The Bluebird 



By Alexander Wilson 



When winter's cold tempest and snows are no more, 



Green meadows and brown-furrowed fields reappearing. 

 The fishermen hauHng their shad to the shore, 



And cloud-cleaving geese to the Lakes are a-steering ; 

 When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing; 



When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, 

 Oh then comes the bluebird, the herald of Spring! 



And hails with his warblings the charms of the season. 



Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring; 



Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather : 

 The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring, 



And spicewood and sassafras budding together : 

 Oh then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair ! 



Your walks border up: sow and plant at your leisure; 

 The bluebird will chant from his box such an air 



That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure. 



He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree. 



The red flowering peach and the apple's sweet blossoms ; 

 He snaps up destroyers wherever they be, 



And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms. 

 He drags the vile grub from the corn he devours. 



The worms from their webs where they riot and welter : 

 His song and his services freely are ours, 



And all that he asks is in summer a shelter. 



The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train, 



Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him ; 

 The gardener delights in his sweet simple strain. 



And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him ; 

 The slow-lingering schoolboys forget they'll be chid. 



While gazing intent as he warbles before 'em 

 In mantle of sky-blue, and bosoms so red. 



That each little loiterer seems to adore him. 



When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er. 

 And aiUumn slow enters so silent and sallow, 



And millions of warblers, that charmed us before, 

 Have fled in the train of tlie sun-seeking swallow, 



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