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Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848

Various
Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848

ORNITHOLOGOI.¹

BY J. M. LEGARE

[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

Thou, sitting on the hill-top bare,
Dost see the far hills disappear
In Autumn smoke, and all the air
Filled with bright leaves. Below thee spread
Are yellow harvests, rich in bread
For winter use; while over-head
The jays to one another call,
And through the stilly woods there fall,
Ripe nuts at intervals, where'er
The squirrel, perched in upper air,
From tree-top barks at thee his fear;
His cunning eyes, mistrustingly,
Do spy at thee around the tree;
Then, prompted by a sudden whim,
Down leaping on the quivering limb,
Gains the smooth hickory, from whence
He nimbly scours along the fence
To secret haunts.

But oftener,
When Mother Earth begins to stir,
And like a Hadji who hath been
To Mecca, wears a caftan green;
When jasmines and azalias fill
The air with sweets, and down the hill
Turbid no more descends the rill;
The wonder of thy hazel eyes,
Soft opening on the misty skies —
Dost smile within thyself to see
Things uncontained in, seemingly,
The open book upon thy knee,
And through the quiet woodlands hear
Sounds full of mystery to ear
Of grosser mould – the myriad cries
That from the teeming world arise;
Which we, self-confidently wise,
Pass by unheeding. Thou didst yearn
From thy weak babyhood to learn
Arcana of creation; turn
Thy eyes on things intangible
To mortals; when the earth was still.
Hear dreamy voices on the hill,

In wavy woods, that sent a thrill
Of joyousness through thy young veins.
Ah, happy thou! whose seeking gains
All that thou lovest, man disdains
A sympathy in joys and pains
With dwellers in the long, green lanes,
With wings that shady groves explore,
With watchers at the torrent's roar,
And waders by the reedy shore;
For thou, through purity of mind,
Dost hear, and art no longer blind.

Croak! croak! – who croaketh over-head
So hoarsely, with his pinion spread,
Dabbled in blood, and dripping red?
Croak! croak! – a raven's curse on him,
The giver of this shattered limb!
Albeit young, (a hundred years,
When next the forest leaved appears,)
Will Duskywing behold this breast
Shot-riddled, or divide my nest
With wearer of so tattered vest?
I see myself, with wing awry,
Approaching. Duskywing will spy
My altered mien, and shun my eye.
With laughter bursting, through the wood
The birds will scream – she's quite too good
For thee. And yonder meddling jay,
I hear him chatter all the day,
"He's crippled – send the thief away!"
At every hop – "don't let him stay."
I'll catch thee yet, despite my wing;
For all thy fine blue plumes, thou'lt sing
Another song!

Is't not enough
The carrion festering we snuff,
And gathering down upon the breeze,
Release the valley from disease;
If longing for more fresh a meal,
Around the tender flock we wheel,
A marksman doth some bush conceal.
This very morn, I heard an ewe
Bleat in the thicket; there I flew,
With lazy wing slow circling round,
Until I spied unto the ground
A lamb by tangled briars bound.
The ewe, meanwhile, on hillock-side,
Bleat to her young – so loudly cried,
She heard it not when it replied.
Ho, ho! – a feast! I 'gan to croak,
Alighting straightway on an oak;
Whence gloatingly I eyed aslant
The little trembler lie and pant.
Leapt nimbly thence upon its head;
Down its white nostril bubbled red
A gush of blood; ere life had fled,
My beak was buried in its eyes,
Turned tearfully upon the skies —
Strong grew my croak, as weak its cries.

No longer couldst thou sit and hear
This demon prate in upper air —
Deeds horrible to maiden ear.
Begone, thou spokest. Over-head
The startled fiend his pinion spread,
And croaking maledictions, fled.

But, hark! who at some secret door
Knocks loud, and knocketh evermore?
Thou seest how around the tree,
With scarlet head for hammer, he
Probes where the haunts of insects be.
The worm in labyrinthian hole
Begins his sluggard length to roll;
But crafty Rufus spies the prey,
And with his mallet beats away
The loose bark, crumbling to decay;
Then chirping loud, with wing elate,
He bears the morsel to his mate.
His mate, she sitteth on her nest,
In sober feather plumage dressed;
A matron underneath whose breast
Three little tender heads appear.
With bills distent from ear to ear,
Each clamors for the bigger share;
And whilst they clamor, climb – and, lo!
Upon the margin, to and fro,
Unsteady poised, one wavers slow.
Stay, stay! the parents anguished shriek,
Too late; for venturesome, yet weak,
His frail legs falter under him;
He falls – but from a lower limb
A moment dangles, thence again
Launched out upon the air, in vain
He spread his little plumeless wing,
A poor, blind, dizzy, helpless thing.

But thou, who all didst see and hear,
Young, active, wast already there,
And caught the flutterer in air.
Then up the tree to topmost limb,
A vine for ladder, borest him.
Against thy cheek his little heart
Beat soft. Ah, trembler that thou art,
Thou spokest smiling; comfort thee!
With joyous cries the parents flee
Thy presence none – confidingly
Pour out their very hearts to thee.
The mockbird sees thy tenderness
Of deed; doth with melodiousness,
In many tongues, thy praise express.
And all the while, his dappled wings
He claps his sides with, as he sings,
From perch to perch his body flings:
A poet he, to ecstasy
Wrought by the sweets his tongue doth say.

Stay, stay! – I hear a flutter now
Beneath yon flowering alder bough.
I hear a little plaintive voice
That did at early morn rejoice,
Make a most sad yet sweet complaint,
Saying, "my heart is very faint
With its unutterable wo.
What shall I do, where can I go,
My cruel anguish to abate.
Oh! my poor desolated mate,
Dear Cherry, will our haw-bush seek,
Joyful, and bearing in her beak
Fresh seeds, and such like dainties, won
By careful search. But they are gone
Whom she did brood and dote upon.
Oh! if there be a mortal ear
My sorrowful complaint to hear;
If manly breast is ever stirred
By wrong done to a helpless bird,
To them for quick redress I cry."
Moved by the tale, and drawing nigh,
On alder branch thou didst espy
How, sitting lonely and forlorn,
His breast was pressed upon a thorn,
Unknowing that he leant thereon;
Then bidding him take heart again,
Thou rannest down into the lane
To seek the doer of this wrong,
Nor under hedgerow hunted long,
When, sturdy, rude, and sun-embrowned,
A child thy earnest seeking found.
To him in sweet and modest tone
Thou madest straight thy errand known.
With gentle eloquence didst show
(Things erst he surely did not know)
How great an evil he had done;
How, when next year the mild May sun
Renewed its warmth, this shady lane
No timid birds would haunt again;
And how around his mother's door
The robins, yearly guests before —
He knew their names – would come no more;
But if his prisoners he released,
Before their little bosoms ceased
To palpitate, each coming year
Would find them gladly reappear
To sing his praises everywhere —
The sweetest, dearest songs to hear.
And afterward, when came the term
Of ripened corn, the robber worm
Would hunt through every blade and turn,
Impatient thus his smile to earn.

At first, flushed, angrily, and proud,
He answered thee with laughter loud
And brief retort. But thou didst speak
So mild, so earnestly did seek
To change his mood, in wonder first
He eyed thee; then no longer durst
Raise his bold glances to thy face,
But, looking down, began to trace,
With little, naked foot and hand,
Thoughtful devices in the sand;
And when at last thou didst relate
The sad affliction of the mate,
When to the well-known spot she came,
He hung his head for very shame;
His penitential tears to hide,
His face averted while he cried;
"Here, take them all, I've no more pride
In climbing up to rob a nest —
I've better feelings in my breast."

Then thanking him with heart and eyes,
Thou tookest from his grasp the prize,
And bid the little freedmen rise.
But when thou sawest how too weak
Their pinions were, the nest didst seek,
And called thy client. Down he flew
Instant, and with him Cherry too;
And fluttering after, not a few
Of the minuter feathered race
Filled with their warbling all the place.
From hedge and pendent branch and vine,
Recounted still that deed of thine;
Still sang thy praises o'er and o'er,
Gladly – more heartily, be sure,
Were praises never sung before.

Beholding thee, they understand
(These Minne-singers of the land)
How thou apart from all dost stand,
Full of great love and tenderness
For all God's creatures – these express
Thy hazel eyes. With life instinct
All things that are, to thee are linked
By subtle ties; and none so mean
Or loathsome hast thou ever seen,
But wonderous in make hath been.
Compassionate, thou seest none
Of insect tribes beneath the sun
That thou canst set thy heel upon.
A sympathy thou hast with wings
In groves, and with all living things.
Unmindful if they walk or crawl,
The same arm shelters each and all;
The shadow of the Curse and Fall
Alike impends. Ah! truly great,
Who strivest earnestly and late,
A single atom to abate,
Of helpless wo and misery.
For very often thou dost see
How sadly and how helplessly
A pleading face looks up to thee.
Therefore it is, thou canst not choose,
With petty tyranny to abuse
Thy higher gifts; and justly fear
The feeblest worm of earth or air,
In thy heart's judgment to condemn,
Since God made thee, and God made them.

DEATH: – AN INVOCATION

BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH

Thou art no king of terrors – sweet Death!
But a maiden young and fair;
Thine eyes are bright as the spring starlight,
And golden is thy hair;
While the smile that flickers thy lips upon
Has a light beyond compare.

Come then, Death, from the dark-brown shades
Where thou hast lingered long;
Come to the haunts where sins abound
And troubles thickly throng,
And lay thy bridal kiss on the lips
Of a child of sorrow and song.

For I can gaze with a rapture deep
Upon thy lovely face;
Many a smile I find therein,
Where another a frown would trace —
As a lover would clasp his new-made bride
I will take thee to my embrace.

Come, oh, come! I long for thy look;
I weary to win thy kiss —
Bear me away from a world of wo
To a world of quiet bliss —
For in that I may kneel to God alone,
Which I may not do in this.

For woman and wealth they woo pursuit,
And a winning voice has fame;
Men labor for love and work for wealth
And struggle to gain a name;
Yet find but fickleness, need and scorn,
If not the brand of shame.

Then carry me hence, sweet Death —my Death!
Must I woo thee still in vain?
Come at the morn or come at the eve,
Or come in the sun or rain;
But come – oh, come! for the loss of life
To me is the chiefest gain.

GOLD

BY R. H. STODDARD

Alas! my heart is sick when I behold
The deep engrossing interest of wealth,
How eagerly men sacrifice their health,
Love, honor, fame and truth for sordid gold;
Dealing in sin, and wrong, and tears, and strife,
Their only aim and business in life
To gain and heap together shining store; —

Alchemists, mad as e'er were those of yore.
Transmuting every thing to glittering dross,
Wasting their energies o'er magic scrolls,
Day-books and ledgers leaden, gain and loss —
Casting the holiest feelings of their souls
High hopes, and aspirations, and desires,
Beneath their crucibles to feed th' accursed fires!

FIEL A LA MUERTE, OR TRUE LOVE'S DEVOTION

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF LOUIS QUINZE

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMAN TRAITOR," "MARMADUKE WYVIL," "CROMWELL," ETC

There was a mighty stir in the streets of Paris, as Paris' streets were in the olden time. A dense and eager mob had taken possession, at an early hour of the day, of all the environs of the Bastile, and lined the way which led thence to the Place de Greve in solid and almost impenetrable masses.

People of all conditions were there, except the very highest; but the great majority of the concourse was composed of the low populace, and the smaller bourgeoisie. Multitudes of women were there, too, from the girl of sixteen to the beldam of sixty, nor had mothers been ashamed to bring their infants in their arms into that loud and tumultuous assemblage.

Loud it was and tumultuous, as all great multitudes are, unless they are convened by purposes too resolutely dark and solemn to find any vent in noise. When that is the case, let rulers beware, for peril is at hand – perhaps the beginning of the end.

But this Parisian mob, although long before this period it had learned the use of barricades, though noisy, turbulent, and sometimes even violent in the demonstrations of its impatience, was any thing but angry or excited.

On the contrary, it seemed to be on the very tip-toe of pleasurable expectation, and from the somewhat frequent allusions to notre bon roi, which circulated among the better order of spectators, it would appear that the government of the Fifteenth Louis was for the moment in unusually good odor with the good folks of the metropolis.

What was the spectacle to which they were looking forward with so much glee – which had brought forth young delicate girls, and tender mothers, into the streets at so early an hour – which, as the day advanced toward ten o'clock of the morning, was tempting forth laced cloaks, and rapiers, and plumed hats, and here and there, in the cumbrous carriages of the day, the proud and luxurious ladies of the gay metropolis?

One glance toward the centre of the Place de Greve was sufficient to inform the dullest, for there uprose, black, grisly, horrible, a tall stout pile of some thirty feet in height, with a huge wheel affixed horizontally to the summit.

Around this hideous instrument of torture was raised a scaffold hung with black cloth, and strewed with saw-dust, for the convenience of the executioners, about three feet lower than the wheel which surmounted it.

Around this frightful apparatus were drawn up two companies of the French guard, forming a large hollow-square facing outwards, with muskets loaded, and bayonets fixed, as if they apprehended an attempt at rescue, although from the demeanor of the people nothing appeared at that time to be further from their thoughts than any thing of the kind.