THE BIRDS OF KILLING

WORTH.

IT was the season when through all the land

The merle and mavis build, and building sing

Those lovely lyrics written by His hand

Whom Saxon Cædmon calls the Blithe-heart King;

When on the boughs the purple buds expand,

The banners of the vanguard of the Spring;

And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap,

And wave their fluttering signals from the steep.

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud,

Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee;

The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud

Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be;

And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd,

Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly,

Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said,

"Give us, O Lord, this day our dai

ly bread!"

Across the Sound the birds of pas

sage sailed,

Speaking some unknown language, strange and sweet

Of tropic isle remote, and, passing, hailed

The village with the cheers of all their fleet;

Or, quarrelling together, laughed and railed

Like foreign sailors landed in the

street

Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise

Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys.

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth,

In fabulous days, some hundred years ago;

Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart

To speak out what was in him, clear and strong,

Alike regardless of their smile or frown,

And quite determined not to be laughed down.

"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-musicians 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 random 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.