanding,
    Only not the Emperor's tent,
    For he ordered, ere he went,
      Very curtly, "Leave it standing!"

    So it stood there all alone,
      Loosely flapping, torn and tattered,
    Till the brood was fledged and flown,
    Singing o'er those walls of stone
      Which the cannon-shot had shattered.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Thou too hast travelled, little fluttering thing--
    Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing
                Thou too must rest.
    But much, my little bird, couldst thou but tell,
    I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well
                To build thy nest.

    For thou hast passed fair places in thy flight;
    A world lay all beneath thee where to light;
                And, strange thy taste,
    Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye--
    Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky--
                To choose this waste.

    Did fortune try thee? was thy little purse
    Perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse,
                Felt here secure?
    Ah no! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one!
    Thou know'st it not. Of all God's creatures, man
                Alone is poor.

    What was it, then? some mystic turn of thought,
    Caught under German eaves, and hither brought,
                Marring thine eye
    For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown
    A sober thing that dost but mope and moan,
                Not knowing why?

    Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask,
    Since here I see thee working at thy task
                With wing and beak.
    A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain,
    At which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main,
                Nor more need'st seek.

    In truth, I rather take it thou hast got
    By instinct wise much sense about thy lot,
                And hast small care
    Whether an Eden or a desert be
    Thy home, so thou remain'st alive, and free
                To skim the air.

    God speed thee, pretty bird; may thy small nest
    With little ones all in good time be blest.
                I love thee much;
    For well thou managest that life of thine,
    While I! oh, ask not what I do with mine!
                Would I were such!


       *       *       *       *       *


    The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
      The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
    The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
      And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

    Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
      And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
    Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
      And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

    Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
      The moping owl does to the moon complain
    Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
      Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

    Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
      Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
    Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
      The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

    The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
      The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
    The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
      No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Forms of saints and kings are standing
      The cathedral door above;
    Yet I saw but one among them
      Who hath soothed my soul with love.

    In his mantle,--wound about him,
      As their robes the sowers wind,--
    Bore he swallows and their fledglings,
      Flowers and weeds of every kind.

    And so stands he calm and child-like,
      High in wind and tempest wild;
    Oh, were I like him exalted,
      I would be like him, a child!

    And my songs,--green leaves and blossoms,--
      To the doors of heaven would bear,
    Calling, even in storm and tempest,
      Round me still these birds of air.


       *       *       *       *       *


    The bird let loose in eastern skies,
      When hastening fondly home,
    Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
      Where idle warblers roam;

    But high she shoots through air and light,
      Above all low delay,
    Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
      Nor shadow dims her way.

    So grant me, God, from every care
      And stain of passion free,
    Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,
      To hold my course to thee!

    No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
      My soul, as home she springs;--
    Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
      Thy freedom in her wings!


       *       *       *       *       *


    There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree.
      "He's singing to me! He's singing to me!"
    And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
      "Oh, the world's running over with joy!
        Don't you hear? Don't you see?
          Hush! Look! In my tree
    I'm as happy as happy can be!"

    And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see,
      And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree?
    Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy,
      Or the world will lose some of its joy!
        Now I'm glad! now I'm free!
          And always shall be,
    If you never bring sorrow to me."

    So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
      To you and to me, to you and to me;
    And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
      "Oh, the world's running over with joy!
        Don't you know? don't you see?
          But long it won't be,
    Unless we are as good as can be?"


       *       *       *       *       *


    In the hot midsummer noontide,
      When all other birds are sleeping,
    Still one in the silent forest,
      Like a sentry, watch in keeping,
        Singing in the pine-tops spicy:
      "I see, _I_ see, _I SEE_, _I_ SEE."

    No one ever sees _you_, atom!
      You are hidden too securely.
    I have sought for hours to find you.
      It is but to tease us, surely,
        That you sing in pine-tops spicy:
      "I see, _I_ see, _I SEE_, _I_ SEE."

HARRIET E. PAINE: _Bird Songs of New England._

       *       *       *       *       *


      Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt
    Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig
    A thrush resorts, and annually chants,
    At morn and evening from that naked perch,
    While all the undergrove is thick with leaves,
    A time-beguiling ditty, for delight
    Of his fond partner, silent in the nest.
      "Ah why," said Ellen, sighing to herself,
    "Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge,
    And nature that is kind in woman's breast,
    And reason that in man is wise and good,
    And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge,--
    Why do not these prevail for human life,
    To keep two hearts together, that began
    Their spring-time with one love, and that have need
    Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet
    To grant, or be received; while that poor bird,--
    Oh come and hear him! Thou who hast to me
    Been faithless, hear him, _though a lowly creature,
    One of God's simple children that yet know not
    The universal Parent, how he sings
    As if he wished the firmament of heaven
    Should listen, and give back to him the voice
    Of his triumphant constancy and love;_
    The proclamation that he makes, how far
    His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!"


       *       *       *       *       *


    "Do you not hear the Aziola cry?
      Methinks she must be nigh,"
      Said Mary, as we sate
    In dusk, ere stars were lit or candles brought,
      And I, who thought,
    This Aziola was some tedious woman,
      Asked, "Who is Aziola?" How elate
    I felt to know that it was nothing human,
      No mockery of myself to fear or hate;
        And Mary saw my soul,
    And laughed and said, "Disquiet yourself not,
      'Tis nothing but a little downy owl."

    Sad Aziola! many an eventide
      Thy music I had heard
    By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side,
      And fields and marshes wide,
    Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird,
      The soul ever stirred;
    Unlike and far sweeter than them all.
      Sad Aziola! from that moment I
    Loved thee and thy sad cry.


       *       *       *       *       *


                      This guest of summer,
    The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
    By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath
    Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze,
    Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird
    Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle.
    Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed
    The air is delicate.

_Macbeth_, Act 1, Sc. 6.

       *       *       *       *       *


                            How would you be
    If He which is the top of Judgment should
    But judge you as you are? Oh, think on that,
    And Mercy then will breathe within your lips
    Like man new made.

_Measure for Measure_, Act 2, Sc. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Merrily singing on briar and weed,
      Near to the nest of his little dame,
    Over the mountain-side or mead,
      Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.
          Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link,
          Spink, spank, spink;
    Snug and safe in that nest of ours,
    Hidden among the summer flowers;
          Chee, chee, chee.

    Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,
      Wearing a bright-black wedding coat;
    White are his shoulders, and white his crest,
      Hear him call his merry note:
          Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link,
          Spink, spank, spink;
    Look what a nice new coat is mine,
    Sure there was never a bird so fine;
          Chee, chee, chee.

    Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
      Freckled with purple, a pretty sight!
    There as the mother sits all day,
      Robert is singing with all his might.
    Nice good wife, that never goes out,
    Keeping house while I frolic about.

    Summer wanes,--the children are grown;
      Fun and frolic no more he knows,
    Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone:
      Off he flies, and we sing as he goes,--
    "When you can pipe in that merry old strain,
    Robert of Lincoln come back again."


       *       *       *       *       *


    My little doves have left a nest
      Upon an Indian tree,
    Whose leaves fantastic take their rest
      Or motion from the sea;
    For, ever there, the sea-winds go
    With sunlit paces to and fro.

    The tropic flowers looked up to it,
      The tropic stars looked down,
    And there my little doves did sit,
      With feathers softly brown,
    And glittering eyes that showed their right
      To general Nature's deep delight.

    My little doves were ta'en away
      From that glad nest of theirs,
    Across an ocean rolling gray,
      And tempest clouded airs.
    My little doves,--who lately knew
    The sky and wave by warmth and blue!

    And now, within the city prison,
      In mist and dullness pent,
    With sudden upward look they listen
      For sounds of past content--
    For lapse of water, swell of breeze,
    Or nut-fruit falling from the trees.

    Soft falls their chant as on the nest
      Beneath the sunny zone;
    For love that stirred it in their breast
      Has not aweary grown,
    And 'neath the city's shade can keep
    The well of music clear and deep.

    So teach ye me the wisest part,
      My little doves! to move
    Along the city-ways with heart
      Assured by holy love,
    And vocal with such songs as own
    A fountain to the world unknown.


       *       *       *       *       *


    I stood in the quiet piazza,
      Where come rude noises never;
    But the feet of children, the wings of doves,
      Are sounding on forever.

    And the cooing of their soft voices,
      And the touch of the rippling sea,
    And the ringing clock of the armèd knight,
      Came through the noon to me.

    While their necks with rainbow gleaming,
      'Neath the dark old arches shone,
    And the campanile's shadow long,
      Moved o'er the pavement stone.

    And from every "coigne of vantage,"
      Where lay some hidden nest,
    They fluttered, peeped, and glistened forth,
      Sacred, serene, at rest.

    I thought of thy saint, O Venice!
      Who said in his tenderness,
    "I love thy birds, my Father dear,
      Our lives they cheer and bless!

    "For love is not for men only;
      To the tiniest little things
    Give room to nestle in our hearts;
      Give freedom to all wings!"

    And the lovely, still piazza,
      Seemed with his presence blest,
    And I, and the children, and the doves,
      Partakers of his rest.


       *       *       *       *       *


    There sitteth a dove so white and fair,
      All on the lily spray,
    And she listeneth how, to Jesus Christ,
      The little children pray.

    Lightly she spreads her friendly wings,
      And to heaven's gate hath sped,
    And unto the Father in heaven she bears
      The prayers which the children have said.

    And back she comes from heaven's gate,
      And brings--that dove so mild--
    From the Father in heaven, who hears her speak,
      A blessing for every child.

    Then, children, lift up a pious prayer,
      It hears whatever you say,
    That heavenly dove, so white and fair,
      That sits on the lily spray.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Whistles the quail from the covert,
      Whistles with all his might,
    High and shrill, day after day,
    "Children, tell me, what does he say?"
      _Ginx_--(the little one, bold and bright,
    Sure that he understands aright)--
      "He says, 'Bob White! Bob White!'"

    Calls the quail from the cornfield,
      Thick with stubble set;
    Misty rain-clouds floating by
    Hide the blue of the August sky.
    "What does he call now, loud and plain?"
    _Gold Locks_--"That's a sign of rain!
      He calls 'More wet! more wet!'"

    Pipes the quail from the fence-top,
      Perched there full in sight,
    Quaint and trim, with quick, bright eye,
    Almost too round and plump to fly,
    Whistling, calling, piping clear,
    "What do _I_ think he says? My dear,
      He says 'Do right! do right!'"


       *       *       *       *       *


    The snowflakes are drifting round windows and door;
    The chilly winds whistle "Remember the poor;"
    Remember the birds, too, out on yonder tree;
    I hear one just singing a Chick-a-dee-dee.

    Throw out a few crumbs! you've enough and to spare;
    They need through the winter your kindness and care;
    And they will repay you with heartiest glee,
    By constantly singing a Chick-a-dee-dee.

    Each morning you'll see them go hopping around,
    Though little they find on the cold frozen ground;
    Yet never disheartened! on each bush and tree,
    They merrily carol a Chick-a-dee-dee.

    Oh! sweet little songster; so fearless and bold!
    Your little pink feet--do they never feel cold?
    Have you a warm shelter at night for your bed,
    Where under your wing you can tuck your brown head?

    Though cold grows the season you seem not to care,
    But cheerily warble though frosty the air;
    Though short are the days, and the nights are so long,
    And most of your playmates are scattered and gone.

    The snowflakes are drifting round window and door,
    And chilly winds whistle behind and before,
    Yet never discouraged, on each bush and tree,
    You'll hear the sweet carol of Chick-a-dee-dee.


       *       *       *       *       *


    What is the happiest morning song?
      The Linnet's. He warbles, blithe and free,
      In the sunlit top of the old elm-tree,
    Joyous and fresh, and hopeful and strong.

    The trees are not high enough, little bird;
      You mount and wheel, and eddy and soar,
      And with every turn yet more and more
    Your wonderful, ravishing music is heard.

    A crimson speck in the bright blue sky,
      Do you search for the secret of heaven's deep glow?
      Is not heaven _within_, when you carol so?
    Then why, dear bird, must you soar so high?

    He answers nothing, but soars and sings;
      He heeds no doubtful question like this.
      He only bubbles over with bliss,
    And sings, and mounts on winning wings.

HARRIET E. PAINE: _Bird Songs of New England._

       *       *       *       *       *


    Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
      Come, hear the woodland Linnet,
    How sweet his music! on my life,
      There's more of wisdom in it.

    And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings!
      He, too, is no mean preacher:
    Come forth into the light of things,
      Let Nature be your teacher.

    Sweet is the love which Nature brings:
      Our meddling intellect
    Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:
      We murder to dissect.

    Enough of Science and of Art:
      Close up these barren leaves:
    Come forth, and bring with you a heart
      That watches and receives.


       *       *       *       *       *



    The deep affections of the breast
      That heaven to living things imparts,
    Are not exclusively possessed
          By human hearts.

    A Parrot, from the Spanish main,
      Full young and early caged came o'er,
    With bright wings, to the bleak domain
          Of Mulla's shore.

    To spicy groves where he had won
      His plumage of resplendent hue,
    His native fruits, and skies, and sun,
          He bade adieu.

    For these he changed the smoke of turf,
      A heathery land and misty sky,
    And turned on rocks and raging surf
          His golden eye.

    But petted in our climate cold,
      He lived and chattered many a day:
    Until with age, from green and gold
          His wings grew gray.

    At last when blind, and seeming dumb,
      He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more,
    A Spanish stranger chanced to come
          To Mulla's shore;

    He hailed the bird in Spanish speech,
      The bird in Spanish speech replied;
    Flapped round the cage with joyous screech,
          Dropt down, and died.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Behind us at our evening meal
      The gray bird ate his fill,
    Swung downward by a single claw,
      And wiped his hookèd bill.

    He shook his wings and crimson tail,
      And set his head aslant,
    And, in his sharp, impatient way,
      Asked, "What does Charlie want?"

    "Fie, silly bird!" I answered, "tuck
      Your head beneath your wing,
    And go to sleep;"--but o'er and o'er
      He asked the selfsame thing.

    Then, smiling, to myself I said:--How
      like are men and birds!
    We all are saying what he says,
      In actions or in words.

    The boy with whip and top and drum,
      The girl with hoop and doll,
    And men with lands and houses, ask
      The question of Poor Poll.

    However full, with something more
      We fain the bag would cram;
    We sigh above our crowded nets
      For fish that never swam.

    No bounty of indulgent Heaven
      The vague desire can stay;
    Self-love is still a Tartar mill
      For grinding prayers alway.

    The dear God hears and pities all;
      He knoweth all our wants;
    And what we blindly ask of Him
      His love withholds or grants.

    And so I sometimes think our prayers
      Might well be merged in one;
    And nest and perch and hearth and church
      Repeat, "Thy will be done."


       *       *       *       *       *


        "Why, so I will, you noisy bird,
        This very day I'll advertise you,
        Perhaps some busy ones may prize you.
      A fine-tongued parrot as was ever heard,
    I'll word it thus--set forth all charms about you,
    And say no family should be without you."

      Thus far a gentleman addressed a bird;
    Then to his friend: "An old procrastinator,
    Sir, I am: do you wonder that I hate her?
        Though she but seven words can say,
        Twenty and twenty times a day
    She interferes with all my dreams,
    My projects, plans, and airy schemes,
    Mocking my foible to my sorrow:
    I'll advertise this bird to-morrow."

    To this the bird seven words did say:
    "Why not do it, sir, to-day?"


       *       *       *       *       *


    Little bird, with bosom red,
    Welcome to my humble shed!
    Courtly domes of high degree
    Have no room for thee and me;
    Pride and pleasure's fickle throng
    Nothing mind an idle song.
      Daily near my table steal,
    While I pick my scanty meal:--
    Doubt not, little though there be,
    But I'll cast a crumb to thee;
    Well rewarded, if I spy
    Pleasure in thy glancing eye;
    See thee, when thou'st eat thy fill,
    Plume thy breast and wipe thy bill.
      Come, my feathered friend, again?
    Well thou know'st the broken pane:--
    Ask of me thy daily store.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Ere pales in heaven the morning star,
    A bird, the loneliest of its kind,
    Hears dawn's faint footfall from afar,
    While all its mates are dumb and blind.

    It is a wee, sad-colored thing,
    As shy and secret as a maid,
    That, ere in choir the robins ring,
    Pipes its own name like one afraid.

    It seems pain-prompted to repeat
    The story of some ancient ill,
    But Phoebe! Phoebe! sadly sweet,
    Is all it says, and then is still.

    It calls and listens: earth and sky,
    Hushed by the pathos of its fate,
    Listen: no whisper of reply
    Comes from the doom-dissevered mate.

    Phoebe! it calls and calls again,
    And Ovid, could he but have heard,
    Had hung a legendary pain
    About the memory of the bird;

    A pain articulate so long
    In penance of some mouldered crime,
    Whose ghost still flies the furies' thong
    Down the waste solitudes of time;

           *       *       *       *       *

    Phoebe! is all it has to say
    In plaintive cadence o'er and o'er,
    Like children that have lost their way
    And know their names, but nothing more.

    Is it in type, since Nature's lyre
    Vibrates to every note in man,
    Of that insatiable desire
    Meant to be so, since life began?

    I, in strange lands at gray of dawn,
    Wakeful, have heard that fruitless plaint
    Through memory's chambers deep withdrawn
    Renew its iterations faint.

    So nigh! yet from remotest years
    It seems to draw its magic, rife
    With longings unappeased, and tears
    Drawn from the very source of life.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing
      Thy flight from the far-away!
    Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring,
      Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.

    Descend, O Stork! descend
      Upon our roof to rest;
    In our ash-tree, O my friend,
      My darling, make thy nest.

    To thee, O Stork, I complain,
      O Stork, to thee I impart
    The thousand sorrows, the pain
      And aching of my heart.

    When thou away didst go,
      Away from this tree of ours,
    The withering winds did blow,
      And dried up all the flowers.

    Dark grew the brilliant sky,
      Cloudy and dark and drear;
    They were breaking the snow on high,
      And winter was drawing near.

    From Varaca's rocky wall,
      From the rock of Varaca unrolled,
    The snow came and covered all,
      And the green meadow was cold.

    O Stork, our garden with snow
      Was hidden away and lost,
    And the rose-trees that in it grow
      Were withered by snow and frost.


       *       *       *       *       *


The tradition of the storks at Delft (Holland), is, however, still alive,
and no traveller writes about the city without remembering them.

The fact occurred at the time of the great fire which ruined almost all the
city. There were in Delft innumerable storks' nests. It must be understood
that the stork is the favorite bird of Holland; the bird of good fortune,
like the swallow; welcome to all, because it makes war upon toads and
frogs; that the peasants plant poles with circular floor of wood on top to
attract them to make their nests, and that in some towns they may be seen
walking in the streets. At Delft they were in great numbers. When the fire
broke out, which was on the 3d May, the young storks were fledged, but
could not yet fly. Seeing the fire approach, the parent storks attempted to
carry their young out of danger; but they were too heavy; and, after having
tried all sorts of desperate efforts, the poor birds were forced to give it

They might have saved themselves and have abandoned the little ones to
their fate, as human creatures often do under similar circumstances. But
they stayed upon their nests, gathered their little ones about them,
covered them with their wings, as if to retard, as long as possible, the
fatal moment, and so awaited death, in that loving and noble attitude.

And who shall say if, in the horrible dismay and flight from the flames,
that example of self-sacrifice, that voluntary maternal martyrdom, may not
have given strength and courage to some weak soul who was about to abandon
those who had need of him.

DE AMICIS' _Holland_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs
    And mounts exulting on triumphant wings.
    Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,
    Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
    Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,
    His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,
    The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,
    His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold!


       *       *       *       *       *


    Silent are all the sounds of day;
      Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets,
    And the cry of the herons winging their way
      O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets.

    Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass
      To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes,
    Sing him the song of the green morass,
      And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.

    Sing him the mystical song of the Hern,
      And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking;
    For only a sound of lament we discern,
      And cannot interpret the words you are speaking.

    Sing of the air, and the wild delight
      Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you,
    The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight
      Through the drift of the floating mists that enfold you;

    Of the landscape lying so far below,
      With its towns and rivers and desert places;
    And the splendor of light above, and the glow
      Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces.

    Ask him if songs of the Troubadours,
      Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter,
    Sound in his ears more sweet than yours,
      And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Vogelweid the Minnesinger,
      When he left this world of ours,
    Laid his body in the cloister,
      Under Würtzburg's minster towers.

    And he gave the monks his treasures,
      Gave them all with this behest:
    They should feed the birds at noontide
      Daily on his place of rest;

    Saying, "From these wandering minstrels
      I have learned the art of song;
    Let me now repay the lessons
      They have taught so well and long."

    Thus the bard of love departed;
      And, fulfilling his desire,
    On his tomb the birds were feasted
      By the children of the choir.

    Day by day, o'er tower and turret,
      In foul weather and in fair,
    Day by day, in vaster numbers,
      Flocked the poets of the air.

    On the tree whose heavy branches
      Overshadowed all the place,
    On the pavement, on the tombstone,
      On the poet's sculptured face,

    On the crossbars of each window,
      On the lintel of each door,
    They renewed the War of Wartburg,
      Which the bard had fought before.

    There they sang their merry carols,
      Sang their lauds on every side;
    And the name their voices uttered
      Was the name of Vogelweid.

    Till at length the portly abbot
      Murmured, "Why this waste of food?
    Be it changed to loaves henceforward
      For our fasting brotherhood."

    Then in vain o'er tower and turret,
      From the walls and woodland nests,
    When the minster bells rang noontide,
      Gathered the unwelcome guests.

    Then in vain, with cries discordant,
      Clamorous round the Gothic spire,
    Screamed the feathered Minnesingers
      For the children of the choir.

    Time has long effaced the inscriptions
      On the cloister's funeral stones,
    And tradition only tells us
      Where repose the poet's bones.

    But around the vast cathedral,
      By sweet echoes multiplied,
    Still the birds repeat the legend,
      And the name of Vogelweid.


       *       *       *       *       *


    On the cross the dying Saviour
      Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
    Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
      In his pierced and bleeding palm.

    And by all the world forsaken,
      Sees he how with zealous care
    At the ruthless nail of iron
      A little bird is striving there.

    Stained with blood, and never tiring,
      With its beak it does not cease,
    From the cross 'twould free the Saviour,
      Its Creator's son release.

    And the Saviour speaks in mildness:
      "Blest be thou of all the good!
    Bear, as token of this moment,
      Marks of blood and holy rood!"

    And that bird is called the cross-bill;
      Covered all with blood so clear,
    In the groves of pine it singeth
      Songs, like legends, strange to hear.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Among the orchards and the groves,
    While summer days are fair and long,
    You brighten every tree and bush,
    You fill the air with loving song.


       *       *       *       *       *


    And what is so rare as a day in June?
      Then, if ever, come perfect days;
    Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
      And over it softly her warm ear lays:
    Whether we look, or whether we listen,
    We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
    Every clod feels a stir of might,
      An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
    And, groping blindly above it for light,
      Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
    The flush of life may well be seen
      Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
    The cowslip startles in meadows green,
      The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
    And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
      To be some happy creature's palace:
    The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
      Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
    And lets his illumined being o'errun
      With the deluge of summer it receives;
    His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
    And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
    He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,--
    In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?


       *       *       *       *       *


      Then some one came who said, "My Prince had shot
    A swan, which fell among the roses here,
    He bids me pray you send it. Will you send?"
    "Nay," quoth Siddârtha, "if the bird were dead
    To send it to the slayer might be well,
    But the swan lives; my cousin hath but killed
    The god-like speed which throbbed in this white wing."
    And Devadatta answered, "The wild thing,
    Living or dead, is his who fetched it down;
    'Twas no man's in the clouds, but fall'n 'tis mine,
    Give me my prize, fair Cousin." Then our Lord
    Laid the swan's neck beside his own smooth cheek
    And gravely spake, "Say no! the bird is mine,
    The first of myriad things which shall be mine
    By right of mercy and love's lordliness.
    For now I know, by what within me stirs,
    That I shall teach compassion unto men
    And be a speechless world's interpreter,
    Abating this accursèd flood of woe,
    Not man's alone; but, if the Prince disputes,
    Let him submit this matter to the wise
    And we will wait their word." So was it done;
    In full divan the business had debate,
    And many thought this thing and many that,
    Till there arose an unknown priest who said,
    "If life be aught, the savior of a life
    Owns more the living thing than he can own
    Who sought to slay--the slayer spoils and wastes,
    The cherisher sustains, give him the bird:"
    Which judgment all found just.

_Light of Asia._

       *       *       *       *       *


    A thousand miles from land are we,
    Tossing about on the roaring sea--
    From billow to bounding billow cast,
    Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast.
    The sails are scattered abroad like weeds;
    The strong masts shake like quivering reeds;
    The mighty cables and iron chains;
    The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,--
    They strain and they crack; and hearts like stone
    Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.

    Up and down!--up and down!
    From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,
    And amid the flashing and feathery foam,
    The stormy petrel finds a home.
    A home, if such a place may be
    For her who lives on the wide, wide sea,
    On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,
    And only seeketh her rocky lair
    To warm her young, and to teach them to spring
    At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!

    O'er the deep!--o'er the deep!
    Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep--
    Outflying the blast and the driving rain,
    The petrel telleth her tale--in vain;
    For the mariner curseth the warning bird
    Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard!
    Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill
    Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still;
    Yet he ne'er falters--so, petrel, spring
    Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!


       *       *       *       *       *


    Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!
      Thou messenger of Spring!
    Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
      And woods thy welcome sing.

    What time the pea puts on the bloom,
      Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
    An annual guest in other lands
      Another Spring to hail.

    Delightful visitant! with thee
      I hail the time of flowers,
    And hear the sound of music sweet
      From birds among the bowers.

    Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
      Thy sky is ever clear;
    Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
      No Winter in thy year!

    Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
      We'd make, with joyful wing,
    Our annual visit o'er the globe,
      Attendants on the Spring.


       *       *       *       *       *


    The beautiful day is breaking,
      The first faint line of light
      Parts the shadows of the night,
    And a thousand birds are waking.
    I hear the Hairbird's slender trill,--
    So fine and perfect it doth fill
    The whole sweet silence with its thrill.

    A rosy flush creeps up the sky,
    The birds begin their symphony.
    I hear the clear, triumphant voice
    Of the Robin, bidding the world rejoice.
    The Vireos catch the theme of the song,
    And the Baltimore Oriole bears it along,
    While from Sparrow, and Thrush, and Wood Pewee,
    And, deep in the pine-trees, the Chickadee,
    There's an undercurrent of harmony.

    The Linnet sings like a magic flute,
    The Lark and Bluebird touch the lute,
    The Starling pipes to the shining morn
    With the vibrant note of the joyous horn,
              The splendid Jay
              Is the trumpeter gay,
    The Kingfisher, sounding his rattle,--he
    May the player on the cymbals be,
    The Cock, saluting the sun's first ray,
    Is the bugler sounding a reveille.
    "Caw! Caw!" cries the crow, and his grating tone
    Completes the chord like a deep trombone.

    But, above them all, the Robin sings;
      His song is the very soul of day,
      And all black shadows troop away
    While, pure and fresh, his music rings:
              "Light is here!
                  Never fear!
                Day is near!
                  My dear!"


       *       *       *       *       *


    Gliding at sunset in my boat,
    I hear the Veery's bubbling note;
    And a Robin, flying late,
    Sounds the home-call to his mate.
        Then the sun sinks low
        In the western glow,
    And the birds go to rest. But hush!
    Far off sings the sweet Wood-Thrush.
    He sings--and waits--and sings again,
    The liquid notes of that holy strain.

    He ceases, and all the world is still:
    And then the moon climbs over the hill,
    And I hear the cry of the Whip-poor-will.

    Tranquil, I lay me down to sleep,
    While the summer stars a vigil keep;
    And I hear from the Sparrow a gentle trill,
    Which means,
      "Good Night; Peace and Good Will."


       *       *       *       *       *


    A little brown bird sat on a stone;
    The sun shone thereon, but he was alone.
    "O pretty bird, do you not weary
    Of this gay summer so long and dreary?"

    The little bird opened his black bright eyes,
    And looked at me with great surprise;
    Then his joyous song broke forth, to say,
    "Weary of what? I can sing all day."

_Posies for Children._

       *       *       *       *       *


    Wouldst thou the life of souls discern,
      Not human wisdom nor divine
    Helps thee by aught beside to learn,
      _Love_ is life's only sign.


       *       *       *       *       *


    From his home in an Eastern bungalow,
    In sight of the everlasting snow
    Of the grand Himalayas, row on row,
    Thus wrote my friend:--
                        "I had travelled far
    From the Afghan towers of Candahar,
    Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;

    "And once, when the daily march was o'er,
    As tired I sat in my tented door,
    Hope failed me, as never it failed before.

    "In swarming city, at wayside fane,
    By the Indus' bank, on the scorching plain,
    I had taught,--and my teaching all seemed vain.

    "No glimmer of light (I sighed) appears;
    The Moslem's Fate and the Buddhist's fears
    Have gloomed their worship this thousand years.

    "'For Christ and his truth I stand alone
    In the midst of millions: a sand-grain blown
    Against your temple of ancient stone

    "'As soon may level it!'" Faith forsook
    My soul, as I turned on the pile to look;
    Then, rising, my saddened way I took

    To its lofty roof, for the cooler air:
    I gazed, and marvelled;--how crumbled were
    The walls I had deemed so firm and fair!

    For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone,
    Most plainly rent by its roots alone,
    A beautiful peepul-tree had grown:

    Whose gradual stress would still expand
    The crevice, and topple upon the sand
    The temple, while o'er its wreck should stand

    The tree in its living verdure!--Who
    Could compass the thought?--The bird that flew
    Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew,

    Did more to shiver this ancient wall
    Than earthquake,--war,--simoon,--or all
    The centuries, in their lapse and fall!

    Then I knelt by the riven granite there,
    And my soul shook off its weight of care,
    As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:--

    "The living seeds I have dropped remain
    In the cleft: Lord, quicken with dew and rain,
    _Then_ temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!"


       *       *       *       *       *


See, Christ makes the birds our masters and teachers! so that a feeble
sparrow, to our great and perpetual shame, stands in the gospel as a doctor
and preacher to the wisest of men.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Listen! What a sudden rustle
          Fills the air!
    All the birds are in a bustle
    Such a ceaseless croon and twitter
    Such a flash of wings that glitter
          Wide outspread!
    Far away I hear a drumming,--
          Tap, tap, tap!
    Can the woodpecker be coming
          After sap?
    Butterflies are hovering over
          (Swarms on swarms)
    Yonder meadow-patch of clover,
          Like snow-storms.
    Through the vibrant air a-tingle
    Throbs and o'er me sails a single
    Lissom swayings make the willows
          One bright sheen,
    Which the breeze puffs out in billows
          Foamy green.
    From the marshy brook that's smoking
          In the fog
    I can catch the crool and croaking
          Of a frog.
    Dogwood stars the slopes are studding,
          And I see
    Blooms upon the purple-budding
    Aspen tassels thick are dropping
          All about,
    And the alder-leaves are cropping
          Broader out;
    Mouse-ear tufts the hawthorn sprinkle,
          Edged with rose;
    The park bed of periwinkle
          Fresher grows.
    Up and down are midges dancing
          On the grass:
    How their gauzy wings are glancing
          As they pass!
    What does all this haste and hurry
          Mean, I pray--
    All this out-door flush and flurry
          Seen to-day?
    This presaging stir and humming,
          Thrill and call?
    _Mean?_ It means that spring is coming;
          That is all!


       *       *       *       *       *


    Sing away, ay, sing away,
      Merry little bird,
    Always gayest of the gay,
    Though a woodland roundelay
      You ne'er sung nor heard;
    Though your life from youth to age
    Passes in a narrow cage.

    Near the window wild birds fly,
      Trees are waving round;
    Fair things everywhere you spy
    Through the glass pane's mystery,
      Your small life's small bound:
    Nothing hinders your desire
    But a little gilded wire.

    Like a human soul you seem
      Shut in golden bars:
    Placed amid earth's sunshine stream,
    Singing to the morning beam,
      Dreaming 'neath the stars;
    Seeing all life's pleasures clear,--
    But they never can come near.

    Never! Sing, bird-poet mine,
      As most poets do;--
    Guessing by an instinct fine
    At some happiness divine
      Which they never knew.
    Lonely in a prison bright
    Hymning for the world's delight.

    Yet, my birdie, you're content
      In your tiny cage:
    Not a carol thence is sent
    But for happiness is meant--
      Wisdom pure as sage:
    Teaching the pure poet's part
    Is to sing with merry heart.

    So lie down, thou peevish pen;
      Eyes, shake off all tears;
    And, my wee bird, sing again:
    I'll translate your song to men
      In these future years.
    "Howsoe'er thy lot's assigned,
    Meet it with a cheerful mind."


       *       *       *       *       *


    Te-whit! te-whit! te-whee!
    Will you listen to me?
    Who stole four eggs I laid,
    And the nice nest I made?

    Not I, said the cow, moo-oo!
    Such a thing I'd never do.
    I gave for you a wisp of hay,
    And did not take your nest away.
    Not I, said the cow, moo-oo!
    Such a thing I'd never do.

    Not I, said the dog, bow-wow!
    I wouldn't be so mean as that, now,
    I gave hairs the nest to make,
    But the nest I did not take.
    Not I, said the dog, bow-wow!
    I wouldn't be so mean as that, now.

    Not I, said the sheep, Oh no!
    I wouldn't treat a poor bird so!
    I gave the wool the nest to line,
    But the nest was none of mine.
    Baa! baa! said the sheep; Oh no,
    I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.

    I would not rob a bird,
      Said little Mary Green;
    I think I never heard
      Of any thing so mean.
    'Tis very cruel, too,
      Said little Alice Neal;
    I wonder if she knew
      How sad the bird would feel?

    A little boy hung down his head,
    And went and hid behind the bed,
    For he stole that pretty nest
    From poor little yellow-breast;
    And he felt so full of shame
    He didn't like to tell his name.

_Hymns for Mother and Children._

       *       *       *       *       *


    "Oh, what is the matter with Robin,
      That makes her cry round here all day?
    I think she must be in great trouble,"
      Said Swallow to little Blue Jay.

    "I know why the Robin is crying,"
      Said Wren, with a sob in her breast;
    "A naughty bold robber has stolen
      Three little blue eggs from her nest.

    "He carried them home in his pocket;
      I saw him, from up in this tree:
    Ah me! how my little heart fluttered
      For fear he would come and rob me!"

    "Oh! what little boy was so wicked?"
      Said Swallow, beginning to cry;
    "I wouldn't be guilty of robbing
      A dear little bird's-nest--not I."

    "Nor I!" said the birds in a chorus:
      "A cruel and mischievous boy!
    I pity his father and mother;
      He surely can't give them much joy.

    "I guess he forgot what a pleasure
      The dear little robins all bring,
    In early spring-time and in summer,
      By the beautiful songs that they sing.

    "I guess he forgot that the rule is,
      To do as you'd be always done by;
    I guess he forgot that from heaven
      There looks down an All-seeing Eye."


       *       *       *       *       *


    When they chatter together,--the robins and sparrows,
      Bluebirds and bobolinks,--all the day long;
    What do they talk of? The sky and the sunshine,
      The state of the weather, the last pretty song;

    Of love and of friendship, and all the sweet trifles
      That go to make bird-life so careless and free;
    The number of grubs in the apple-tree yonder,
      The promise of fruit in the big cherry-tree;

    Of matches in prospect;--how Robin and Jenny
      Are planning together to build them a nest;
    How Bobolink left Mrs. Bobolink moping
      At home, and went off on a lark with the rest.

    Such mild little slanders! such innocent gossip!
      Such gay little coquetries, pretty and bright!
    Such happy love makings! such talks in the orchard!
      Such chatterings at daybreak! such whisperings at night!

    O birds in the tree-tops! O robins and sparrows!
      O bluebirds and bobolinks! what would be May
    Without your glad presence,--the songs that you sing us,
      And all the sweet nothings we fancy you say?


       *       *       *       *       *

    Sweet Mercy is Nobility's true badge.

_Titus Andronicus_, Act 1, Sc. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *


          I took the wren's nest:
          Heaven forgive me!
    Its merry architects so small
    Had scarcely finished their wee hall
    That, empty still, and neat and fair,
    Hung idly in the summer air.
    The mossy walls, the dainty door,
    Where Love should enter and explore,
    And Love sit carolling outside,
    And Love within chirp multiplied;--
          I took the wren's nest;
          Heaven forgive me!

    How many hours of happy pains
    Through early frosts and April rains,
    How many songs at eve and morn
    O'er springing grass and greening corn,
    What labors hard through sun and shade
    Before the pretty house was made!
    One little minute, only one,
    And she'll fly back, and find it--gone!
          I took the wren's nest:
          Bird, forgive me!

    Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear,
    Ye have before you all the year,
    And every wood holds nooks for you,
    In which to sing and build and woo;
    One piteous cry of birdish pain--
    And ye'll begin your life again,
    Forgetting quite the lost, lost home
    In many a busy home to come.
    But I? your wee house keep I must,
    Until it crumble into dust.
          I took the wren's nest:
          God forgive me!


       *       *       *       *       *


    Can I see another's woe,
    And not be in sorrow too?
    Can I see another's grief,
    And not seek for kind relief?

    Can I see a falling tear,
    And not feel my sorrow's share?
    Can a father see his child
    Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

    Can a mother sit and hear
    An infant groan, an infant fear?
    No, no! never can it be!
    Never, never can it be!

    _And can He who smiles on all
    Hear the wren with sorrows small,
    Hear the small bird's grief and care,_
    Hear the woes that infants bear--

    And not sit beside the nest,
    Pouring pity in their breast,
    And not sit in the cradle near,
    Weeping tear on infant's tear?

    And not sit both night and day,
    Wiping all our tears away?
    Oh no! never can it be!
    Never, never can it be!


       *       *       *       *       *


    My banks they are furnished with bees,
      Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
    My grottoes are shaded with trees,
      And my hills are white over with sheep.
    I seldom have met with a loss,
      Such health do my fountains bestow;
    My fountains all bordered with moss,
      Where the harebells and violets blow.

    Not a pine in the grove is there seen,
      But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
    Not a beech's more beautiful green,
      But a sweet-brier entwines it around.
    Not my fields in the prime of the year,
      More charms than my cattle unfold;
    Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
      But it glitters with fishes of gold.

    I found out a gift for my fair,
      I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
    But let me such plunder forbear,
      She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;
    For he ne'er could be true, she averred,
      Who would rob a poor bird of its young;
    And I loved her the more when I heard
      Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

SHENSTONE (d. 1673).

       *       *       *       *       *


    Come with me, if but in fancy,
      To the wood, the green soft shade:
    'Tis a haven, pure and lovely,
      For the good of mankind made.

    Listen! you can hear the cooing,
      Soft and soothing, gentle sounds,
    Of the pigeons, as they nestle
      In the branches all around.

    In the city and the open,
      Man has built or tilled the land;
    But the home of the wood pigeon
      Bears the touch of God's own hand.


       *       *       *       *       *


    "What is that great bird, sister, tell me,
      Perched high on the top of the crag?"
    "'Tis the cormorant, dear little brother;
      The fishermen call it the shag."

    "But what does it there, sister, tell me,
      Sitting lonely against the black sky?"
    "It has settled to rest, little brother;
      It hears the wild gale wailing high."

    "But I am afraid of it, sister,
      For over the sea and the land
    It gazes, so black and so silent!"
      "Little brother, hold fast to my hand."

    "Oh, what was that, sister? The thunder?
      Did the shag bring the storm and the cloud,
    The wind and the rain and the lightning?"
      "Little brother, the thunder roars loud.

    "Run fast, for the rain sweeps the ocean;
      Look! over the lighthouse it streams;
    And the lightning leaps red, and above us
      The gulls fill the air with their screams."

    O'er the beach, o'er the rocks, running swiftly,
      The little white cottage they gain;
    And safely they watch from the window
      The dance and the rush of the rain.

    But the shag kept his place on the headland,
      And, when the brief storm had gone by,
    He shook his loose plumes, and they saw him
      Rise splendid and strong in the sky.

    Clinging fast to the gown of his sister,
      The little boy laughed as he flew:
    "He is gone with the wind and lightning!
      And--I am not frightened,--are you?"


       *       *       *       *       *


        My bird has flown away,
    Far out of sight has flown, I know not where.
        Look in your lawn, I pray,
        Ye maidens kind and fair,
    And see if my beloved bird be there.

        His eyes are full of light;
    The eagle of the rock has such an eye;
        And plumes, exceeding bright,
        Round his smooth temples lie,
    And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh.

        Look where the grass is gay
    With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers;
        And search, from spray to spray,
        The leafy laurel bowers,
    For well he loves the laurels and the flowers.

        Find him, but do not dwell,
    With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see,
        Nor love his song too well;
        Send him, at once, to me,
    Or leave him to the air and liberty.

        For only from my hand
    He takes the seed into his golden beak,
        And all unwiped shall stand
        The tears that wet my cheek,
    Till I have found the wanderer I seek.

        My sight is darkened o'er,
    Whene'er I miss his eyes, which are my day,
        And when I hear no more
        The music of his lay,
    My heart in utter sadness faints away.


_Translated by_ W. C. BRYANT.

       *       *       *       *       *


    The birds must know. Who wisely sings
        Will sing as they;
    The common air has generous wings,
        Songs make their way.
    No messenger to run before,
        Devising plan;
    No mention of the place or hour
        To any man;
    No waiting till some sound betrays
        A listening ear;
    No different voice, no new delays,
        If steps draw near.
    "What bird is that? Its song is good."
        And eager eyes
    Go peering through the dusky wood,
        In glad surprise.
    Then late at night, when by his fire
        The traveller sits,
    Watching the flame grow brighter, higher,
        The sweet song flits
    By snatches through his weary brain
        To help him rest;
    When next he goes that road again
        An empty nest
    On leafless bough will make him sigh,
        "Ah me! last spring
    Just here I heard, in passing by,
        That rare bird sing!"

    But while he sighs, remembering
        How sweet the song,
    The little bird on tireless wing,
        Is borne along
    In other air; and other men
        With weary feet,
    On other roads, the simple strain
        Are finding sweet.
    The birds must know. Who wisely sings
        Will sing as they;
    The common air has generous wings,
        Songs make their way.

H. H.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Dost thou the monarch eagle seek?
      Thou'lt find him in the tempest's maw,
    Where thunders with tornadoes speak,
      And forests fly as though of straw;
    Or on some lightning-splintered peak,
      Sceptred with desolation's law,
    The shrubless mountain in his beak,
      The barren desert in his claw.

ALGER'S _Oriental Poetry_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    In darkened air, alone with pain,
    I lay. Like links of heavy chain
    The minutes sounded, measuring day,
    And slipping lifelessly away.
    Sudden across my silent room
    A shadow darker than its gloom
    Swept swift; a shadow slim and small,
    Which poised and darted on the wall,
    And vanished quickly as it came.
    A shadow, yet it lit like flame;
    A shadow, yet I heard it sing,
    And heard the rustle of its wing,
    Till every pulse with joy was stirred;
    It was the shadow of a bird!

    Only the shadow! Yet it made
    Full summer everywhere it strayed;
    And every bird I ever knew
    Back and forth in the summer flew,
    And breezes wafted over me
    The scent of every flower and tree;
    Till I forgot the pain and gloom
    And silence of my darkened room.
    Now, in the glorious open air
    I watch the birds fly here and there;
    And wonder, as each swift wing cleaves
    The sky, if some poor soul that grieves
    In lonely, darkened, silent walls,
    Will catch the shadow as it falls!

H. H.

       *       *       *       *       *


    "The rivers rush into the sea,
      By castle and town they go;
    The winds behind them merrily
      Their noisy trumpets blow.

    "The clouds are passing far and high,
      We little birds in them play;
    And everything, that can sing and fly,
      Goes with us, and far away.

    "I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither or whence,
      With thy fluttering golden band?"
    "I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea,
      I haste from the narrow land.

    "Full and swollen is every sail;
      I see no longer a hill,
    I have trusted all to the sounding gale,
      And it will not let me stand still.

    "And wilt thou, little bird, go with us?
      Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall,
    For full to sinking is my house
      With merry companions all."

    "I need not and seek not company,
      Bonny boat, I can sing all alone;
    For the mainmast tall too heavy am I,
      Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

    "High over the sails, high over the mast,
      Who shall gainsay these joys?
    When thy merry companions are still, at last,
      Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.

    "Who neither may rest, nor listen may,
      God bless them every one!
    I dart away, in the bright blue day,
      And the golden fields of the sun.

    "Thus do I sing my weary song,
      Wherever the four winds blow;
    And this same song, my whole life long,
      Neither Poet nor Printer may know."


       *       *       *       *       *


    Afloating, afloating
      Across the sleeping sea,
    All night I heard a singing bird
      Upon the topmast tree.

    "Oh, came you from the isles of Greece,
      Or from the banks of Seine?
    Or off some tree in forests free
      That fringe the western main?"

    "I came not off the old world,
      Nor yet from off the new;
    But I am one of the birds of God
      Which sing the whole night through."

    "Oh, sing and wake the dawning!
      Oh, whistle for the wind!
    The night is long, the current strong,
      My boat it lags behind."

    "The current sweeps the old world,
      The current sweeps the new;
    The wind will blow, the dawn will glow,
      Ere thou hast sailed them through."


       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


"The domestic dog," says Cuvier, "is the most complete, the most singular,
and the most useful conquest that man has gained in the animal world. The
whole species has become our property; each individual belongs entirely to
his master, acquires his disposition, knows and defends his property, and
remains attached to him until death; and all this, not through constraint
or necessity, but purely by the influences of gratitude and real
attachment. The swiftness, the strength, the sharp scent of the dog, have
rendered him a powerful ally to man against the lower tribes; and were,
perhaps, necessary for the establishment of the dominion of mankind over
the whole animal creation. The dog is the only animal which has followed
man over the whole earth."

       *       *       *       *       *


In the Mahabhàrata, one of the two great Hindoo poems, and of unknown
antiquity, there is a recognition of the obligation of man to a dependent
creature not surpassed in pathos in all literature.

We copy only such portions of the legend as bear upon this point.

The hero, Yudhistthira, leaves his home to go to Mount Meru, among the
Himalayas, to find Indra's heaven and the rest he so much desired; and with

     "The five brothers set forth, and Draupadi, and the seventh was a
     dog that followed them."

On the way the Princess Draupadi perished, and, after her, one brother
after another, until all had died, and the hero reached his journey's end
accompanied only by his dog.

    Lo! suddenly, with a sound which rang through heaven and earth,
    Indra came riding on his chariot, and he cried to the king, "Ascend!"
    _Then_, indeed, did the lord of justice look back to his fallen
    And thus unto Indra he spoke, with a sorrowful heart:
    "Let my brothers, who yonder lie fallen, go with me;
    Not even unto thy heaven would I enter, if they were not there.
    And yon fair-faced daughter of a king, Draupadi the all-deserving,
    Let _her_ too enter with us! O Indra, approve my prayer!"


    In heaven thou shalt find thy brothers,--they are already there
              before thee;
    There are they all, with Draupadi; weep not, then, O son of Bharata!
    Thither have they entered, prince, having thrown away their mortal
    But thou alone shalt enter still wearing thy body of flesh.


    O Indra, and what of this dog? It hath faithfully followed me through;
    Let it go with me into heaven, for my soul is full of compassion.


    Immortality and fellowship with me, and the height of joy and felicity,
    All these hast thou reached to-day; leave, then, the dog behind thee.


    The good may oft act an evil part, but never a part like this;
    Away, then, with that felicity whose price is to abandon the faithful!


    My heaven hath no place for dogs; they steal away our offerings on
    Leave, then, thy dog behind thee, nor think in thy heart that it is


    To abandon the faithful and devoted is an endless crime, like the
              murder of a Brahmin;
    Never, therefore, come weal or woe, will I abandon yon faithful dog.
    _Yon poor creature, in fear and distress, hath trusted in my power
              to save it:
    Not, therefore, for e'en life itself will I break my plighted word._


    If a dog but beholds a sacrifice, men esteem it unholy and void;
    Forsake, then, the dog, O hero, and heaven is thine own as a reward.
    Already thou hast borne to forsake thy fondly loved brothers, and
    Why, then, forsakest thou not the dog? Wherefore now fails thy heart?


    Mortals, when they are dead, are dead to love or hate,--so runs the
              world's belief;
    I could not bring them back to life, but while they lived I never left
    To oppress the suppliant, to kill a wife, to rob a Brahmin, and to
              betray one's friend,
    These are the four great crimes; and _to forsake a dependent I count
              equal to them_.

ALGER'S _Oriental Poetry_.

       *       *       *       *       *


This story, from the Odyssey, is also of an unknown antiquity. Ulysses,
after many years of absence, returns to his home to find himself
unrecognized by his family. With Eumæus Ulysses walked about the familiar

      Thus near the gates conferring as they drew,
    Argus, the dog, his ancient master knew;
    He, not unconscious of the voice and tread,
    Lifts to the sound his ear, and rears his head;
    Bred by Ulysses, nourished at his board,
    But, ah! not fated long to please his lord!
    To him, his swiftness and his strength were vain;
    The voice of glory called him o'er the main.
    Till then, in every sylvan chase renowned,
    With Argus, Argus, rung the woods around:
    With him the youth pursued the goat or fawn,
    Or traced the mazy leveret o'er the lawn;
    Now left to man's ingratitude he lay,
    Unhoused, neglected in the public way.

      He knew his lord: he knew, and strove to meet;
    In vain he strove to crawl, and kiss his feet;
    Yet (all he could) his tail, his ears, his eyes.
    Salute his master, and confess his joys.
    Soft pity touched the mighty master's soul;
    Adown his cheek a tear unhidden stole,
    Stole unperceived: he turned his head and dried
    The drop humane: then thus impassioned cried:

      "What noble beast in this abandoned state
    Lies here all helpless at Ulysses' gate?
    His bulk and beauty speak no vulgar praise:
    If, as he seems, he was in better days,
    Some care his age deserves; or was he prized
    For worthless beauty? therefore now despised:
    Such dogs and men there are, mere things of state,
    And always cherished by their friends the great."

      Not Argus so (Eumæus thus rejoined),
    But served a master of a nobler kind,
    Who never, never, shall behold him more!
    Long, long since perished on a distant shore!
    Oh, had you seen him, vigorous, bold, and young,
    Swift as a stag, and as a lion strong:
    Him no fell savage on the plain withstood,
    None 'scaped him bosomed in the gloomy wood;
    His eye how piercing, and his scent how true,
    To wind the vapor in the tainted dew!
    Such, when Ulysses left his natal coast:
    Now years unnerve him, and his lord is lost.

_Odyssey, Pope's translation._

       *       *       *       *       *


    Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew.
          Just listen to this:--
    When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through,
    And I with it, helpless there, full in my view
    What do you think my eyes saw through the fire
    That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher,
    But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see
    The shining? He must have come there after me,
    Toddled alone from the cottage without

    Any one's missing him. Then, what a shout--
    Oh! how I shouted, "For Heaven's sake, men,
    Save little Robin!" Again and again
    They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall.
    I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call,
    "Never mind, baby, sit still like a man!
    We're coming to get you as fast as we can."
    They could not see him, but I could. He sat
    Still on a beam, his little straw hat
    Carefully placed by his side; and his eyes
    Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise,
    Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept.
    The roar of the fire up above must have kept
    The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name
    From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came
    Again and again. O God, what a cry!
    The axes went faster; I saw the sparks fly
    Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat
    That scorched them,--when, suddenly, there at their feet,
    The great beams leaned in--they saw him--then, crash,
    Down came the wall! The men made a dash,--
    Jumped to get out of the way,--and I thought,
    "All's up with poor little Robin!" and brought
    Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide
    The sight of the child there,--when swift, at my side,
    Some one rushed by, and went right through the flame,
    Straight as a dart--caught the child--and then came
    Back with him, choking and crying, but--saved!
    Saved safe and sound!
                         Oh, how the men raved,
    Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all
    Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall
    Where I was lying, away from the fire,
    Should fall in and bury me.
                               Oh! you'd admire
    To see Robin now: he's as bright as a dime,
    Deep in some mischief, too, most of the time.
    Tom, it was, saved him. Now, isn't it true
    Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew?
    There's Robin now! See, he's strong as a log!
    And there comes Tom, too--
                               Yes, Tom was our dog.


       *       *       *       *       *


On the night of the 11th and 12th of September, 1572, a chosen band of six
hundred Spaniards made an attack within the lines of the Dutch army. The
sentinels were cut down, the whole army surprised and for a moment
powerless. The Prince of Orange and his guards were in profound sleep; "but
a small spaniel dog," says Mr. Motley, "who always passed the night upon
his bed, was a most faithful sentinel. The creature sprang forward, barking
furiously at the sound of hostile footsteps, and scratching his master's
face with his paws. There was but just time for the Prince to mount a horse
which was ready saddled, and to effect his escape through the darkness,
before his enemies sprang into the tent. His servants were cut down, his
master of the horse and two of his secretaries, who gained their saddles a
moment later, all lost their lives, and but for the little dog's
watchfulness, William of Orange, upon whose shoulders the whole weight of
his country's fortune depended, would have been led within a week to an
ignominious death. To his death, the Prince ever afterwards kept a spaniel
of the same race in his bed-chamber."

MOTLEY'S _Rise of the Dutch Republic_.

       *       *       *       *       *

The mausoleum of William the Silent is at Delft. It is a sort of small
temple in black and white marble, loaded with ornaments and sustained by
columns between which are four statues representing Liberty, Providence,
Justice, and Religion. Upon the sarcophagus lies the figure of the Prince
in white marble, and _at his feet the effigy of the little dog that saved
his life at the siege of Malines_.

DE AMICIS' _Holland_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Come, Herod, my hound, from the stranger's floor!
    Old friend--we must wander the world once more!
    For no one now liveth to welcome us back;
    So, come!--let us speed on our fated track.
    What matter the region,--what matter the weather,
    So you and I travel, till death, together?
    And in death?--why, e'en _there_ I may still be found
    By the side of my beautiful black bloodhound.

    We've traversed the desert, we've traversed the sea,
    And we've trod on the heights where the eagles be;
    Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo;
    (How thou pull'dst down the deer in those skies of blue;)
    No joy did divide us; no peril could part
    The man from his friend of the noble heart;
    Aye, his _friend_; for where, where shall there ever be found
    A friend like his resolute, fond bloodhound?

    What, Herod, old hound! dost remember the day
    When I fronted the wolves like a stag at bay?
    When downward they galloped to where we stood,
    Whilst I staggered with fear in the dark pine wood?
    Dost remember their howlings? their horrible speed?
    God, God! how I prayed for a friend in need!
    And--he came! Ah, 'twas then, my dear Herod, I found
    That the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound.

    Men tell us, dear friend, that the noble hound
    Must forever be lost in the worthless ground:
    Yet "Courage," "Fidelity," "Love" (they say),
    Bear _Man_, as on wings, to his skies away.
    Well, Herod--go tell them whatever may be,
    I'll hope I may ever be found by thee.
    If in sleep,--in sleep; if with skies around,
    Mayst thou follow e'en thither, my dear bloodhound!


       *       *       *       *       *


This fine poem was suggested by the affection of a dog, which kept watch
over the dead body of its master until found by friends three months
afterwards. The young man had lost his way on Helvellyn. Time, 1805.

    I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,
      Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;
    All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
      And starting around me the echoes replied.
    On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,
    And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
    One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
      When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

    Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,
      Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay,
    Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather
      Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
    Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
    For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,
    The much-loved remains of her master defended,
      And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

    How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
      When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?
    How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
      Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
    And, oh! was it meet, that--no requiem read o'er him--
    No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
    And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him--
      Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart?

    When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,
      The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
    With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
      And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:
    Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;
    In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming,
    Far adown the long isle the sacred music is streaming,
      Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.

    But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
      To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
    When, 'wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature,
      And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
    And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
    Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
    With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
      In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.


       *       *       *       *       *


    The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
      And cheerily smiled the morn,
    And many a brach, and many a hound,
      Attend Llewellyn's horn.
    And still he blew a louder blast,
      And gave a louder cheer;
    "Come, Gelert! why art thou the last,
    Llewellyn's horn to hear?

    "Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?
      The flower of all his race!
    So true, so brave--a lamb at home,
      A lion in the chase!"
    That day Llewellyn little loved
      The chase of hart or hare;
    And scant and small the booty proved,
      For Gelert was not there.

    Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
      When near the portal seat,
    His truant Gelert he espied,
      Bounding his lord to greet.
    But when he gained the castle door,
      Aghast the chieftain stood:
    The hound was smeared with drops of gore;
      His lips and fangs ran blood.

    Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
      Unused such looks to meet;
    His favorite checked his joyful guise,
      And crouched and licked his feet.
    Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,
      (And on went Gelert too;)
    And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
      Fresh blood-drops shocked his view.

    O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
      The blood-stained cover rent
    And all around the walls and ground
      With recent blood besprent.
    He called his child--no voice replied;
      He searched--with terror wild;
    Blood! blood! he found on every side,
      But nowhere found the child!

    "Monster, by thee my child's devoured!"
      The frantic father cried,
    And to the hilt his vengeful sword
      He plunged in Gelert's side.
    His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
      No pity could impart;
    But still his Gelert's dying yell,
      Passed heavy o'er his heart.

    Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
      Some slumberer wakened nigh:
    What words the parent's joy can tell
      To hear his infant cry!
    Concealed beneath a mangled heap
      His hurried search had missed:
    All glowing from his rosy sleep,
      His cherub boy he kissed.

    Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread;
      But the same couch beneath
    Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead--
      Tremendous still in death.
    Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain!
      For now the truth was clear;
    The gallant hound the wolf had slain
      To save Llewellyn's heir.

    Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe--
      "Best of thy kind, adieu!
    The frantic deed which laid thee low
      This heart shall ever rue."
    And now a gallant tomb they raise,
      With costly sculpture decked;
    And marbles, storied with his praise,
      Poor Gelert's bones protect.

    Here never could the spearman pass,
      Or forester unmoved;
    Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
      Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
    And here he hung his horn and spear;
      And oft, as evening fell,
    In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
      Poor Gelert's dying yell.


       *       *       *       *       *



    The Master came one evening to the gate
    Of a far city; it was growing late,
    And sending his disciples to buy food,
    He wandered forth intent on doing good,
    As was his wont. And in the market-place
    He saw a crowd, close gathered in one space,
    Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground.
    Jesus drew nearer, and thereon he found
    A noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck,--
    A dead dog with a halter round his neck.
    And those who stood by mocked the object there,
    And one said scoffing, "It pollutes the air!"
    Another, jeering, asked, "How long to-night
    Shall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?"
    "Look at his torn hide," sneered a Jewish wit,--
    "You could not cut even a shoe from it,"
    And turned away. "Behold his ears that bleed,"
    A fourth chimed in; "an unclean wretch indeed!"
    "He hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried,
    And spurned the loathsome beast from side to side.
    Then Jesus, standing by them in the street,
    Looked on the poor spent creature at his feet,
    And, bending o'er him, spake unto the men,
    "_Pearls are not whiter than his teeth._" And then
    The people at each other gazed, asking,
    "Who is this stranger pitying the vile thing?"
    Then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath,
    "This surely is the Man of Nazareth;
    This must be Jesus, for none else but he
    Something to praise in a dead dog could see!"
    And, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head,
    And from the sight of Jesus turned and fled.

ALGER'S _Eastern Poetry_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    "Kind traveller, do not pass me by,
      And thus a poor old dog forsake;
    But stop a moment on your way,
      And hear my woe for pity's sake!

    "My name is Rover; yonder house
      Was once my home for many a year;
    My master loved me; every hand
      Caressed young Rover, far and near.

    "The children rode upon my back,
      And I could hear my praises sung;
    With joy I licked their pretty feet,
      As round my shaggy sides they clung.

    "I watched them while they played or slept;
      I gave them all I had to give:
    My strength was theirs from morn till night;
      For them I only cared to live.

    "Now I am old, and blind, and lame,
      They've turned me out to die alone,
    Without a shelter for my head,
      Without a scrap of bread or bone.

    "This morning I can hardly crawl,
      While shivering in the snow and hail;
    My teeth are dropping, one by one;
      I scarce have strength to wag my tail.

    "I'm palsied grown with mortal pains,
      My withered limbs are useless now;
    My voice is almost gone you see,
      And I can hardly make my bow.

    "Perhaps you'll lead me to a shed
      Where I may find some friendly straw
    On which to lay my aching limbs,
      And rest my helpless, broken paw.

    "Stranger, excuse this story long,
      And pardon, pray, my last appeal;
    You've owned a dog yourself, perhaps,
      And learned that dogs, like men, can feel."

    Yes, poor old Rover, come with me;
      Food, with warm shelter, I'll supply;
    And Heaven forgive the cruel souls
      Who drove you forth to starve and die!


       *       *       *       *       *


    My dear dumb friend, low lying there,
      A willing vassal at my feet,
    Glad partner of my home and fare,
      My shadow in the street.

    I look into your great brown eyes,
      Where love and loyal homage shine,
    And wonder where the difference lies
      Between your soul and mine!

    For all of good that I have found
      Within myself or humankind,
    Hath royalty informed and crowned
      Your gentle heart and mind.

    I scan the whole broad earth around
      For that one heart which, leal and true,
    Bears friendship without end or bound,
      And find the prize in you.

    I trust you as I trust the stars;
      Nor cruel loss, nor scoff of pride,
    Nor beggary, nor dungeon-bars,
      Can move you from my side!

    As patient under injury
      As any Christian saint of old,
    As gentle as a lamb with me,
      But with your brothers bold;

    More playful than a frolic boy,
      More watchful than a sentinel,
    By day and night your constant joy,
      To guard and please me well:

    I clasp your head upon my breast--
      And while you whine and lick my hand--
    And thus our friendship is confessed
      And thus we understand!

    Ah, Blanco! did I worship God
      As truly as you worship me,
    Or follow where my master trod
      With your humility;

    Did I sit fondly at His feet,
      As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine,
    And watch him with a love as sweet,
      My life would grow divine!


       *       *       *       *       *


    "Pay down three dollars for my hound!
    May lightning strike me to the ground!
    What mean the Messieurs of police?
    And when and where shall this mockery cease?

    "I am a poor, old, sickly man,
    And earn a penny I no wise can;
    I have no money, I have no bread,
    And live upon hunger and want, instead.

    "Who pitied me, when I grew sick and poor,
    And neighbors turned me from their door?
    And who, when I was left alone
    In God's wide world, made my fortunes his own?

    "Who loved me, when I was weak and old?
    And warmed me, when I was numb with cold?
    And who, when I in poverty pined,
    Has shared my hunger and never whined?

    "Here is the noose, and here the stone,
    And there the water--it must be done!
    Come hither, poor Pomp, and look not on me,
    One kick--it is over--and thou art free!"

    As over his head he lifted the band,
    The fawning dog licked his master's hand;
    Back in an instant the noose he drew,
    And round his own neck in a twinkling threw.

    The dog sprang after him into the deep,
    His howlings startled the sailors from sleep;
    Moaning and twitching he showed them the spot:
    They found the beggar, but life was not!

    They laid him silently in the ground,
    His only mourner the whimpering hound
    Who stretched himself out on the grave and cried
    Like an orphan child--and so he died.

_Chamisso, tr. by_ C. T. BROOKS.

       *       *       *       *       *


    This is Don, the dog of dogs, sir,
    Just as lions outrank frogs, sir,
    Just as the eagles are superior
    To buzzards and that tribe inferior.

    He's a shepherd lad--a beauty--
    And to praise him seems a duty,
    But it puts my pen to shame, sir,
    When his virtues I would name, sir.
    "Don! come here and bend your head now,
    Let us see your best well-bred bow!"
    Was there ever such a creature!
    Common sense in every feature!
    "Don! rise up and look around you!"
    Blessings on the day we found you.

    _Sell_ him! well, upon my word, sir,
    That's a notion too absurd, sir.
    Would I sell our little Ally,
    Barter Tom, dispose of Sally?
    Think you I'd negotiate
    For my _wife_, at any rate?

    _Sell_ our Don! you're surely joking,
    And 'tis fun at us you're poking!
    Twenty voyages we've tried, sir,
    Sleeping, waking, side by side, sir,
    And Don and I will not divide, sir;
    He's my _friend_, that's why I love him,--
    And no mortal dog's above him!

    He prefers a life aquatic,
    But never dog was less dogmatic.
    Years ago when I was master
    Of a tight brig called the Castor,
    Don and I were bound for Cadiz,
    With the loveliest of ladies
    And her boy--a stalwart, hearty,
    Crowing one-year infant party,
    Full of childhood's myriad graces,
    Bubbling sunshine in our faces
    As we bowled along so steady,
    Half-way home, or more, already.

    How the sailors loved our darling!
    No more swearing, no more snarling;
    On their backs, when not on duty,
    Round they bore the blue-eyed beauty,--
    Singing, shouting, leaping, prancing,--
    All the crew took turns in dancing;
    Every tar playing Punchinello
    With the pretty, laughing fellow;
    Even the second mate gave sly winks
    At the noisy mid-day high jinks.
    Never was a crew so happy
    With a curly-headed chappy,
    Never were such sports gigantic,
    Never dog with joy more antic.

    While thus jolly, all together,
    There blew up a change of weather,
    Nothing stormy, but quite breezy,
    And the wind grew damp and wheezy,
    Like a gale in too low spirits
    To put forth one half its merits,
    But, perchance, a dry-land ranger
    Might suspect some kind of danger.

    Soon our stanch and gallant vessel
    With the waves began to wrestle,
    And to jump about a trifle,
    Sometimes kicking like a rifle
    When 'tis slightly overloaded,
    But by no means nigh exploded.

    'Twas the coming on of twilight,
    As we stood abaft the skylight,
    Scampering round to please the baby,
    (Old Bill Benson held him, maybe,)
    When the youngster stretched his fingers
    Towards the spot where sunset lingers,
    And with strong and sudden motion
    Leaped into the weltering ocean!
    "_What_ did Don do?" Can't you guess, sir?
    He sprang also--by express, sir;
    Seized the infant's little dress, sir,
    Held the baby's head up boldly
    From the waves that rushed so coldly;
    And in just about a minute
    Our boat had them safe within it.

    _Sell_ him! Would you sell your brother?
    Don and I _love_ one another.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Four years!--and didst thou stay above
    The ground, which hides thee now, but four?
    And all that life, and all that love,
    Were crowded, Geist! into no more?

    Only four years those winning ways,
    Which make me for thy presence yearn,
    Called us to pet thee or to praise,
    Dear little friend! at every turn?

    That loving heart, that patient soul,
    Had they indeed no longer span,
    To run their course, and reach their goal,
    And read their homily to man?

    That liquid, melancholy eye,
    From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs
    Seemed surging the Virgilian cry.[1]
    The sense of tears in mortal things--

    That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled
    By spirits gloriously gay,
    And temper of heroic mould--
    What, was four years their whole short day?

    Yes, only four!--and not the course
    Of all the centuries to come,
    And not the infinite resource
    Of nature, with her countless sum.

    Of figures, with her fulness vast
    Of new creation evermore,
    Can ever quite repeat the past,
    Or just thy little self restore.

    Stern law of every mortal lot!
    Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear,
    And builds himself I know not what
    Of second life I know not where.

    But thou, when struck thine hour to go,
    On us, who stood despondent by,
    A meek last glance of love didst throw,
    And humbly lay thee down to die.

    Yet would we keep thee in our heart--
    Would fix our favorite on the scene,
    Nor let thee utterly depart
    And be as if thou ne'er hadst been.

    And so there rise these lines of verse
    On lips that rarely form them now;
    While to each other we rehearse:
    _Such ways, such arts, such looks hast thou!_

    We stroke thy broad, brown paws again,
    We bid thee to thy vacant chair,
    We greet thee by the window-pane,
    We hear thy scuffle on the stair;

    We see the flaps of thy large ears
    Quick raised to ask which way we go:
    Crossing the frozen lake appears
    Thy small black figure on the snow!

    Nor to us only art thou dear
    Who mourn thee in thine English home;
    Thou hast thine absent master's tear,
    Dropt by the far Australian foam.

    Thy memory lasts both here and there,
    And thou shalt live as long as we.
    And after that--thou dost not care?
    In us was all the world to thee.

    Yet fondly zealous for thy fame,
    Even to a date beyond thine own
    We strive to carry down thy name,
    By mounded turf, and graven stone.

    We lay thee, close within our reach,
    Here, where the grass is smooth and warm,
    Between the holly and the beech,
    Where oft we watched thy couchant form,

    Asleep, yet lending half an ear
    To travellers on the Portsmouth road--
    There choose we thee, O guardian dear,
    Marked with a stone, thy last abode!

    Then some, who through the garden pass,
    When we too, like thyself, are clay,
    Shall see thy grave upon the grass,
    And stop before the stone, and say:--

    _People who lived here long ago
    Did by this stone, it seems, intend
    To name for future times to know
    The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend_.


    [1] Sunt lacrimæ rerum.

       *       *       *       *       *


      Poor old friend, how earnestly
    Would I have pleaded for thee! thou hadst been
    Still the companion of my boyish sports;
    And as I roamed o'er Avon's woody cliffs,
    From many a day-dream has thy short, quick bark
    Recalled my wandering soul. I have beguiled
    Often the melancholy hours at school,
    Soured by some little tyrant, with the thought
    Of distant home, and I remembered then
    Thy faithful fondness; for not mean the joy,
    Returning at the happy holidays,
    I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively
    Sometimes have I remarked thy slow decay,
    Feeling myself changed too, and musing much
    On many a sad vicissitude of life.
    Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst last
    Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate
    Which closed forever on him, thou didst lose
    Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead
    For the old age of brute fidelity.
    But fare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed;
    And He who gave thee being did not frame
    The mystery of life to be the sport
    Of merciless man. There is another world
    For all that live and move--a better one!
    Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine
    Infinite Goodness to the little bounds
    Of their own charity, may envy thee.


       *       *       *       *       *


The monument erected at Edinburgh to the memory of "Grey Friars' Bobby" by
the Baroness Burdett-Coutts has a Greek inscription by Professor Blackie.
The translation is as follows:

  This monument
  was erected by a noble lady,
  to the memory of
  a faithful and affectionate
  who followed the remains of his beloved master
  to the churchyard,
  in the year 1858,
  and became a constant visitor to the grave,
  refusing to be separated from the spot
  until he died
  in the year 1872.

       *       *       *       *       *


    When some proud son of man returns to earth,
    Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
    The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
    And storied urns record who rests below;
    When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
    Not what he was, but what he should have been:
    But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
    The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
    Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
    Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
    Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
    Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
    Pass on,--it honors none you wish to mourn;
    To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
    I never knew but one,--and here he lies.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Poor friend and sport of man, like him unwise,
      Away! Thou standest to his heart too near,
      Too close for careless rest or healthy cheer;
    Almost in thee the glad brute nature dies.
    Go scour the fields in wilful enterprise,
      Lead the free chase, leap, plunge into the mere,
      Herd with thy fellows, stay no longer here,
    Seeking thy law and gospel in men's eyes.

    He cannot go; love holds him fast to thee;
      More than the voices of his kind thy word
    Lives in his heart; for him thy very rod
    Has flowers: he only in thy will is free.
      Cast him not out, the unclaimed savage herd
    Would turn and rend him, pining for his God.


       *       *       *       *       *


    A poor little tramp of a doggie, one day,
      Low-spirited, weary, and sad,
    From a crowd of rude urchins ran limping away,
      And followed a dear little lad.
    Whose round, chubby face, with the merry eyes blue,
    Made doggie think, "_Here_ is a _good_ boy and true!"

    So, wagging his tail and expressing his views
      With a sort of affectionate whine,
    Johnny knew he was saying, "Dear boy, if you choose,
      To be _any_ dog's master, be _mine_."
    And Johnny's blue eyes opened wide with delight,
    And he fondled the doggie and hugged him so tight.

    But alas! on a day that to Johnny was sad,
      A newspaper notice he read,
    "Lost a dog: limped a little, and also he had
      A spot on the top of his head.
    Whoever returns him to me may believe
    A fair compensation he'll surely receive."

    Johnny didn't want _money_, not he; 'twasn't _that_
      That made him just _sit down to think_,
    And made a grave look on his rosy face fat,
      And made those blue eyes of his wink
    To keep back the tears that were ready to flow,
    As he thought to himself, "_Must_ the dear doggie go?"

    'Twas an argument Johnny was holding just there
      With his own little conscience so true.
    "It is plain," whispered conscience, "that if you'd be fair,
      There is only one thing you can do;
    Restore to his owner the dog; don't delay,
    But attend to your duty at once, and to-day!"

    No wonder he sat all so silent and still,
      Forgetting to fondle his pet--
    The poor little boy thinking _hard_ with a _will_;
      While thought doggie, "What makes him forget,
    I wonder, to frolic and play with me now,
    And _why_ does he wear such a sorrowful brow?"

    Well, how did it end? Johnny's battle was fought,
      And the victory given to him:
    The dearly-loved pet to his owner was brought,
      Tho' it made little Johnny's eyes dim.
    But a wag of his tail doggie gives to this day
    Whenever our Johnny is passing that way.


       *       *       *       *       *


    On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
    No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
    No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
    And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

    When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
    She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart),
    Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away!
    And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

    Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure;
    He constantly loved me although I was poor;
    When the sour-looking folks turned me heartless away,
    I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

    When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
    And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
    How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray!
    And he licked me for kindness,--my poor dog Tray.

    Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
    Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
    But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
    And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

    Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
    Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
    To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
    I can never return with my poor dog Tray.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Never again shall her leaping welcome
      Hail my coming at eventide;
    Never again shall her glancing footfall
      Range the fallow from side to side.
    Under the raindrops, under the snowflakes,
      Down in a narrow and darksome bed,
    Safe from sorrow, or fear, or loving,
      Lieth my beautiful, still and dead.

    Mouth of silver, and skin of satin,
      Foot as fleet as an arrow's flight,
    Statue-still at the call of "steady,"
      Eyes as clear as the stars of night.
    Laughing breadths of the yellow stubble
      Now shall rustle to alien tread,
    And rabbits run in the dew-dim clover
      Safe--for my beautiful lieth dead.

    "Only a dog!" do you say, Sir Critic?
      Only a dog, but as truth I prize,
    The truest love I have won in living
      Lay in the deeps of her limpid eyes.
    Frosts of winter nor heat of summer
      Could make her fail if my footsteps led;
    And memory holds in its treasure-casket
      The name of my darling who lieth dead.

S. M. A. C. in _Evening Post_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    As fly the shadows o'er the grass,
      He flies with step as light and sure.
    He hunts the wolf through Tostan Pass,
      And starts the deer by Lisanoure.
    The music of the Sabbath bells,
      O Con! has not a sweeter sound,
    Than when along the valley swells
      The cry of John McDonnell's hound.

    His stature tall, his body long,
      His back like night, his breast like snow,
    His fore leg pillar-like and strong,
      His hind leg bended like a bow;
    Rough, curling hair, head long and thin,
      His ear a leaf so small and round;
    Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin,
      Could rival John McDonnell's hound.


       *       *       *       *       *


    My little rough dog and I
      Live a life that is rather rare,
    We have so many good walks to take,
      And so few bad things to bear;
    So much that gladdens and recreates,
      So little of wear and tear.

    Sometimes it blows and rains,
      But still the six feet ply;
    No care at all to the following four
      If the leading two knows why,
    'Tis a pleasure to have six feet we think,
      My little rough dog and I.

    And we travel all one way;
      'Tis a thing we should never do,
    To reckon the two without the four,
      Or the four without the two;
    It would not be right if any one tried,
      Because it would not be true.

    And who shall look up and say,
      That it ought not so to be,
    Though the earth that is heaven enough for him,
      Is less than that to me,
    For a little rough dog can wake a joy
      That enters eternity.

_Humane Journal._

       *       *       *       *       *


    Ah, Rover, by those lustrous eyes
      That follow me with longing gaze,
    Which sometimes seem so human-wise,
      I look for human speech and ways.
    By your quick instinct, matchless love,
      Your eager welcome, mute caress,
    That all my heart's emotions move,
      And loneliest moods and hours bless,
    I do believe, my dog, that you
    Have some beyond, some future new.

    Why not? In heaven's inheritance
      Space must be cheap where worldly light
    In boundless, limitless expanse
      Rolls grandly far from human sight.
    He who has given such patient care,
      Such constancy, such tender trust,
    Such ardent zeal, such instincts rare,
      And made you something more than dust,
    May yet release the speechless thrall
    At death--there's room enough for all.

_Our Continent._

       *       *       *       *       *


    Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind
    Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
    His soul proud science never taught to stray
    Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
    Yet simple nature to his hope has given,
    Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heaven;
    Some safer world in depth of woods embraced,
    Some happier island in the watery waste,
    Where slaves once more their native land behold,
    No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
    To be, contents his natural desire,
    He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire;
    But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
    His faithful dog shall bear him company.


       *       *       *       *       *


    A traveller, by the faithful hound,
    Half-buried in the snow was found,
    Still grasping in his hand of ice
    That banner with the strange device,


       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


    Robert, the Bruce, in his dungeon stood,
      Waiting the hour of doom;
    Behind him the palace of Holyrood,
      Before him--a nameless tomb.
    And the foam on his lip was flecked with red,
    As away to the past his memory sped,
    Upcalling the day of his past renown,
    When he won and he wore the Scottish crown:
        Yet come there shadow or come there shine,
        The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

    "Time and again I have fronted the tide
      Of the tyrant's vast array,
    But only to see on the crimson tide
      My hopes swept far away;--
    Now a landless chief and a crownless king,
    On the broad, broad earth not a living thing
    To keep me court, save this insect small,
    Striving to reach from wall to wall:"
        For come there shadow or come there shine,
        The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

    "Work! work like a fool, to the certain loss,
      Like myself, of your time and pain;
    The space is too wide to be bridged across,
      You but waste your strength in vain!"
    And Bruce for the moment forgot his grief,
    His soul now filled with the sure belief
    That, howsoever the issue went,
    For evil or good was the omen sent:
        And come there shadow or come there shine,
        The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

    As a gambler watches the turning card
      On which his all is staked,--
    As a mother waits for the hopeful word
      For which her soul has ached,--
    It was thus Bruce watched, with every sense
    Centred alone in that look intense;
    All rigid he stood, with scattered breath--
    Now white, now red, but as still as death:
        Yet come there shadow or come there shine,
        The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

    Six several times the creature tried,
      When at the seventh, "See, see!
    He has spanned it over!" the captive cried;
      "Lo! a bridge of hope to me;
    Thee, God, I thank, for this lesson here
    Has tutored my soul to PERSEVERE!"
    And it served him well, for erelong he wore
    In freedom the Scottish crown once more:
        And come there shadow or come there shine,
        The spider is spinning his thread so fine.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Who taught the natives of the field and flood
    To shun their poison and to choose their food?
    Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand,
    Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand?
    Who made the spider parallels design
    Sure as De Moivre, without rule or line?
    Who bid the stork Columbus-like explore
    Heavens not his own, and worlds unknown before?


       *       *       *       *       *


      Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.
    Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending
    Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the
    Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,
    And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.
    Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,
    Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her
    Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.
    Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,
    Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,
    Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,
    Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly
    Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;
    Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,
    When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves
    Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,
    Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor,
    Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their
    While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,
    Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,
    Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.
    Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders
    Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence
    Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.
    Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,
    Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;
    Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,
    Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.

H. W. LONGFELLOW: _Evangeline_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    And now, beset with many ills,
      A toilsome life I follow;
    Compelled to carry from the hills,
    These logs to the impatient mills,
      Below there in the hollow.

    Yet something ever cheers and charms
      The rudeness of my labors;
    Daily I water with these arms
    The cattle of a hundred farms,
      And have the birds for neighbors.

H. W. LONGFELLOW: _Mad River_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Dozing, and dozing, and dozing!
      Pleasant enough,
    Dreaming of sweet cream and mouse-meat,--
      Delicate stuff!

    Waked by a somerset, whirling
      From cushion to floor;
    Waked to a wild rush for safety
      From window to door.

    Waking to hands that first smooth us,
      And then pull our tails;
    Punished with slaps when we show them
      The length of our nails!

    These big mortal tyrants even grudge us
      A place on the mat.
    Do they think we enjoy for our music
      Staccatoes of "scat"?

    To be treated, now, just as you treat us,--
      The question is pat,--
    To take just our chances in living,
      Would _you_ be a cat?


       *       *       *       *       *


    Want any papers, Mister?
      Wish you'd buy 'em of me--
    Ten year old, an' a fam'ly,
      An' bizness dull, you see.
    Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby,
      An' Dad, an' Mam, an Mam's cat,
    None on 'em earning money--
      What do you think of that?

    _Couldn't Dad work_? Why yes, Boss,
      He's working for gov'ment now,--
    They give him his board for nothin',--
      All along of a drunken row.
    _An' Mam_? Well, she's in the poorhouse,--
      Been there a year or so;
    So I'm taking care of the others,
      Doing as well as I know.

    _Oughtn't to live so_? Why, Mister,
      What's a feller to do?
    Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry,
      Seems as if each on 'em knew--
    They'll all three cuddle around me,
      Till I get cheery, and say:
    Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers,
      An' money an' clothes, too, some day.

    But if I do git rich, Boss,
      (An' a lecturin' chap one night
    Said newsboys could be Presidents
      If only they acted right);
    So, if I was President, Mister,
      The very first thing I'd do,
    I'd buy poor Tom an' Tibby
      A dinner--an' Mam's cat, too!

    None o' your scraps an' leavin's,
      But a good square meal for all three;
    If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss,
      That shows you don't know me.
    So 'ere's your papers--come take one,
      Gimme a lift if you can--
    For now you've heard my story,
      You see I'm a fam'ly man!


       *       *       *       *       *


    I like little pussy, her coat is so warm,
    And if I don't hurt her, she'll do me no harm;
    So I'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away,
    But pussy and I very gently will play:

    She shall sit by my side, and I'll give her some food;
    And she'll love me, because I am gentle and good.
    I'll pat little pussy, and then she will purr,
    And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her.


       *       *       *       *       *


    They in the valley's sheltering care,
      Soon crop the meadow's tender prime,
    And when the sod grows brown and bare,
      The shepherd strives to make them climb

    To airy shelves of pastures green
      That hang along the mountain's side,
    Where grass and flowers together lean,
      And down through mists the sunbeams slide:

    But nought can tempt the timid things
      The steep and rugged paths to try,
    Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,
      And seared below the pastures lie,--

    Till in his arms their lambs he takes
      Along the dizzy verge to go,
    Then heedless of the rifts and breaks
      They follow on o'er rock and snow.

    And in those pastures lifted fair,
      More dewy soft than lowland mead,
    The shepherd drops his tender care,
      And sheep and lambs together feed.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Little lamb, who made thee?
    Dost thou know who made thee?
    Gave thee life and made thee feed
    By the stream and o'er the mead;
    Gave thee clothing of delight,--
    Softest clothing, woolly, bright?
    Gave thee such a tender voice,
    Making all the vales rejoice;
    Little lamb, who made thee?
    Dost thou know who made thee?

    Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
    Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
    He is callen by thy name,
    For he calls himself a lamb.
    He is meek, and He is mild;
    He became a little child.
    I a child, and thou a lamb,
    We are called by His name.
    Little lamb, God bless thee!
    Little lamb, God bless thee!


       *       *       *       *       *


    Well--one at least is safe. One sheltered hare
    Has never heard the sanguinary yell
    Of cruel man, exulting in her woes.
    Innocent partner of my peaceful home,
    Whom ten long years' experience of my care
    Has made at last familiar, she has lost
    Much of her vigilant instinctive dread,
    Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.
    Yes--thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand
    That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor
    At evening, and at night retire secure
    To thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed;
    For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged
    All that is human in me to protect
    Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love.
    If I survive thee I will dig thy grave,
    And when I place thee in it, sighing say,
    I knew at least one hare that had a friend.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
      Nor crush that helpless worm!
    The frame thy wayward looks deride
      Required a God to form.

    The common lord of all that move,
      From whom thy being flowed,
    A portion of his boundless love
      On that poor worm bestowed.

    Let them enjoy their little day,
      Their humble bliss receive;
    Oh! do not lightly take away
      The life thou canst not give!


       *       *       *       *       *


    I've despised you, old worm, for I think you'll admit
      That you never were beautiful even in youth;
    I've impaled you on hooks, and not felt it a bit;
      But all's changed now that Darwin has told us the truth
    Of your diligent life, and endowed you with fame:
      You begin to inspire me with kindly regard.
    I have friends of my own, clever worm, I could name,
      Who have ne'er in their lives been at work half so hard.

    It appears that we owe you our acres of soil,
      That the garden could never exist without you,
    That from ages gone by you were patient in toil,
      Till a Darwin revealed all the good that you do.
    Now you've turned with a vengeance, and all must confess
      Your behavior should make poor humanity squirm;
    For there's many a man on this planet, I guess,
      Who is not half so useful as you, Mister worm.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,
    Catching your heart up at the feet of June,
    Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
    Whenever the bees lag at the summoning brass;
    And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
    With those who think the candles come too soon,
    Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
    Nicks the glad silent moments as they pass.

    O sweet and tidy cousins, that belong
    One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
    Both have your sunshine: both, though small, are strong
    At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth
    To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song--
    Indoors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.


       *       *       *       *       *


          Therefore doth Heaven divide
    The state of man in divers functions,
    Setting endeavor in continual motion;
    To which is fixed, as an aim or butt,
    Obedience: for so work the honey-bees;
    Creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teach
    The act of order to a peopled kingdom.
    They have a king and officers of sorts:
    Where some, like magistrates, correct at home;
    Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings,
    Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds;
    Which pillage they with merry march bring home
    To the tent royal of their emperor:
    Who, busied in his majesty, surveys
    The civil citizens kneading up the honey;
    The poor mechanic porters crowding in
    Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate;
    The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,
    Delivering o'er to the executioner's pale
    The lazy, yawning drone.

SHAKESPEARE: _Henry V._, Act 1, Sc. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Said a little wandering maiden
    To a bee with honey laden,
    "Bee, at all the flowers you work,
    Yet in some does poison lurk."

    "That I know, my little maiden,"
    Said the bee with honey laden;
    "But the poison I forsake,
    And the honey only take."

    "Cunning bee with honey laden,
    That is right," replied the maiden;
    "So will I, from all I meet,
    Only draw the good and sweet."


       *       *       *       *       *


    Only an insect; yet I know
    It felt the sunlight's golden glow,
    And the sweet morning made it glad
    With all the little heart it had.

    It saw the shadows move; it knew
    The grass-blades glittered, wet with dew;
    And gayly o'er the ground it went;
    It had its fulness of content.

    Some dainty morsel then it spied,
    And for the treasure turned aside;
    Then, laden with its little spoil,
    Back to its nest began to toil.

    An insect formed of larger frame,
    Called man, along the pathway came.
    A ruthless foot aside he thrust,
    And ground the beetle in the dust.

    Perchance no living being missed
    The life that there ceased to exist;
    Perchance the passive creature knew
    No wrong, nor felt the deed undue;

    Yet its small share of life was given
    By the same hand that orders heaven.
    'Twas for no other power to say,
    Or should it go or should it stay.


       *       *       *       *       *


    I know an old couple that lived in a wood--
      Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
    And up in a tree-top their dwelling it stood--
      Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
    The summer it came, and the summer it went--
      Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
    And there they lived on, and they never paid rent--
      Chipperee, chipperee, chip!

    Their parlor was lined with the softest of wool--
      Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
    Their kitchen was warm, and their pantry was full--
      Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
    And four little babies peeped out at the sky--
      Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
    You never saw darlings so pretty and shy--
      Chipperee, chipperee, chip!

    Now winter came on with its frost and its snow--
      Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
    They cared not a bit when they heard the wind blow--
      Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
    For, wrapped in their furs, they all lay down to sleep--
      Chipperee, chipperee, chip!
    But oh, in the spring, how their bright eyes will peep--
      Chipperee, chipperee, chip!


       *       *       *       *       *


    The mountain and the squirrel
    Had a quarrel;
    And the former called the latter "Little Prig."
    Bun replied,
    "You are doubtless very big;
    But all sorts of things and weather
    Must be taken in together
    To make up a year
    And a sphere;
    And I think it no disgrace
    To occupy my place.
    If I'm not so large as you,
    You are not so small as I,
    And not half so spry.
    I'll not deny you make
    A very pretty squirrel track.
    Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
    If I cannot carry forests on my back,
    Neither can you crack a nut."


       *       *       *       *       *


    Wee sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
    Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
    Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
        Wi' bickering brattle!
    I wad be laith to rin and chase thee
        Wi' murd'ring pattle!

    I'm truly sorry man's dominion
    Has broken nature's social union,
    And justifies that ill opinion
        Which makes thee startle
    At me, thy poor earth-born companion
        And fellow-mortal!

    Thou saw the fields lay bare and waste
    And weary winter comin' fast,
    And cozie here, beneath the blast,
        Thou thought to dwell,
    Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
        Out thro' thy cell.

    But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane[2]
    In proving foresight may be bain:
    The best laid schemes o' mice and men
        Gang aft a-gley,
    And lea'e us nought but grief and vain,
        For promised joy.


    [2] Not alone.

       *       *       *       *       *


    See what a lovely shell,
      Small and pure as a pearl,
    Lying close to my foot.
      Frail, but a work divine,
    Made so fairily well
      With delicate spire and whorl.
    How exquisitely minute
      A miracle of design!

    The tiny cell is forlorn,
      Void of the little living will
    That made it stir on the shore.
      Did he stand at the diamond door
    Of his house in a rainbow frill?
      Did he push when he was uncurled,
    A golden foot or a fairy horn
      Through his dim water-world?

    Slight, to be crushed with a tap
      Of my finger-nail on the sand;
    Small, but a work divine:
      Frail, but of force to withstand,
    Year upon year, the shock
      Of cataract seas that snap
    The three-decker's oaken spine,
      Athwart the ledges of rock,
    Here on the Breton strand.


       *       *       *       *       *


    This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
      Sails the unshadowed main,--
      The venturous bark that flings
    On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
    In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
      And coral reefs lie bare,
    Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

    Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
      Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
      And every chambered cell,
    Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
    As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
      Before thee lies revealed,--
    Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

    Year after year beheld the silent toil
      That spread his lustrous coil;
      Still, as the spiral grew,
    He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
    Stole with soft steps its shining archway through,
      Built up its idle door,
    Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

    Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
      Child of the wandering sea,
      Cast from her lap, forlorn!
    From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
    Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
      While on mine ear it rings,
    Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--

    "Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
      As the swift seasons roll!
      Leave thy low-vaulted past!
    Let each temple, nobler than the last,
    Shut thee from heaven within a dome more vast,
      Till thou at length art free,
    Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unwresting sea!"


       *       *       *       *       *


    When he heard the owls at midnight,
    Hooting, laughing in the forest,
    "What is that?" he cried in terror;
    "What is that?" he said, "Nokomis?"
    And the good Nokomis answered:
    "That is but the owl and owlet,
    Talking in their native language,
    Talking, scolding at each other."
      Then the little Hiawatha
    Learned of every bird its language,
    Learned their names and all their secrets,
    How they built their nests in Summer,
    Where they hid themselves in Winter,
    Talked with them whene'er he met them,
    Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens."
      Of all beasts he learned the language,
    Learned their names and all their secrets,
    How the beavers built their lodges,
    Where the squirrels hid their acorns,
    How the reindeer ran so swiftly,
    Why the rabbit was so timid,
    Talked with them whene'er he met them,
    Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers."
      Then Iagoo, the great boaster,
    He the marvellous story-teller,
    He the traveller and the talker,
    He the friend of old Nokomis,
    Made a bow for Hiawatha;
    From a branch of ash he made it,
    From an oak-bough made the arrows,
    Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers,
    And the cord he made of deer-skin.
      Then he said to Hiawatha:
    "Go, my son, into the forest,
    Where the red deer herd together,
    Kill for us a famous roebuck,
    Kill for us a deer with antlers!"
      Forth into the forest straightway
    All alone walked Hiawatha
    Proudly, with his bow and arrows;
    And the birds sang ruffed him, o'er him,
    "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"
    Sang the robin, the Opechee,
    Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa,
    "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"
      Up the oak-tree, close beside him,
    Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
    In and out among the branches,
    Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree,
    Laughed, and said between his laughing,
    "Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"
      And the rabbit from his pathway
    Leaped aside, and at a distance
    Sat erect upon his haunches,
    Half in fear and half in frolic,
    Saying to the little hunter,
    "Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"
      But he heeded not, nor heard them,
    For his thoughts were with the red deer;
    On their tracks his eyes were fastened,
    Leading downward to the river,
    To the ford across the river,
    And as one in slumber walked he.

H. W. LONGFELLOW: _Hiawatha_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    The Being that is in the clouds and air,
    That is in the green leaves among the groves,
    Maintains a deep and reverential care
    For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

    One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
    Taught both by what He shows, and what conceals,
    Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
    With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.


       *       *       *       *       *


    And sooth to say, yon vocal grove
    Albeit uninspired by love,
    By love untaught to ring,
    May well afford to mortal ear
    An impulse more profoundly dear
    Than music of the spring.

    But list! though winter storms be nigh
    Unchecked is that soft harmony:
    There lives Who can provide,
    For all his creatures: and in Him,
    Even like the radiant Seraphim,
    These choristers confide.


       *       *       *       *       *


          Happy, happy liver,
    With a soul as strong as a mountain river,
    Pouring out praises to the Almighty Giver.


       *       *       *       *       *


    When weary, weary winter
      Hath melted into air,
    And April leaf and blossom
      Hath clothed the branches bare,
    Came round our English dwelling
      A voice of summer cheer:
    'Twas thine, returning swallow,
      The welcome and the dear.

    Far on the billowy ocean
      A thousand leagues are we,
    Yet here, sad hovering o'er our bark,
      What is it that we see?
    Dear old familiar swallow,
      What gladness dost thou bring:
    Here rest upon our flowing sail
      Thy weary, wandering wing.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing
    Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring?
    "We come from the shores of the green old Nile,
    From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,
    From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,
    From the myrrh trees of glowing Araby."


       *       *       *       *       *


    With elegies of love
    Make vocal every spray.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Whither hath the wood thrush flown
      From our greenwood bowers?
    Wherefore builds he not again
      Where the wild thorn flowers?

    Bid him come! for on his wings
      The sunny year he bringeth,
    And the heart unlocks its springs
      Wheresoe'er he singeth.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Within the bush her covert nest
      A little linnet fondly prest,
    The dew sat chilly on her breast
      Sae early in the morning.

    She soon shall see her tender brood
      The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
    Among the fresh green leaves bedewed,
      Awake the early morning.


       *       *       *       *       *


    But thee no wintry skies can harm
      Who only needs to sing
    To make even January charm
      And every season Spring.


       *       *       *       *       *


    Little feathered songsters of the air
    In woodlands tuneful woo and fondly pair.


       *       *       *       *       *



    The "Chapter of the Cattle:" Heaven is whose,
    And whose is earth? Say Allah's, That did choose
      On His own might to lay the law of mercy.
    He, at the Resurrection, will not lose

    One of His own. What falleth, night or day,
    Falleth by His Almighty word alway.
      Wilt thou have any other Lord than Allah,
    Who is not fed, but feedeth all flesh? Say!

    For if He visit thee with woe, none makes
    The woe to cease save He; and if He takes
      Pleasure to send thee pleasure, He is Master
    Over all gifts; nor doth His thought forsake

    The creatures of the field, nor fowls that fly;
    They are "a people" also: "These, too, I
      Have set," the Lord saith, "in My book of record;
    These shall be gathered to Me by and by."

    With Him of all things secret are the keys;
    None other hath them, but He hath; and sees
      Whatever is in land, or air, or water,
    Each bloom that blows, each foam-bell on the seas.

E. ARNOLD: _Pearls of the Faith_.

    [3] _Koran_, chap. vi.

       *       *       *       *       *

I cannot believe that any creature was created for uncompensated misery; it
would be contrary to God's mercy and justice.


       *       *       *       *       *


    The spider and the dove,--what thing is weak
    If Allah makes it strong?
    The spider and the dove! if He protect,
    Fear thou not foeman's wrong.

    From Mecca to Medina fled our Lord,
    The horsemen followed fast;
    Into a cave to shun their murderous rage,
    Mohammed, weary, passed.

    Quoth Aba Bekr, "If they see me die!"
    Quoth Eba Foheir, "Away!"
    The guide Abdallah said, "The sand is deep,
    Those footmarks will betray."

    Then spake our Lord "We are not four but Five;
    He who protects is here.
    'Come! Al-Muhaimin' now will blind their eyes;
    Enter, and have no fear."

    The band drew nigh; one of the Koreish cried,
    "Search ye out yonder cleft,
    I see the print of sandalled feet which turn
    Thither, upon the left!"

    But when they drew unto the cavern's mouth,
    Lo, at its entering in,
    A ring-necked desert-dove sat on her eggs;
    The mate cooed soft within.

    And right athwart the shadow of the cave
    A spider's web was spread;
    The creature hung upon her web at watch;
    Unbroken was each thread;

    "By Thammuz' blood," the unbelievers cried,
    "Our toil and time are lost;
    Where doves hatch, and the spider spins her snare,
    No foot of man hath crossed!"

    Thus did a desert bird and spider guard
    The blessed Prophet then;
    For all things serve their maker and their God
    Better than thankless men.

_Pearls of the Faith_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    There came before our Lord a certain one
    Who said, "O Prophet! as I passed the wood
    I heard the voice of youngling doves which cried,
    While near the nest their pearl-necked mother cooed.

    "Then in my cloth I tied those fledglings twain,
    But all the way the mother fluttered nigh;
    See! she hath followed hither." Spake our Lord:
    "Open thy knotted cloth, and stand thou by."

    But when she spied her nestlings, from the palm
    Down flew the dove, of peril unafeared,
    So she might succor these. "Seest thou not,"
    Our Lord said, "how the heart of this poor bird

    "Grows by her love, greater than his who rides
    Full-face against the spear-blades? Thinkest thou
    Such fire divine was kindled to be quenched?
    I tell ye nay! Put back upon the bough

    "The nest she claimeth thus: I tell ye nay!
    From Allah's self cometh this wondrous love:
    Yea! And I swear by Him who sent me here,
    He is more tender than a nursing dove,

    "More pitiful to men than she to these.
    Therefore fear God in whatsoe'er ye deal
    With the dumb peoples of the wing and hoof."

           *       *       *       *       *

_Pearls of the Faith_.

       *       *       *       *       *


Verily there are rewards for our doing good to dumb animals, and giving
them water to drink. A wicked woman was forgiven who, seeing a dog at a
well holding out his tongue from thirst, which was near killing him, took
off her boot, and tied it to the end of her garment, and drew water in it
for the dog, and gave him to drink; and she was forgiven her sin for that

_Table Talk of Mohammed_.

       *       *       *       *       *


It is recorded of the Prophet, that when, being on a journey, he alighted
at any place, he did not say his prayers until he had unsaddled his camel.

POOLE'S _Mohammed_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    By these dumb mouths be ye forgiven,
    Ere ye are heard pleading with heaven.

_Pearls of the Faith_.

       *       *       *       *       *



Of all and every kind of sin which I have committed against the creatures
of Ormazd, as stars, moon, sun, and the red-burning fire, the _Dog_, the
_Birds_, the other good creatures which are the property of Ormazd, if I
have become a sinner against any of these, _I repent_.

       *       *       *       *       *

"If a man gives bad food to a shepherd Dog, of what sin is he guilty?"

Ahura Mazda[4] answered:

"It is the same guilt as though he should serve bad food to a master of a
house of the _first rank_."

       *       *       *       *       *

"The dog, I, Ahura Mazda, have made self-clothed and self-shod, watchful,
wakeful, and sharp-toothed, born to take his food from man and to watch
over man's goods.

"I, Ahura Mazda, have made the dog strong of body against the evil-doer and
watchful over your goods, when he is of sound mind."

    [4] Ahura Mazda or Ormazd is the King of Light; the Good. The Zend
        Avesta is of great but uncertain antiquity; believed to be three
        thousand years old.

       *       *       *       *       *


He who, seeking his own happiness, does not punish or kill beings who also
long for happiness, will find happiness after death.


Whoever in this world harms living beings, and in whom there is no
compassion for living beings, let one know him as an outcast.

_Sutta Nipata_.

       *       *       *       *       *


    Tiger, tiger, burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

    In what distant deeps or skies
    Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the hand dare seize the fire?

    And what shoulder and what art
    Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
    And, when thy heart began to beat,
    What dread hand forged thy dread feet?

    What the hammer? what the chain?
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? What dread grasp
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

    When the stars threw down their spears,
    And watered heaven with their tears,
    Did He smile his work to see?
    Did He who made the lamb make thee?

    Tiger, tiger, burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


       *       *       *       *       *


Nobody doubts their general value, as nobody doubts the value of sunlight;
but a more practical appreciation may be felt of their moneyed value if we
look at that aspect of the question in some of its details.

We quote from a hand-book published for the South Kensington Museum:--

"CLASS I.--_Animal Substances employed for Textile Manufactures and
Clothing._ Division I. Wool, Mohair, and Alpaca. Division II. Hair,
Bristles, and Whalebone. Division III. Silk. Division IV. Furs. Division V.
Feathers, Down, and Quills. Division VI. Gelatin, Skins, and Leathers.

"CLASS II.--_Animal Substances used for Domestic and Ornamental Purposes._
Division I. Bone and Ivory. Division II. Horns and Hoofs. Division III.
Tortoise-shell. Division IV. Shells and Marines. Animal Products for
Manufacture, Ornaments, etc. Division V. Animal Oils and Fats.

"CLASS III.--_Pigments and Dyes yielded by Animals."_--Division I.
Cochineal and Kermes. Division II. Lac and its applications. Division III.
Nutgalls, Gall Dyes, Blood, etc. Division IV. Sepia, Tyrian Purple, Purree,

"CLASS IV.--_Animal Substances used in Pharmacy and in Perfumery."_
Division I. Musk, Civet, Castorem, Hyraceum, and Ambergris. Division II.
Cantharides, Leeches, etc.

"CLASS V.--_Application of Waste Matters_. Division I. Entrails and
Bladders. Division II. Albumen, Casein, etc. Division III. Prussiates of
Potash and Chemical Products of Bone, etc. Division IV. Animal
Manures--Guano, Coprolites, Animal Carcases, Bones, Fish Manures, etc."

From a table of the value of imports of animal origin brought into the
United Kingdom in the year 1875, we take a few items:--

"Live animals, £8,466,226. Wool of various kinds, £23,451,887. Silk,
manufactures of all kinds, £12,264,532. Silk, raw and thrown, £3,546,456.
Butter, £8,502,084. Cheese, £4,709,508. Eggs, £2,559,860. Bacon and hams,
£6,982,470. Hair of various kinds, £1,483,984. Hides, wet and dry,
£4,203,371. Hides, tanned or otherwise prepared, £2,814,042. Guano,
£1,293,436. Fish, cured or salted, £1,048,546."

The value of the domestic stock in Great Britain and Channel Islands, in
1875, is stated to have been:--

"Horses, 1,349,691 at £16, £21,587,056. Cattle, 6,050,797 at £10,
£60,507,970. Sheep, 29,243,790 at £1 10s., £43,865,685. Swine, 2,245,932 at
£1 5s., £2,807,415. Total, £128,768,126."

"When we find," says the compiler of the statistics from which we have
quoted, "that the figures give an estimated money value exceeding
£331,000,000 sterling, and that to this has to be added all the dairy
produce; the poultry and their products for Great Britain; the annual clip
of British wool, which may be estimated at 160,000,000 lbs., worth at least
£8,000,000; the hides and skins, tallow, horns, bones, and other offal,
horse and cow hair, woollen rags collected, the game and rabbits, the sea
and river fisheries; besides the products of our woollen, leather, glove,
silk, soap, and comb manufactures retained for home consumption, furs,
brushes, and many other articles, we ought to add a great many millions
more to the aggregate value or total."--SIMMONDS: _Animal Products_, p.

       *       *       *       *       *


The first society formed under this name, or for this object, was the
"Royal," of London, in 1825.

The first in America was that of New York, in 1866; that of Pennsylvania,
in 1867; and that of Massachusetts, in 1868.

They all sprang from the same Christian root with the other great voluntary
organizations for religious and moral purposes which distinguished the
century just passed. All helped to widen the consciousness of the world,
and to prepare the way for reformations not then thought of.

In this goodly company of voluntary societies, those for the Protection of
Animals are entitled to an honorable place. It is not too much to say that
any list would be incomplete without them.

But they have gone beyond Europe and America, and are spreading over the
world. Among their devoted members are found the professors of many

These "Voices," it is hoped, may impel their readers, wherever they may be,
to help on, through such Societies, a long delayed work of justice to the
humbler creatures of God. In many countries the young may find juvenile
societies to promote the cause in schools and neighborhoods.

But whether inside or outside of organizations, the words of Mr. Longfellow
suggest a universal duty,--

    "Act, act in the living present,
    Hearts within and God o'erhead."


       *       *       *       *       *

Achilles, Horses of
Aix, Good News to
Among the Noblest
Ancient Mariner
Animals and Human Speech
Animals, Feeling for
Animals, Happiness
Animals, Innocent
Animals, Products
Animals, Suffering
Another's Sorrow
Argus and Ulysses
Asoka Inscriptions
Atri in Abruzzo

Baby, Human
Bay Billy
Bedouin's Rebuke
Bees, The
Beggar and Dog
Be Kind
Bess, Poor
Bird and Ship
Bird King
Bird, Lost
Bird of the Wilderness
Birds and Mohammed
Birds at Dawn
Bird's Evening Song
Birds In Spring
Birds Learning to Fly
Birds Let Loose
Bird's Ministry
Birds Must Know
Birds, Our Teachers
Birds Returning
Birds, Shadows of
Birthday Address
Birth of the Horse
Butrago, Lord of

Can they Suffer?
Care for the Lowest
Child, Lydia Maria
Choir, Hymeneal
Choir, Invisible
Cid and Bavieca
Cock's Shrill Clarion
Cruelty, Effect of, on Man

Darwin, Charles
Dog "Blanco"
Dog "Don"
Dog "Flight"
Dogs, Dead
Dogs, Domestic
Dogs, Epitaph on
Dogs "Faithful"
Dog's Grave
Do with your Own
Do you Know?
Dumb Mouths
Duty and Fame
Dying in Harness

Egyptian Ritual
Emperor's Bird's-Nest
Erskine, Lord
Exulting Sings

Fame and Duty
Feathered Tribes
Feeling for Animals
Field Sparrow
Firmness and Faithfulness
Foray, The
Freedom to Beasts
Friend of every Friendless Beast
Future, The

Geist's Grave
Giant's Strength
God's Children
Good News to Aix
Good Samaritan
Good Will
Graves, Collins, Ride of
Grey Friars' Bobby
Growth of Humane Ideas

Happiness of Animals
Harness, Dying in
Harper, The
Heart Service
Hen and Honey Bee
Herbert, George
Herod, my Hound
Herons of Elmwood
Hiawatha's Brothers
Hill-Star's Nest
Honor and Revere
Horse. See _Rides_.
Horse, Birth of
Horse, Blood
Horse, Fallen
Horse of Achilles
Horse Waiting for Master
Horse, War
Howard, John
Hindoo Poem
Hundred Farms

In Holy Books
Irish Wolf-Hound

June Day

Killingworth, Birds of
Kindness to Aged Creatures
King of Denmark's Ride

Lark (Sky)
Lark (Wood)
Learn from the Creatures
Legend of Cross-Bill
Life is Glad
Lincoln, Robert of
Little Brown Bird
Little by Little
Living Swan
Llewellyn and Gelert
Looking for Pearls
Lord of Butrago

Man's Morality on Trial
Man's Rule
Man's Supremacy
Marriage Feast
Measureless Gulfs
Moral Lessons
Mother's Care
Mountain and Squirrel
Mouse, A Field

Natural Rights
Nature, Animated
Nature's Teachings
Newfoundland Dog
No Ceremony
No Grain of Sand
Not born for Death
Not Contempt
Nothing Alone

Old Mill
Old Spaniel
One Hundred Years Ago
Open Sky
Our Pets

Pain to Animals
Peepul Tree
Pegasus in Pound
Petrel, Stormy
Pets, Our
Poor Dog Tray
Pretty Birds

Quit the Nest

Returning Birds
Ride of Collins Graves
Ride of King of Denmark
Ride of Paul Revere
Ride of Sheridan
Ride of "The Colonel"
Ride to Aix
Rights Must Win
Rights, Natural
Ring Out
Room Enough

Sake of the Animals
Sand, No Grain of
Sea Shell
Shadows of Birds
Shaftesbury, Earl of
Shepherd's Home
Ship of Pearl
Six Feet
Societies for Protection of Animals
Sounds and Songs
Statue over the Cathedral Door
St. Francis
Stole the Eggs
Stole the Nest
Study of Animals
Suffer, Can they?

Tame Animals
Teeth of Dog
Te whit, te who
Texts. See _Bible_.
Tiger Moth
Trotwood, Betsy


Value of Animals to Man
Venice, Doves of
Village Sounds
Vogelweid, Walter von der

Waiting for Master
Way to Sing
Wedding Guest
Wedding, The Fairy
What the Birds Say
Who Stole the Bird's Eggs?
Who Stole the Bird's Nest?
Who Taught?
William of Orange
Wish, A
Wood Lark
Wood Pigeons
Workman of God
Worm Turns, The


       *       *       *       *       *


Akenside, Mark
Alger's Oriental Poetry
Amicis, de E.
Andros, R. S.
Anonymous. See _Unknown._
Arnold, Edwin
Arnold, Matthew
Asoka, Emperor

Barbauld, Mrs.
Bates, Mrs. C. D.
Bentham, Jeremy
Berry, Mrs. C. F.
Blackie, Professor
Blake, William
Blanchard, Laman
Bostwick, Helen B.
Bremer, Frederika
Bright, John
Brine, Mary D.
Brooks, Rev. C. T.
Brougham, John
Browning, Mrs. E. B.
Browning, Robert
Bryant, W. C.
Buddhism. See _Hindoo_.
Burns, Robert
Butler, Bishop
Byron, Lord

Caird, Rev. Dr.
Campbell, Thomas
Carlyle, Mrs. Thomas
Carpenter, Rev. H. B.
Carpenter, Rev. J. E.
Chamber's Journal
Child's Book of Poetry
Cincinnati Humane Appeal
Clayton, Sir Robert
Clough, Arthur H.
Cobbe, Miss F. P.
Coleridge, Hartley
Coleridge, S. T.
Corbett, E. T.
Cornwall, Barry
Cowper, William
Craik, Mrs. Dinah M.
Cunningham, Allen
Cuvier, Baron

Davids, T. W. R.
Dickens, Charles
Dryden, John

Egyptian Ritual
Eliot, George
Emerson, R. W.

Faber, F. W.
Fields, James T.

Gassaway, F. H.
Gisborne, Thomas
Goldsmith, O.

H. H.
Hathaway, E.
Hedge, Rev. Dr. F. H.
Helps, Arthur
Hemans, Mrs.
Herbert, George
Hogg, James
Holland, J. G.
Holmes, O. W.
Howitt, Mary
Humane Journal
Hunt, Leigh
Hymns for Mothers

Ingelow, Jean

Jackson, Mrs. See _H. H._
Johnson, Laura W.

Keats, John
Keble, J.
Kingsley, Charles

Lamb, Charles and Mary
Langhorne, J.
Larcom, Lucy
Lathbury, Mary A.
Lawrence, Kate
Lewes, Mrs. See _George Elliot._
Lillie, Arthur
Lockhart, J. G.
Logan, John
Longfellow, H. W.
Lord, Miss Emily B.
Lowell, James R.
Lowell, Maria
Luther, Martin

MacCarthy, Denis F.
Mason, Caroline A.
Masque of Poets
McLeod, Norman
Mill, John Stuart
Milton, John
Moore, Thomas
Motley, J. L.
Müller, Max
Muloch. See _Mrs. Dinah M. Craik._

Norton, Mrs. C. E.

O'Reilly, John Boyle

Paine, Miss Harriet E.
Perry, Carolina Coronado de
Pfeiffer, Emily
Poole, Stanley
Pope, Alexander
Preston, Margaret J.
Procter. See _Barry Cornwall._

Read, T. B.
Ruskin, John

Savage, Richard
Saxe, John G.
Scott, Walter
Scudder, Eliza
Shakespeare, W.
Shelley, P. B.
Shenstone, W.
Sheppard, Mary.
Somerville, Mary
Southey, Robert
Spenser, W. R.
Stanley, A. P.
Sterling, John
Swing, David

Taylor, Bayard
Taylor, Emily
Taylor, Henry
Temple Bar
Tennyson, Alfred
Thaxter, Mrs. Celia


Verplanck, Julia C.

Walton, Izaak
Whittier, J. G.
Wither, George
Woolson, C. F.
Wordsworth, W.

Zend Avesta

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we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States,
that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries.
Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we
can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is
allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Doctrine Publishing
ISYS search  means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About ISYS® Search Software
Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.