THE PRECEPTOR'S PLEA FOR THE BIRDS 



Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 



From his Republic banished without pity 



The Poets ; in this little town of yours. 



You put to death; by means of a Committee, 



The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, 

 The street musiciajis 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. 



You slay them all ! and wherefore ? for the gain 

 Of a scant handful more or less of wheat. 



Or rye, or barley, or some other grain. 



Scratched up at randoni by industrious feet, 



Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! 

 Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 



As are the songs these uninvited guests 



Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 



Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? 



Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught 

 The dialect they speak, where melodies 



Alone are the interpreters of thought? 

 Whose household words are songs in many keys. 



Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! 

 Whose habitations in the treetops even 

 Are halfway 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 ! 



