208 GENERAL ORNITHOLOGY. 
Have you listened to the carol of thegMevira in the spring? 
Has her gush of molten melody been not poured forth in vain? 
Ah! then the pulse has quickened, and a sigh, perhaps, has risen, 
From the breast the bluebird’s music stirs to thoughts that lack expression — 
So tender, so tumultuous are the fancies thus aroused. 
The bluebird’s song breathes gladness — breathes the sweet and solemn triumph 
Love feels when all love’s passion melts in its own fruition. 
Exquisitely subtile are the chords the bluebird touches— 
Chords that quiver now in ecstasy, now thrill in fond expectancy, 
Now die in dreams of all that might have been. 
Hers is language to interpret, and translate in accents rhythmic, 
All the yearning of young love to claim his own — 
Of young love that trembles on the threshold of the passions, 
And shrinks before the images his ardor calls to life. 
Thus to the maiden musing come thronging thoughts unbidden, 
When she hears this speaking echo of the hopes that glow within; 
And the tell-tale blushes redden to the rose-tint on the bosom 
Of the bird that dares to breathe her secret joy. 
Thus to the youth impetuous, whose life is set to music — 
Let love but laugh and beckon from afar — 
Fulfilment sends a greeting in the soft voluptuous languor 
That steals upon the senses if the bluebird’s song be heard — 
This song of wondrous gladness, ever bubbling, welling, gushing, 
From a fountain full of promise, inexhaustible, divine ! 
Sweeter far these liquid accents when the buds of hope are blighted, 
And the tree of knowledge bears its bitter fruit; 
When memory sits brooding on the ashes of her birthright, 
And sackcloth shrouds a heart that once was young; 
For a silver chord is quickened where was greedy, silent sorrow — 
Responding to a sympathetic touch: 
The bird sings true and tender, with a precious burden laden, 
With the tidings of a love that never dies. 
So in the timid spring-time, when the world wears wreaths of roses, 
Ring clear the joyous melodies of hope! 
So in the summer season, when the wine of pleasure reddens, 
Ring passionate the triumphs of the heart! 
So in the sad, still autumn, when life bends beneath its burden, 
When what might have been has never come to pass, 
Rings once again this music on the crushed and wounded spirit, 
Bringing light where all was dark and drear before: 
All is not lost if the music that the bluebird bears be heeded, 
For her mission is to tell us love is God. 
Though it is a fact that ‘the Chenomorphe are not provided with intrinsic syringeal 
muscles,” there may be much truth in treatises de cantu Cycni morituri which have appeared 
from time to time, and to the number of which I may be pardoned for adding : — 
How sadly sweet, how soft and low 
Is the music born of pain — 
How mournful sounds the ebb and flow, 
What measured beats, what throb and throe, 
In the wild swan’s dying strain! 
The archer, Death, and the twanging bow, 
And the fateful shaft on-sped, 
All state and grace and pride laid low, 
Disordered plumes and crimson flow — 
For the white swan’s heart has bled. 
But hear the mournful cry that rings 
On the startled air of night! 
As a spirit form in the darkness wings 
Its way unseen, the wild swan sings 
His psalm of life and light. 
