That Christ was crowned in cruel scorn; Sweet Robin, would that I might be Bishop Doane CCXXIII THE SEA-BIRD EA-BIRD! haunter of the wave, Half engulfed where yawns the cave In its shriek thou dost rejoice; Bird of nervous wingèd flight, When will thy wild course be done? Is the purple sea-weed rarer Seek but these, and thou shalt meet Birds not born with storm to cope, Hermits of retirement sweet. Where no winds too rudely swell, Of the fragrant flow'ret tell, Hidden in the tender grass. There the mock-bird sings of love; There the robin builds his nest ; There the gentle-hearted dove, Brooding, takes her blissful rest. Sea-bird, stay thy rapid flight: Gone! where dark waves foam and dash, Like a lone star on the night Far I see his white wing flash. He obeyeth God's behest, Tempests some are born to breast,— If I struggle with the storm Cheerful the allotment given, And, rising o'er the ruffled tide, Escape, at last, like thee, to heaven! CCXXIV THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL From the German N the cross the dying Saviour Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling And by all the world forsaken, At the ruthless nail of iron A little bird is striving there. Stained with blood and never tiring, And the Saviour speaks in mildness : Bear, as token of this moment, And that bird is called the crossbill; In the groves of pine it singeth H. W. Longfellow CCXXV MY DOVES Y little doves have left a nest M Upon an Indian tree, Whose leaves fantastic take their rest The tropic flowers looked up to it, And glittering eyes that showed their right And God them taught at every close Of water far, and wind My little doves were borne away And tempest-clouded airs. And now within the city prison, In mist and chillness pent, |