Letter XVI. On Hearing The Cuckoo At Midnight, May 1St. 1822. (The Bird And Insects' Post-Office.)

(CHARLES BLOOMFIELD.)


    'Twas the blush of the spring, vegetation was young,
    And the birds with a maddening ecstasy sung
    To welcome a season so lovely and gay -
    But a scene the most sweet was the close of May-day.
    For the air was serene, and the moon was out bright,
    And Philomel boldly exerted her might
    In her swellings and trillings, to rival the sound
    Of the distant defiance of nightingales round.
    While the cuckoo as proudly was heard to prolong,
    Though daylight was over, her own mellow song,
    And appeared to exult; and at intervals, too,
    The owl in the distance joined in with "Too-whoo!"
    Unceasing, unwearied, each, proud of his power,
    Continued the contest from hour to hour;
    The nightingale vaunting - the owl in reply -
    With the cuckoo's response - till the moon from the sky
    Was hastening down to the west, and the dawn
    Was spreading the east; and the owl in the morn
    Sat silently winking his eyes at the sight;
    And the nightingale also had bidden "good-night."
    The cuckoo, left solus, continued with glee,
    His notes of defeat from his favourite tree;
    At length he departed; but still as he flew,
    Was heard his last notes of defiance, "Cuckoo!"

Robert Bloomfield

Robert Bloomfield was an English poet noted for his rural and pastoral themes. Born on December 3, 1766, in Essex, he worked initially as a shoemaker before his verse brought him to public attention. His most famous work, "The Farmer's Boy," published in 1800, depicts the countryside and agricultural life with great sensitivity. Bloomfield faced financial difficulties despite his success and died on August 19, 1823. His works are considered significant contributions to English pastoral poetry.

Robert Bloomfield

Letter XII. From The Pigeon To The Partridge. (The Bird And Insects' Post-Office.)

Robert Bloomfield, Simple Poetry

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Robert Bloomfield, Simple Poetry

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Robert Bloomfield, Simple Poetry

English

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O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
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Even yet thou art to me
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Ode III; To The Cuckow

O rustic herald of the spring,
At length in yonder woody vale
Fast by the brook i hear thee sing;
And, studious of thy homely tale,
Amid the vespers of the grove,
Amid the chanting choir of love,
Thy sage responses hail.
The time has been when i have frown'd
To hear thy voice the woods invade;
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Thus, thought i, thus the sons of care
Some constant youth or generous fair
With dull advice upbraid.

I said, "While Philomela's song"
"Proclaims the passion of the grove",
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When The Cuckoo Sings

In summer, when the Cuckoo sings,
And clouds like greater moons can shine;
When every leafy tree doth hold
A loving heart that beats with mine:
Now, when the Brook has cresses green,
As well as stones, to check his pace;
And, if the Owl appears, he's forced
By small birds to some hiding-place:
Then, like red Robin in the spring,
I shun those haunts where men are found;
My house holds little joy until
Leaves fall and birds can make no sound;
Let none invade that wilderness
Into whose dark green depths I go,
Save some fine lady, all in white,
Comes like a pillar of pure snow.

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Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXCV. Natural History.

    The cuckoo's a fine bird,
        He sings as he flies;
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        He tells us no lies.

    He sucks little birds' eggs,
        To make his voice clear;
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Letter IV. From A Young Nightingale To A Wren. (The Bird And Insects' Post-Office.)

Dated "Home Wood."

NEIGHBOUR,

When we last met you seemed very lively and agreeable, but you asked an abundance of questions, and particularly wanted to know whether we nightingales really do, as is said of us, cross the great water every year, and return in the spring to sing in your English groves. Now, as I am but young, I must be modest, and not prate about what I cannot as yet understand. I must say, nevertheless, that I never heard my parents talk of any particular long journey which they had performed to reach this country, or that they should return, and take me and the rest of the family with them, at this particular time or season. I know this, that I never saw my parents fly further at one flight than from one side of a field to another or from one grove to the next. Who are they who call us "birds of pass...

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Cuckoo Song

Tell it to the locked-up trees,
Cuckoo, bring your song here!
Warrant, Act and Summons, please,
For Spring to pass along here!
Tell old Winter, if he doubt,
Tell him squat and square, a!
Old Woman!
Old Woman!
Old Woman's let the Cuckoo out
At Heffle Cuckoo Fair, a!

March has searched and April tried,
'Tisn't long to May now.
Not so far to Whitsuntide
And Cuckoo's come to stay now!
Hear the valiant fellow shout
Down the orchard bare, a!
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Old Woman!
Old Woman's let the Cuckoo out
At Heffle Cuckoo Fair, a!

When your heart is young and gay
And the season rules it,
Work your works and play your play
'Fore the Autumn cools it!
Kiss you turn and turn-about,
But, my lad, beware, a!
Old Woman!

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