The Stork

Many birds there are; their manifold admirersCan't agree together—Some preferred for fascinating song, and othersFor resplendent feather.

I will choose a bird that has no voice for music,Wears no garment bright;Simple like myself, and clothed in simple vestments,Only black and white.

Yes! of all the birds the stork is my beloved,He, the son of home;From his mother-country, from his favourite flat-land,Seldom will he roam.

He and I are trained in sympathy together;Oft he hovered nigh,When I was a child, and crying in my cradle,Heard my childish cry.

And with him I passed the early years of childhood,Smilingly they fled;Well do I remember when my young companionsHome the oxen led!

Recollection sweet of those dear days departed,Faithful memory brings,When I saw the storklets on the chimneys, fanningTheir unfeathered wings.

Many thoughts disturbed me, many wayward fanciesFlitted strangely by;Why did heaven to man, with all his upward longings,Give no wings to fly?

Why were mortal footsteps to earth's limits bounded?To heaven upward never;But these earthly limits cannot hold my spirit,Soaring upwards ever.

Yes! I must soar heavenward, passionately longingFor the sunny land;O'er earth's highest heights, on which the golden temples,Midst the sunbeams stand.

But the sun goes down, I see the evening shadowBring the veil of night;Saddened with the thought—how frail, how transitoryAll that lives in light.

Then I long for autumn, like a tender mother,Bringing baskets piledWith the sweetest fruits, to pour into the apronOf her smiling child.

Fruits for me it brings not—autumn after autumnRipens nought for me;Leaves me lost and lonely, and my stork hath sped himO'er the distant sea.

Many grieved hearts saw I when the storks departedOn their exile-flight;'Twas like youth's sad passing, and I followed grievingTill my wearied sight

Lost their trace; I sorrowing sought, upon the housetops,Their abandoned nest,Scattered—mournful augury of the mournful future—For my thoughts opprest.

And when winter's hand shall fling the snowy mantleO'er the face of earth—Whitening the green meadows, veiling flowers and forestsFor another birth,

I will clothe my soul in purity's own garment,Waiting thy return;Homebound stork! I'll scour the fields, the plains to meet thee,Leaping beck and bourne.

From the sparks the flame ascends, and so the infantGrows up to the child,While the heather burns beneath, my good steed bears meOver the waste wild.

Loosen then the bridle, press the spur,—on! onward!Leaving all behind;Even the rushing wind tries vainly to o'ertake me,Fleeter than the wind.

O I love that wild, for there I live in freedom,As no otherwhere;There my eyes embrace a limitless horizon—Not imprisoned there.

No dark mountains bound creation's grand arena;Dancing o'er the plainsThere no streams run down, whose ringing might remind meOf the tyrant's chains.

Beautiful the Puszta, with her fascinationsManifest—concealed—Like a modest maiden, rich in charms unnumbered,Yet so sweetly veiled.

But that veil is lifted for the dear, the loved one,By her graceful hands;And in all the glory of her bright-eyed beautyThere the charmer stands.

Beautiful the Puszta! on my neighing courserHow I sweep the heath,Where no track of gold attracts the thirsty worldling;But a calm like death

To much musing calls me, bids me hear the voicesBreaking from the breeze;And mine own dear stork, above the lake rejoicing,My blest vision sees.

Welcome, dear companion! we'll explore togetherWastes, and heaths, and hedges;I will watch the winds that play upon the waters,—Thou amidst the sedges.

So it was of old—I loved thee in my childhood!Why—I scarcely knew;For thou hast no song, and wear'st no gaudy plumage,Yet my love was true.

And I love thee still, when thought and time find reasonFor the love; it seemsLike a ray of truth, which midst the dark oblivionOf past memories beams.

Thou wilt not forget the time of thy returning—Hither wilt thou wend;And when autumn comes, I'll bless thee at departing,As my oldest friend.