Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Henry BeckHirst290 The Fringilla Melodia
H
Or by the meadow sits, and ceaseless sings
His mellow roundelay in russet pride,
Owning no care between his wings.
His round of life is ever a pleasant one;
For they are merry that may naught but woo
From yellow dawn till set of sun.
The cottage garden, and the orchard green,
When Spring with breezy footstep stirs abroad,
His modest mottled form have seen.
His nest; the lilac by the walk as well,
From whence arise his silver-swelling strains,
That echo loudly down the dell.
Before his door, his children all around,
From twig to twig the simple sparrow flies,
Frightened to hear their laughter’s sound.
Freshening the mould around the garden flowers,
Disturbs him, timid but not yet afraid,
He chirps about him there for hours.
The haunted spot, he seeks some lofty spray,
And there with ruffled throat, delighted, weaves,
Gushing with joy, his lovely lay.
And peer, with curious eyes, where lie the young
And callow brood, and then, with ceaseless hum,
He, shrew-like, scolds with double tongue.
The nestlings hop, or peer between the grass,
While he sits watching on some blossom stalk,
Lest danger might toward them pass.
Pressed closely to the ground, come creeping through
The whitewashed fence, and with a loud alarm
He flies; and they—they swift pursue.
With sober step the yellowing woods and vales,
A mellower song the gentle sparrow sheds
From orchard tree or garden pales.
He seeks, with many a kin, a warmer clime,
And perching there, along some river’s rim,
Fills up with song the solemn time.
Warm with the love of home, impels him where,
In bygone hours, he owned love’s sweet control;
And soon he breathes his native air.
And meadow, orchard, valley, wood, and plain
Ring with his bridal notes, that seem to flout
Dull echo with their silver strain.
Happy, contented, in his humble sphere
He lives, loves, sings, and, when the day is gone,
Slumbers and dreams, devoid of fear.