Latham admits that the notes of the Cardinal “are almost equal to those of the Nightingale,” the sweetest of the feathered minstrels of Europe. But, says Nuttall, “the style of their performance is wholly different. The bold martial strains of the Red Bird, though relieved by tender and exquisite touches, possess not the enchanting pathos, the elevated and varied expression of the far-famed Philomel, nor yet those contrasted tones, which, in the solemn stillness of the growing night, fall at times into a soothing whisper, or slowly rise and quicken into a loud and cheering warble.”
The Cardinal Bird measures eight inches in length, and eleven from the tip of one wing to that of the other. The whole upper parts are of a dull dusky-red, except the sides of the neck, head and lower parts, which are of a clear vermilion. The chin, front and lores black. The head is ornamented with a high pointed crest. The bill is coral red, and the legs and feet are pale ash color. The female is somewhat less than the male, and a little different in color. Both sexes are noted for affection to their young, and to each other; but so jealous are the males that they have often been known to destroy those of their own sex.
A world’s sweet enchantress, unbounded in fame, O how shall I sing of so peerless a name— Thy tones, from the wilds of a picturesque land, The billows of ocean have borne to our strand; Though I ne’er have beheld thee, yet bound in thy spell, My bosom thine echoes still onward would swell— Would enshrine in my song the sweet soul of thy strains, Till fresh incense should rise from our mountains and plains. Though long on the altar thou’st kindled the fire, Oh how shall it burn on the strings of the lyre! ’Tis the music of Nature sublimed in thy lays Which has won thee thy guerdon of lore and of praise; ’Tis hence that the depths of the spirit it thrills, That responses start forth from mountains and hills, That no barriers the flight of thine echoes can bind, Which are borne o’er the earth on the wings of the wind.
There is glowing within us, all restless, a lyre, Which would swell like an angel’s its anthems of fire, But the shroud of mortality fetters its strings— Yet thou while on earth hast unfolded thy wings, Canst dwell with the fairies in chalice of flowers, And glide with the wood nymphs in deep sylvan bowers; Canst float with the moonbeams in dew-silvered trees, And rise on the wings of the morn’s fragrant breeze, While sunbeams are waking the rapturous lays Of dew-drops and birds, and yet all ’neath their blaze; Canst hover o’er ocean when storm it enthrones, And bear from the foam-crested surges their tones; When dark are the skies and the thunder-clouds lower, With the eagle’s bold flight to the mountain’s crest soar; The streams of the forest to their fountains canst wind, And caverns resounding in solitude find; Enshrined in thy spirit their voices canst keep, Sublimed by thine alchemy subtile and deep, At thy will from thy spirit their harmonies sweep, And I ween thou hast soared to the portals of Heaven, Or some angel a tone to thy praises has given.