318 BLUE-BIRD. 



do justice to his name, and endear him to us still more by the 

 tenderness of verse, as has been done to his representative in 

 Britain, the Robin Red-breast. A small acknowledgment of 

 this kind I have to offer, which the reader I hope will excuse 

 as a tribute to rural innocence. 



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

 Green meadows and brown furrow'd fields re-appearing, 



The fishermen hauling- then* 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, 



O then comes the Blue-bird, the HERALD OF SPUING! 

 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: 



O then to your gardens ye housewives repair ? 

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



The Blue-bird 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 ling'ring schoolboys forget they'll be chid, 

 While gazing intent as he warbles before 'em 



In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red, 

 That each little loiterer seems to adore him. 



