THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 49 



THE ballad-singers and the troubadours, 



The street-musicians of the heavenly city, 

 The birds, who make sweet music for us all 

 In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 



The thrush that carols at the dawn of day 

 From the green steeples of the piny wood ; 



The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, 

 Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; 



The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, 

 Flooding with melody the neighborhood ; 



Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng 



That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. 



Whose household words are songs in many keys, 



Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught. 

 Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 

 Are half-way houses on the road to heaven. 



Think, every morning when the sun peeps through 

 The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, 



How jubilant the happy birds renew 



Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! " 



Longfellow, 



