The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face And through the open window, loud and clear, "I am an Angel, and thou art the King!" With ermine mantle and with cloth of gold; THE POET'S TALE. THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. IT was the season, when through all the land Whom Saxon Cadmon 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 Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: "Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!” Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, The village with the cheers of all their fleet; Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words To swift destruction the whole race of birds. And a town meeting was convened straightway The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds; Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. Then from his house, a temple painted white, With fluted columns, and a roof of red, The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight! Slowly descending, with majestic tread, Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, Down the long street he walked, as one who said, "A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society!" The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, The instinct of whose nature was to kill: The wrath of God he preached from year to year, And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will; His favorite pastime was to slay the deer In Summer on some Adirondac hill; E'en now, From the Academy, whose belfry crowned The hill of Science with its vane of brass, And next the Deacon issued from his door, In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow; A suit of sable bombazine he wore; His form was ponderous, and his step was slow; There never was so wise a man before; He seemed the incarnate "Well, I told you so!" And to perpetuate his great renown These came together in the new town-hall, His air impressive and his reasoning sound; Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. When they had ended, from his place apart, Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng; 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 street-musicians of the heavenly city, "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; "You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain Scratched up at random by industrious feet, Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet "Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies. Alone are the interpreters of thought? Whose household words are songs in many keys, Whose habitations in the tree-tops even Are half-way houses on the road to heaven! "Think, every morning when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew Their old, melodious madrigals of love! |