1894.

THE VEERY

  The moonbeams over Arno’s vale in silver flood were pouring,
  When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring. 
  So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie;
  I longed to hear a simpler strain,—­the wood-notes of the veery.

  The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;
  It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;
  He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;
  I only know one song more sweet,—­the vespers of the veery.

  In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,
  I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure: 
  The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,
  And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.

  But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;
  New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing: 
  And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,
  I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.

1895.

THE SONG-SPARROW

  There is a bird I know so well,
    It seems as if he must have sung
    Beside my crib when I was young;
  Before I knew the way to spell
    The name of even the smallest bird,
    His gentle-joyful song I heard. 
  Now see if you can tell, my dear. 
  What bird it is that, every year,
  Sings “Sweet—­sweet—­sweet—­very merry cheer.”

  He comes in March, when winds are strong,
    And snow returns to hide the earth;
    But still he warms his heart with mirth,
  And waits for May.  He lingers long
    While flowers fade; and every day
    Repeats his small, contented lay;
  As if to say, we need not fear
  The season’s change, if love is here
  With “Sweet—­sweet—­sweet—­very merry cheer.”

  He does not wear a Joseph’s-coat
    Of many colours, smart and gay;
    His suit is Quaker brown and gray,
  With darker patches at his throat. 
    And yet of all the well-dressed throng
    Not one can sing so brave a song. 
  It makes the pride of looks appear
  A vain and foolish thing, to hear
  His “Sweet—­sweet—­sweet—­very merry cheer.”

  A lofty place he does not love,
    But sits by choice, and well at ease,
    In hedges, and in little trees
  That stretch their slender arms above
    The meadow-brook; and there he sings
    Till all the field with pleasure rings;
  And so he tells in every ear,
  That lowly homes to heaven are near
  In “Sweet—­sweet—­sweet—­very merry cheer.”