And he did ever treat thee mild, And would na' wrang, For you his weary hours beguil'd, Wi' thy sweet sang. But man's mare merciless than he, His heart is made of cruelty ; Which he maun shaw, By giving death, poor bird, to thee; Mang the cald snaw. But oh! at ance he did na kill, And draps so sma Which from thy body doth distill, And stain the snaw. Where's now thy comfort to be found? Poor birdie, grievous is the wound; Thou canst na search for berries round, But thou dost lie, Cald, poor, and hungry on the ground, I saw him writh'd by pains keen dart, For his poor soul would na my art, Knd so, when misery's storm doth lour, And Hope away, Fa's, like the wan scythe smitten flower, But he, who hears the good man's prayer, For thou wert aye beneath his care AH! why, unfeeling Winter, why Still flags thy torpid wing? Fly, melancholy Season, fly And yield the year to Spring. Spring, the young cherubim of love, Flits o'er the scene, like Noah's dove, When on the mountain's azure peak, Cold blows the wind,-and dark and bleak, Around her rolls the storm. If to the valley she repair, For shelter and defence, Thy wrath pursues the mourner there, She seeks the brook-the faithless brook, She woos her embryo-flowers, in vain," In vain she bids the trees expand Her favourite birds, in feeble notes, And strain their little stammering throats, Ah! why, usurping Winter, why Still flags thy frozen wing? Fly, unrelenting tyrant, fly And yield the year to Spring ! TO A BUTTERFLY IN A WINDOW. BY CHARLOTTE SMITH. ESCAPED thy place of wintry rest, And in the brightest colours drest, Thy new-born wings prepar'd for flight, Ah! do not, butterfly, in vain Thus flutter on the crystal pane, But go! and soar to life and light. High in the buoyant summer gale, In woodlands wild, or garden bowers. Beneath some leaf of ample shade And fold thy painted wings and die. Soon fleets thy transient life away; Yet, short as is thy vital day, Like flowers that form thy fragrant food, Thou, poor ephemeron, shalt have filled, The little space thy Maker willed, I And all thou knowest of life be good. TO A REDBREAST, THAT FLEW IN AT MY WINDOW. By James Grahame. FROM Snowy plains, and icy sprays, |