22 
BIRDS AND POETS 
“O blithe New-comer ! I have heard, 
I hear thee and rejoice. 
O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice ? 
“While I am lying on the grass, 
Thy twofold shout I hear, 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off, and near. 
‘Though babbling only to the Vale, 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 
“Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 
Even yet thou art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, 
A voice, a mystery; 
“The same whom in my schoolboy days 
I listened to ; that Cry 
“Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 
“To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green 3 
And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
Still longed for, never seen. 
“ And I can listen to thee yet ; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 
“©O blesséd Bird { the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place ; 
That is fit home for thee!” 
Logan’s stanzas, “To the Cuckoo,” have less 
merit both as poetry and natural history, but they 
are older, and doubtless the later poet benefited by 
