Song: The Owl

Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him;

All mock him outright, by day;

But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away!

O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,
Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl!

And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold,
And loveth the wood's deep gloom;

1509

And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold,
She awaiteth her ghastly groom;

Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,
As she waits in her tree so still;

But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,
She hoots out her welcome shrill!

O, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl,
Then, then, is the joy of the Horned Owl!

Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight!
The Owl hath his share of good:

If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark greenwood!

Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate,
They are each unto each a pride;

Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside!

So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl,
Sing, ho! for the reign of the Horned Owl!

We know not alway

Who are kings by day,

But the King of the night is the bold brown Owl!
Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]

SONG: THE OWL

WHEN cats run home and light is come,

And dew is cold upon the ground,

And the far-off stream is dumb,

And the whirring sail goes round,

And the whirring sail goes round;

Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,

And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay,

Twice or thrice his roundelay;

Alone and warming his five wits,

The white owl in the belfry sits.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

SWEET SUFFOLK OWL

SWEET Suffolk owl, so trimly dight
With feathers, like a lady bright;
Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night,
"Te whit! Te whoo!"

Thy note that forth so freely rolls
With shrill command the mouse controls;

And sings a dirge for dying souls.

"Te whit! Te whoo!"

Thomas Vautor (fl. 1616]

THE PEWEE

THE listening Dryads hushed the woods;
The boughs were thick, and thin and few
The golden ribbons fluttering through;

Their sun-embroidered, leafy hoods

The lindens lifted to the blue:

Only a little forest-brook

The farthest hem of silence shook:

When in the hollow shades I heard,

Was it a spirit, or a bird?

Or, strayed from Eden, desolate,

Some Peri calling to her mate,

Whom nevermore her mate would cheer?

"Pe-ri! pe-ri! peer!"

The Pewee

Through rocky clefts the brooklet fell

With plashy pour, that scarce was sound,

But only quiet less profound,

A stillness fresh and audible:

A yellow leaflet to the ground
Whirled noiselessly: with wing of gloss

A hovering sunbeam brushed the moss,
And, wavering brightly over it,
Sat like a butterfly alit:

The owlet in his open door

Stared roundly: while the breezes bore The plaint to far-off places drear,— "Pe-ree! pe-ree! peer!"

To trace it in its green retreat

I sought among the boughs in vain; And followed still the wandering strain, So melancholy and so sweet

The dim-eyed violets yearned with pain. 'Twas now a sorrow in the air,

Some nymph's immortalized despair
Haunting the woods and waterfalls;
And now, at long, sad intervals,
Sitting unseen in dusky shade,

His plaintive pipe some fairy played,

With long-drawn cadence thin and clear,"Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!"

Long-drawn and clear its closes were,—

As if the hand of Music through
The somber robe of Silence drew

A thread of golden gossamer:
So pure a flute the fairy blew.
Like beggared princes of the wood,
In silver rags the birches stood;
The hemlocks, lordly counselors,
Were dumb; the sturdy servitors,
In beechen jackets patched and gray,
Seemed waiting spellbound all the day
That low, entrancing note to hear,-
"Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!"

1511

I quit the search, and sat me down
Beside the brook, irresolute,

And watched a little bird in suit
Of sober olive, soft and brown,

Perched in the maple-branches, mute:
With greenish gold its vest was fringed,
Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged,

With ivory pale its wings were barred,
And its dark eyes were tender-starred.
"Dear bird,” I said, “what is thy name?"
And thrice the mournful answer came,
So faint and far, and yet so near,—
"Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!"

For so I found my forest bird,—
The pewee of the loneliest woods,
Sole singer in these solitudes,
Which never robin's whistle stirred,

Where never bluebird's plume intrudes.
Quick darting through the dewy morn,
The redstart trilled his twittering horn,
And vanished in thick boughs: at even,
Like liquid pearls fresh showered from heaven,
The high notes of the lone wood-thrush
Fall on the forest's holy hush:

But thou all day complainest here,— "Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!"

Hast thou, too, in thy little breast,

Strange longings for a happier lot,-
For love, for life, thou know'st not what,—

A yearning, and a vague unrest,

For something still which thou hast not?-
Thou soul of some benighted child
That perished, crying in the wild!
Or lost, forlorn, and wandering maid,
By love allured, by love betrayed,
Whose spirit with her latest sigh
Arose, a little winged cry,

Above her chill and mossy bier!
"Dear me! dear me! dear!"

Robin's Come!

Ah, no such piercing sorrow mars
The pewee's life of cheerful ease!
He sings, or leaves his song to seize
An insect sporting in the bars

Of mild bright light that gild the trees.
A very poet he! For him

All pleasant places still and dim:

His heart, a spark of heavenly fire,
Burns with undying, sweet desire:
And so he sings; and so his song,

Though heard not by the hurrying throng,
Is solace to the pensive ear:

"Pewee! pewee! peer!"

John Townsend Trowbridge [1827

1513

ROBIN'S COME!

FROM the elm-tree's topmost bough,
Hark! the Robin's early song!
Telling one and all that now

Merry spring-time hastes along;
Welcome tidings dost thou bring,
Little harbinger of spring:

Robin's come!

Of the winter we are weary,
Weary of the frost and snow;
Longing for the sunshine cheery,
And the brooklet's gurgling flow;
Gladly then we hear thee sing
The reveille of spring:

Robin's come!

Ring it out o'er hill and plain,

Through the garden's lonely bowers,

Till the green leaves dance again,

Till the air is sweet with flowers!

Wake the cowslips by the rill,

Wake the yellow daffodil;

Robin's come!