Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding coat; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass 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! Nice good wife, that never goes out, Soon as the little ones chip the shell This new life is likely to be Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. PERSEVERANCE. A SWALLOW in the spring Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring Wet earth and straw and leaves. Day after day she toiled With patient art, but ere her work was crowned, Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled, And dashed it to the ground. She found the ruin wrought, But not cast down, forth from the place she flew, And with her mate fresh earth and grasses brought And built her nest anew. But scarcely had she placed The last soft feather on its ample floor, When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste And wrought the ruin o'er. But still her heart she kept, And toiled again, - and last night, hearing calls, I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept Within the earth-made walls. What truth is here, O man! Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn? Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, trust, or plan? Have faith, and struggle on! R. S. S. ANDROS. THE SWALLOW. THE gorse is yellow on the heath, The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding; and beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath of May. THE rain-drops plash, and the dead leaves fall, On spire and cornice and mould; The swallows gather, and twitter and call, "We must follow the summer, come one, come all For the winter is now so cold." Just listen awhile to the wordy war, As to whither the way shall tend, Says one, "I know the skies are fair And myriad insects float in air Where the ruins of Athens stand. "And every year when the brown leaves fall, I build my nest on the corniced wall, Says another, "My cosey home I fit Another says, "I prefer the nave Of a temple of Baalbec; There my little ones lie when the palm-trees wave, And, perching near on the architrave, I fill each open beak." "Ah!" says the last, "I build my nest "In his ample neck is a niche so wide, A thousand swallows their nests can hide, They go, they go, to the river and plain, To ruined city and town, They leave me alone with the cold again, Beside the tomb where my joys are lain, With hope like the swallows flown. GAUTIER (French). A DOUBTING HEART. WHERE are the swallows fled? Frozen and dead Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. O doubting heart! Far over purple seas They wait, in sunny ease, The balmy southern breeze To bring them to their northern homes once more. Why must the flowers die? Prisoned they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. O doubting heart! They only sleep below The soft white ermine snow While winter winds shall blow, To breathe and smile upon you soon again. The sun has hid its rays These many days; Will dreary hours never leave the earth? The stormy clouds on high That soon, for spring is nigh, Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. Fair hope is dead, and light Is quenched in night; What sound can break the silence of despair? O doubting heart! To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe. The fairest fruit her hand hath culled, "T is for her lover all : Thither, - yes! thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain, GIL VICENTE (Portuguese). Translation |