My Elm-Tree Oriole. 125 



No merry warbler of the wood, 



No songster of the field, 

 Hath his heart-stirring warmth withstood, 



To his command they yield. 

 And songs of love, life's sweetest song, 



Through field and forest roll, 

 And foremost in the tuneful throng 



My elm-tree oriole. 



The shadows of the coming night 



May fill the leafy glen, 

 The sunny landscape shut from sight 



And darkness reign again, 

 But not a song of sunny day 



Is lost ; we hear them still, 

 They linger by the foot-path way, 



The meadows, and the hill : 

 Songs from the hearts of birds as true 



As needle to the pole, 

 But nearest of them all are you, 



My elm-tree oriole. 



Now, having heard this song from time to 

 time during the summer ; having seen the bird 

 weave the fabric of a wonderful nest, suspended 

 from the most yielding of the tree's terminal 

 twigs ; having seen the young carefully inducted 

 into the wide world with all its delights and 

 dangers, and heard the last regretful chirp of 

 young and old as they leave the home tree for 



