Classic Poem

(Hirundo urbica.)

Spare these little children of the happy air,
The blue-wing'd, sharp-beak'd, harmless swallows spare!
When the pink petals of the peach unfold,
When the shy violets blossom in the mould,
When buttercups display their urns of gold,
And birds enchant the air with songs of spring,
And vines in woods their verdant garlands fling, —
Then hearts and homes are throbbing with delight
As the spring swallows gather in their flight,
Rehearsing their sweet carols as they fly;
Now sweeping low, anon careering high,
Swift as a pointed arrow from the bow,
At every rosy dawn, at sunset's glow.
Around the old barn gables, moss'd and gray,
They circle swift in wild, ecstatic play;
The insect pests that hover in the breeze,
Whose larvae taint the grain, the budding trees,
These nimble guardians of the air assail,
And save the ripening harvests of the vale.
Where sweeps th' unruffled lake its sheet of blue,
The restless swallows their forays pursue,
They skim its azure plain, they skirt the pool,
They dip the wing, the beak in eddies cool;
Nor leave the keen pursuit of insect prey
Till fades the glimmering twilight of the day.
And where the river-borders, slant and steep,
O'erhang the currents flowing dim and deep,
The blithe bank-swallows build their airy home,
The crumbling sands their storehouse and their dome.
And here in myriads from each hermit cave
They dart forth into space, they skim the wave.
But when the autumn glory of the woods
Fades in its pomp thro' all the solitudes,
Then like a whirling cloud they take their flight
For brighter climes, and vanish from the sight.
Ah, pity 'tis these plenteous wing'd guests,
That please our hearts and rid life of its pests,
That charm the blithesome air with chirpings sweet,
And fill with merry sound each calm retreat,
Should die that Youth should win another grace
To nod above the witchery of her face!
Ah! she forgets that to enhance her bloom,
A sweet bird dies to yield its purple plume.