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 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 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 passage 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; E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. From the Academy, whose belfry crowned The Hill of Science with its vane of brass, Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, And all absorbed in reveries profound Of fair Almira in the upper class, Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, As pure as water, and as good as bread. 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, And to perpetuate his great renown, There was a street named after him in town. |