The Poems of Henry Van Dyke | Page 5

darker patches at his throat.

And yet of all the well-dressed throng
Not one can sing so brave a
song.
It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing, to
hear
His "Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."

A lofty place he does not love,
But sits by choice, and well at ease,

In hedges, and in little trees
That stretch their slender arms above

The meadow-brook; and there he sings
Till all the field with pleasure
rings;
And so he tells in every ear,
That lowly homes to heaven are
near
In "Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."
I like the tune, I like the words;
They seem so true, so free from art,

So friendly, and so full of heart,
That if but one of all the birds

Could be my comrade everywhere,
My little brother of the air,
I'd
choose the song-sparrow, my dear,
Because he'd bless me, every year,

With "Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."
1895.
THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT
When May bedecks the naked trees
With tassels and embroideries,

And many blue-eyed violets beam
Along the edges of the stream,
I
hear a voice that seems to say,
Now near at hand, now far away,

"Witchery--witchery--witchery."
An incantation so serene,
So innocent, befits the scene:
There's
magic in that small bird's note--
See, there he flits--the Yellow-throat;

A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,
A spark of light that shines
and sings
"Witchery--witchery--witchery."
You prophet with a pleasant name,
If out of Mary-land you came,

You know the way that thither goes
Where Mary's lovely garden
grows:
Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,
And try to call her down this
way,
"Witchery--witchery--witchery!"
Tell her to leave her cockle-shells,
And all her little silver bells

That blossom into melody,
And all her maids less fair than she.

She
does not need these pretty things,
For everywhere she comes, she
brings
"Witchery--witchery--witchery!"

The woods are greening overhead,
And flowers adorn each mossy
bed;
The waters babble as they run--
One thing is lacking, only one:

If Mary were but here to-day,
I would believe your charming lay,

"Witchery--witchery--witchery!"
Along the shady road I look--
Who's coming now across the brook?

A woodland maid, all robed in white--
The leaves dance round her
with delight,
The stream laughs out beneath her feet--
Sing, merry
bird, the charm's complete,
"Witchery--witchery--witchery!"
1895.
A NOVEMBER DAISY
Afterthought of summer's bloom!
Late arrival at the feast,
Coming
when the songs have ceased
And the merry guests departed,

Leaving but an empty room,
Silence, solitude, and gloom,--
Are
you lonely, heavy-hearted;
You, the last of all your kind,
Nodding
in the autumn-wind;
Now that all your friends are flown,
Blooming
late and all alone?
Nay, I wrong you, little flower,
Reading mournful mood of mine
In
your looks, that give no sign
Of a spirit dark and cheerless!
You
possess the heavenly power
That rejoices in the hour.
Glad,
contented, free, and fearless,
Lift a sunny face to heaven
When a
sunny day is given!
Make a summer of your own,
Blooming late
and all alone!
Once the daisies gold and white
Sea-like through the meadow rolled:

Once my heart could hardly hold
All its pleasures. I remember,

In the flood of youth's delight
Separate joys were lost to sight.
That
was summer! Now November

Sets the perfect flower apart;
Gives
each blossom of the heart
Meaning, beauty, grace unknown,--

Blooming late and all alone.

November, 1899.
THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE
What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, And all the
little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in light, 'Tis then a merry wind
awakes, and runs from tree to tree, And borrows words from all the
birds to sound the reveille.
This is the carol the Robin throws
Over the edge of the valley;

Listen how boldly it flows,
Sally on sally:
_Tirra-lirra,
Early morn,
New born!
Day is near,
Clear, clear.
Down the river
All a-quiver,
Fish are breaking;
Time for waking,
Tup, tup, tup!