The Home Book of Verse is a Webnovel created by Burton Egbert Stevenson.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
While the far fields with sunlight overflowed Like golden sh.o.r.es of Fairyland are seen; Again, the sunshine on the shadow springs, And fires the thicket where the Blackbird sings.
The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manorhouse, With its peach-covered walls, and rookery loud, The trim, quaint garden alleys, screened with boughs.
The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud, The mossy fountain with its murmurings, Lie in warm sunshine–while the Blackbird sings.
The ring of silver voices, and the sheen Of festal garments–and my Lady streams With her gay court across the garden green; Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love-dreams; And one calls for a little page; he strings Her lute beside her–while the Blackbird sings.
A little while–and lo! the charm is heard, A youth, whose life has been all Summer, steals Forth from the noisy guests around the board, Creeps by her softly; at her footstool kneels; And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things Into her fond ear–while the Blackbird sings.
The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher, And dizzy things of eve begin to float Upon the light; the breeze begins to tire; Half way to sunset with a drowsy note The ancient clock from out the valley swings; The Grandam nods–and still the Blackbird sings.
Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal, Where the great stack is piling in the sun; Through narrow gates o’erladen wagons reel, And barking curs into the tumult run; While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings The merry tempest–and the Blackbird sings.
On the high wold the last look of the sun Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream; The shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fun; The Grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dream; Only a hammer on an anvil rings; The day is dying–still the Blackbird sings.
Now the good Vicar pa.s.ses from his gate Serene, with long white hair; and in his eye Burns the clear spirit that hath conquered Fate, And felt the wings of immortality; His heart is thronged with great imaginings, And tender mercies–while the Blackbird sings.
Down by the brook he bends his steps, and through A lowly wicket; and at last he stands Awful beside the bed of one who grew From boyhood with him–who, with lifted hands And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings, And sweeter music than the Blackbird sings.
Two golden stars, like tokens from the Blest, Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun; His sinking hands seem pointing to the West; He smiles as though he said–“Thy will be done”: His eyes, they see not those illuminings; His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings.
Frederick Tennyson [1807-1898]
THE BLACKBIRD
When smoke stood up from Ludlow And mist blew off from Teme, And blithe afield to ploughing Against the morning beam I strode beside my team,
The blackbird in the coppice Looked out to see me stride, And hearkened as I whistled The trampling team beside, And fluted and replied:
“Lie down, lie down, young yeoman; What use to rise and rise?
Rise man a thousand mornings Yet down at last he lies, And then the man is wise.”
I heard the tune he sang me, And spied his yellow bill; I picked a stone and aimed it And threw it with a will: Then the bird was still.
Then my soul within me Took up the blackbird’s strain, And still beside the horses Along the dewy lane It sang the song again:
“Lie down, lie down, young yeoman; The sun moves always west; The road one treads to labor Will lead one home to rest, And that will be the best.”
Alfred Edward Housman [1859-1936]
THE BLACKBIRD
The nightingale has a lyre of gold; The lark’s is a clarion call, And the blackbird plays but a box-wood flute, But I love him best of all.
For his song is all of the joy of life, And we in the mad, spring weather, We too have listened till he sang Our hearts and lips together.
William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]
THE BLACKBIRD
Ov all the birds upon the wing Between the zunny showers o’ spring,- Vor all the lark, a-swingen high, Mid zing below a cloudless sky, An’ sparrows, cl.u.s.t’ren roun’ the bough, Mid chatter to the men at plough,– The blackbird, whisslen in among The boughs, do zing the gayest zong.
Vor we do hear the blackbird zing His sweetest ditties in the spring, When nippen win’s noo mwore do blow Vrom northern skies, wi’ sleet or snow, But dreve light doust along between The leane-zide hedges, thick an’ green; An’ zoo the blackbird in among The boughs do zing the gayest zong.
‘Tis blithe, wi’ newly-opened eyes, To zee the mornen’s ruddy skies; Or, out a-haulen frith or lops Vrom new-pleshed hedge or new-velled copse, To rest at noon in primrwose beds Below the white-barked woak-trees’ heads; But there’s noo time, the whole day long, Lik’ evenen wi’ the blackbird’s zong.
Vor when my work is all a-done Avore the zetten o’ the zun, Then blushen Jeane do walk along The hedge to meet me in the drong, An’ stay till all is dim an’ dark Bezides the ashen tree’s white bark; An’ all bezides the blackbird’s shrill An’ runnen evenen-whissle’s still.
An’ there in bwoyhood I did rove Wi’ pryen eyes along the drove To vind the nest the blackbird meade O’ gra.s.s-stalks in the high bough’s sheade; Or climb aloft, wi’ clingen knees, Vor crows’ aggs up in swayen trees, While frightened blackbirds down below Did chatter o’ their little foe.
An’ zoo there’s noo pleace lik’ the drong, Where I do hear the blackbird’s zong.
William Barnes [1801-1886]
ROBERT OF LINCOLN
Merrily swinging on brier and weed Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest.
Hear him call in his merry note: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Pa.s.sing at home a patient life, Broods in the gra.s.s while her husband sings: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here.
Chee, chee, chee.
Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note.
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!
Chee, chee, chee.
Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!
There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.
Soon as the little ones chip the sh.e.l.l, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid.