The Swallows. From Jean Pierre Claris Florian

I love to see the swallows come
    At my window twittering,
Bringing from their southern home
    News of the approaching spring.
'Last year's nest,' they softly say,
    'Last year's love again shall see;
Only faithful lovers may
    Tell you of the coming glee.'

When the first fell touch of frost
    Strips the wood of faded leaves,
Calling all their winged host,
    The swallows meet above the eaves
'Come away, away,' they cry,
    'Winter's snow is hastening;
True hearts winter comes not nigh,
    They are ever in the spring.'

If by some unhappy fate,
    Victim of a cruel mind,
One is parted from her mate
    And within a cage confined,
Swiftly will the swallow die,
    Pining for her lover's bower,
And her lover watching nigh
    Dies beside her in an hour.

Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray was a Scottish poet known for his lyrical and expressive poetry. Born on December 26, 1863, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, he moved to Scotland at a young age. Despite a short life, ending on April 15, 1894, Murray left a significant mark with his works, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry is characterized by its elegance and depth of feeling. Murray's influence remained through posthumous publications and collections of his poetry.

Robert Fuller Murray

Cairnsmill Den--Tune: 'A Roving'

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Presentiment

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Lost At Sea

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Summer Morning

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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Spring.

The sides of the hill were brown, but violet buds had started
In gray and hidden nooks o'erhung by feathery ferns and heather,
And a bird in an April morn was never lighter-hearted
Than the pilot swallow we saw convoying sunny weather,
And sunshine golden, and gay-voiced singing-birds into the land;
And this was the song - the clear, shrill song of the swallow,
That it carolled back to the southern sun, and his brown winged band,
Clear it arose, "Oh, follow me - come and follow - and follow."

A tender story was in his eyes, he wished to tell me I knew,
As he stood in the happy morn by my side at the garden-gate;
But I fancy the tall rose branches that bent and touched his brow,
Were whispering to him, "Wait, impatient heart, oh, wait,
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Autumn Song Of The Swallow.

The sky is dark and the air is full of snow,
I go to a warmer clime afar and away;
Though my heart is so tired I do not care for it now,
But here in my empty nest I cannot stay;
    Thus cried the swallow,
I go from the falling snow, oh, follow me - oh, follow.

One night my mate came home with a broken wing,
So he died; and my brood went long ago;
And I am alone, and I have no heart to sing,
With no one to hear my song, and I must go;
    Thus cried the swallow,
Away from dust and decay, oh, follow me - oh, follow.

But I think I will never find so warm and safe a nest,
As my home, in the pleasant days gone by, gone by,
I think I shall never fold my wings in such happy rest,
Never again - oh, never again till I die;
    Thus cried the swallow,
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The Swallow

Pretty swallow, once again
Come and pass me in the rain.
Pretty swallow, why so shy?
Pass again my window by.

The horsepond where he dips his wings,
The wet day prints it full of rings.
The raindrops on his [        ] track
Lodge like pearls upon his back.

Then again he dips his wing
In the wrinkles of the spring,
Then oer the rushes flies again,
And pearls roll off his back like rain.

Pretty little swallow, fly
Village doors and windows by,
Whisking oer the garden pales
Where the blackbird finds the snails;

Whewing by the ladslove tree
For something only seen by thee;
Pearls that on the red rose hing
Fall off shaken by thy wing.

On that low thatched cottage stop,
In the sooty chimney pop,
Where thy w...

John Clare

The Swallows.

I asked the first stray swallow of the spring,
"Where hast thou been through all the winter drear?
Beneath what distant skies did'st fold thy wing,
    Since thou wast with us here,
When Autumn's withered leaves foretold the passing year?"

And it replied, "Whither has Fancy led
The plumy thoughts that circle through thy brain?
Like birds about some mountain's lofty head,
    Singing a sweet refrain:
There, without bound, I've been, and must return again."

Charles Sangster

To The Reverend Mr. Newton. An Invitation Into The Country.

The swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early Spring.


The keenest frost that binds the stream,
The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor feard by them,
Secure of their repose.


But man, all feeling and awake,
The gloomy scene surveys;
With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.


Old Winter, halting oer the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn;
But lovely Spring peeps oer his head,
And whispers your return.


Then April, with her sister May,
Shall chase him from the bowers,
And weave fresh garlands every day,
To crown the smiling hours.


And if a tear that speaks regret
Of happier times, appe...

William Cowper

The Belated Swallow

And the birds of the air have nests.

Belated swallow, whither flying?
The day is dead, the light is dying,
The night draws near:
Where is thy nest, slow put together,
Soft-lined with moss and downy feather,
For shelter-place in stress of weather
And darkness drear?

Past, past, above the lighted city,
Unknowing of my wondering pity,
Seaward she flies.
Alas, poor bird! what rude awaking
Has driven thee forth, when storms are breaking,
And frightened gulls the waves forsaking
With warning cries?

Alas, my soul! while leaves are greenest
Thy heedless head thou fondly screenest
Beneath thy wing.
How bravely thou thy plumage wearest,
How lightly thou lifes burthen bearest,
How happily thy home preparest,
In careles...

Mary Hannay Foott