'208 GENERAL ORNITHOLOGY. 



Have you listened to the carol of the bluebird 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 turaultunus are the fancies thus aroused. 



The bluebird's song breathes gladness — breathes the sweet and solemn triamph 



Love feels wheu all love's past^iim melts in its own fruition. 



Exquisitely subtile are the churds 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, aiul 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 si)eaking echo of the hopes that glow within; 



And the tell-tale blushes redden to the rose-tint on tht; 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 tlio 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 tlie ashes of her birthright, 



And sackcloth slirouds 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 b)ve tliat never dies. 



So in the timid spring-time, when the world wears wreaths of rosea, 



King clear the joyous melodies of hope! 



So in the summer season, when the wine of pleasure reddens, 



Ring passionate the triunii)hs of the heart! 



So in the sad, siill autumn, when life bends beneath its burden. 



When what might have been has never come to jiass, 



Rings once again this music on the crushed and wounded spirit, 



Bringing light wliere all was dark and drear before: 



All is not lost if the music that tlie bluebird bears be heeded. 



For her mission is to tell us love is God. 



Though it is a fact that " the CJienomorphce are not provided with intrinsic syringeal 

 muscles," there may he much trutlt in treatises (le cavtu 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 snft 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! 



Tlic archer. Death, and the twanging bow, 



And the fiittfiil shaft on-sped. 

 All stale and grace and pride biid low, 

 Disordered plninos and crim.'^on flow — 



For tlie wldte swan's heart hua bled. 



But hear tlie mournful cry that rings 



On the startled air of night! 

 As a si)irit form in the darkness «ings 

 Its way unseen, ilio wild swan sings 



His psalm of life and light. 



