Voices for the Speechless Part 26

Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing Thy flight from the far-away!

Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring, Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.

Descend, O Stork! descend Upon our roof to rest; In our ash-tree, O my friend, My darling, make thy nest.

To thee, O Stork, I complain, O Stork, to thee I impart The thousand sorrows, the pain And aching of my heart.

When thou away didst go, Away from this tree of ours, The withering winds did blow, And dried up all the flowers.

Dark grew the brilliant sky, Cloudy and dark and drear; They were breaking the snow on high, And winter was drawing near.

From Varaca's rocky wall, From the rock of Varaca unrolled, The snow came and covered all, And the green meadow was cold.

O Stork, our garden with snow Was hidden away and lost, And the rose-trees that in it grow Were withered by snow and frost.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE STORKS OF DELFT.

The tradition of the storks at Delft (Holland), is, however, still alive, and no traveller writes about the city without remembering them.

The fact occurred at the time of the great fire which ruined almost all the city. There were in Delft innumerable storks' nests. It must be understood that the stork is the favorite bird of Holland; the bird of good fortune, like the swallow; welcome to all, because it makes war upon toads and frogs; that the peasants plant poles with circular floor of wood on top to attract them to make their nests, and that in some towns they may be seen walking in the streets. At Delft they were in great numbers. When the fire broke out, which was on the 3d May, the young storks were fledged, but could not yet fly. Seeing the fire approach, the parent storks attempted to carry their young out of danger; but they were too heavy; and, after having tried all sorts of desperate efforts, the poor birds were forced to give it up.

They might have saved themselves and have abandoned the little ones to their fate, as human creatures often do under similar circ.u.mstances. But they stayed upon their nests, gathered their little ones about them, covered them with their wings, as if to r.e.t.a.r.d, as long as possible, the fatal moment, and so awaited death, in that loving and n.o.ble att.i.tude.

And who shall say if, in the horrible dismay and flight from the flames, that example of self-sacrifice, that voluntary maternal martyrdom, may not have given strength and courage to some weak soul who was about to abandon those who had need of him.

DE AMICIS' _Holland_.

THE PHEASANT.

See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs And mounts exulting on triumphant wings.

Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.

Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes, His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes, The vivid green his s.h.i.+ning plumes unfold, His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold!

POPE.

THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD.

Silent are all the sounds of day; Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, And the cry of the herons winging their way O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets.

Call to him, herons, as slowly you pa.s.s To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes, Sing him the song of the green mora.s.s, And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.

Sing him the mystical song of the Hern, And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking; For only a sound of lament we discern, And cannot interpret the words you are speaking.

Sing of the air, and the wild delight Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you, The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight Through the drift of the floating mists that enfold you;

Of the landscape lying so far below, With its towns and rivers and desert places; And the splendor of light above, and the glow Of the limitless, blue, ethereal s.p.a.ces.

Ask him if songs of the Troubadours, Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter, Sound in his ears more sweet than yours, And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID.

Vogelweid the Minnesinger, When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Wurtzburg's minster towers.

And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest: They should feed the birds at noontide Daily on his place of rest;

Saying, "From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long."

Thus the bard of love departed; And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted By the children of the choir.

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, In foul weather and in fair, Day by day, in vaster numbers, Flocked the poets of the air.

On the tree whose heavy branches Overshadowed all the place, On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the poet's sculptured face,

On the crossbars of each window, On the lintel of each door, They renewed the War of Wartburg, Which the bard had fought before.

There they sang their merry carols, Sang their lauds on every side; And the name their voices uttered Was the name of Vogelweid.

Till at length the portly abbot Murmured, "Why this waste of food?

Be it changed to loaves henceforward For our fasting brotherhood."

Then in vain o'er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests.

Then in vain, with cries discordant, Clamorous round the Gothic spire, Screamed the feathered Minnesingers For the children of the choir.

Time has long effaced the inscriptions On the cloister's funeral stones, And tradition only tells us Where repose the poet's bones.

But around the vast cathedral, By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend, And the name of Vogelweid.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE LEGEND OF THE CROSS-BILL.

On the cross the dying Saviour Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling In his pierced and bleeding palm.

And by all the world forsaken, Sees he how with zealous care At the ruthless nail of iron A little bird is striving there.