The Poetry Corner

Our Native Birds

By Nathan Haskell Dole

Alone I sit at eventide; The twilight glory pales, And o'er the meadows far and wide I hear the bobolinks - (We have no nightingales!) Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, And from the old manse on the lea Flies slow the cawing crow - (In England 'twere a rook!) The last faint golden beams of day Still glow on cottage panes, And on their lingering homeward way Walk weary laboring men - (Alas! we have no swains!) From farmyards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells, And songs of merry brown milkmaids Sweeter than catbird's strains - (I should say Philomel's!) I could sit here till morning came, All through the night hours dark, Until I saw the sun's bright flame And heard the oriole - (Alas! we have no lark!) We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, No swains, no nightingales, No singing milkmaids (save in books) The poet does his best: - It is the rhyme that fails. Nathan Haskell Dole.