Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Thou, sitting on the hill-top bare,

      Dost see the far hills disappear

      In Autumn smoke, and all the air

      Filled with bright leaves. Below thee spread

      Are yellow harvests, rich in bread

      For winter use; while over-head

      The jays to one another call,

      And through the stilly woods there fall,

      Ripe nuts at intervals, where'er

      The squirrel, perched in upper air,

      From tree-top barks at thee his fear;

      His cunning eyes, mistrustingly,

      Do spy at thee around the tree;

      Then, prompted by a sudden whim,

      Down leaping on the quivering limb,

      Gains the smooth hickory, from whence

      He nimbly scours along the fence

      To secret haunts.

      But oftener,

      When Mother Earth begins to stir,

      And like a Hadji who hath been

      To Mecca, wears a caftan green;

      When jasmines and azalias fill

      The air with sweets, and down the hill

      Turbid no more descends the rill;

      The wonder of thy hazel eyes,

      Soft opening on the misty skies —

      Dost smile within thyself to see

      Things uncontained in, seemingly,

      The open book upon thy knee,

      And through the quiet woodlands hear

      Sounds full of mystery to ear

      Of grosser mould – the myriad cries

      That from the teeming world arise;

      Which we, self-confidently wise,

      Pass by unheeding. Thou didst yearn

      From thy weak babyhood to learn

      Arcana of creation; turn

      Thy eyes on things intangible

      To mortals; when the earth was still.

      Hear dreamy voices on the hill,

      In wavy woods, that sent a thrill

      Of joyousness through thy young veins.

      Ah, happy thou! whose seeking gains

      All that thou lovest, man disdains

      A sympathy in joys and pains

      With dwellers in the long, green lanes,

      With wings that shady groves explore,

      With watchers at the torrent's roar,

      And waders by the reedy shore;

      For thou, through purity of mind,

      Dost hear, and art no longer blind.

      Croak! croak! – who croaketh over-head

      So hoarsely, with his pinion spread,

      Dabbled in blood, and dripping red?

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

      The giver of this shattered limb!

      Albeit young, (a hundred years,

      When next the forest leaved appears,)

      Will Duskywing behold this breast

      Shot-riddled, or divide my nest

      With wearer of so tattered vest?

      I see myself, with wing awry,

      Approaching. Duskywing will spy

      My altered mien, and shun my eye.

      With laughter bursting, through the wood

      The birds will scream – she's quite too good

      For thee. And yonder meddling jay,

      I hear him chatter all the day,

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

      At every hop – "don't let him stay."

      I'll catch thee yet, despite my wing;

      For all thy fine blue plumes, thou'lt sing

      Another song!

      Is't not enough

      The carrion festering we snuff,

      And gathering down upon the breeze,

      Release the valley from disease;

      If longing for more fresh a meal,

      Around the tender flock we wheel,

      A marksman doth some bush conceal.

      This very morn, I heard an ewe

      Bleat in the thicket; there I flew,

      With lazy wing slow circling round,

      Until I spied unto the ground

      A lamb by tangled briars bound.

      The ewe, meanwhile, on hillock-side,

      Bleat to her young – so loudly cried,

      She heard it not when it replied.

      Ho, ho! – a feast! I 'gan to croak,

      Alighting straightway on an oak;

      Whence gloatingly I eyed aslant

      The little trembler lie and pant.

      Leapt nimbly thence upon its head;

      Down its white nostril bubbled red

      A gush of blood; ere life had fled,

      My beak was buried in its eyes,

      Turned tearfully upon the skies —

      Strong grew my croak, as weak its cries.

      No longer couldst thou sit and hear

      This demon prate in upper air —

      Deeds horrible to maiden ear.

      Begone, thou spokest. Over-head

      The startled fiend his pinion spread,

      And croaking maledictions, fled.

      But, hark! who at some secret door

      Knocks loud, and knocketh evermore?

      Thou seest how around the tree,

      With scarlet head for hammer, he

      Probes where the haunts of insects be.

      The worm in labyrinthian hole

      Begins his sluggard length to roll;

      But crafty Rufus spies the prey,

      And with his mallet beats away

      The loose bark, crumbling to decay;

      Then chirping loud, with wing elate,

      He bears the morsel to his mate.

      His mate, she sitteth on her nest,

      In sober feather plumage dressed;

      A matron underneath whose breast

      Three little tender heads appear.

      With bills distent from ear to ear,

      Each clamors for the bigger share;

      And whilst they clamor, climb – and, lo!

      Upon the margin, to and fro,

      Unsteady poised, one wavers slow.

      Stay,