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"If there is one bird we. love above all others, it is the whip poorwill. Even in our boyhood we loved this bird with all our heart; and in these latter days, when we seldom or never hear its voice, our affection seems to be more intense than ever, and for the strange reason that it recalls long-departed joys." Charles Lanman.

WHEN the glory of sunset fades in the skies
As the shadows of evening descend o'er the hill,
And vapors from forest and valley arise,
Then murmur thy notes, O sweet whippoorwill!

I hear in the thicket the rustle of wings,
In the dusk of the foliage discover thy shape,
Scarce seen where the ivy its canopy flings,
Scarce seen where the grape-vines the trellises drape.

All husn'd is the air, for the robin hath peal'd
His last mellow note at the close of the day,
And the meadow-lark's song is silent o'er field,
And silent the blackbird's melodious lay.

As I roam the broad uplands with setter and gun,
Intent on the quail as they spring from the ground,
I note not the shadows at set of the sun
Till the gush of thy minstrelsy warbles around.

When I float in my boat o'er the lakelet serene,
Inteut on the splash of the trout and the bass,
I note not how evening hath darken'd the scene
Till faint thro' the dusk thy symphonies pass.

Sweet, gentle, and low, thy charming refrain
Is heard in all places from prairie to sea,
'Mid the South orange-groves and the pine woods of Maine,
From Gulf of St. Lawrence to far Tennessee.

How dear to the heart thy tender cadence!
When heard in the peach-tree that shadows our door,
When perch'd on the rail or the brown garden fence,
Thy tremulous anthems at intervals pour.

O sweet evening bird, we welcome thy call,
That fills every heart with emotions of joy,
Reminds of our home in hamlet or hall,
Reminds us of childhood and bliss of the boy!

McLellan, Isaac. Poems of the Rod and Gun. New York: Henry Thorpe, 1886.

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