They are nesting in the elbow
Of the scrub-oak's knotty arm,
In the gray mesh of the sage-brush,
In the wheat-fields of the farm;
In the banks along the sea beach,
In the vine above my door.
In the outstretched, clumsy fingers
Of the mottled sycamore.
While the church-bell rings its discourse
They are sitting on the spires;
Song and anthem, psalm and carol
Quaver as from mystic lyres.
Everywhere they flirt and flutter.
Mate and nest in shrub and tree.
Charmed, I wander yon and hither,
While their beauties ravish me,
Till my musings sing like thrushes,
And my heart is like a nest,
Softly lined with tender fancies
Plucked from Nature's mother-breast.
Elizabeth Grinnell.
[SINGERS AND THEIR SONGS]
And hark! The nightingale begins its song,—
"Most musical, most melancholy bird."
A melancholy bird? Oh, idle thought.
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
.... 'Tis the merry nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast, thick warble his delicious notes.
Coleridge.
Some barbarous peoples possess a rude taste for the beautiful plumage of birds, decorating their bodies in feathers of softest and brightest tints. But we have record of few, if any, savage tribes the world over which delight in bird melody. True, the savage may seek his food by sound, or even song, but to feast the ear on music for music's sake—ah, this is reserved for culture.