THAT FLEW IN AT MY WINDOW.
FROM Snowy plains, and icy sprays,
From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast:-
How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting.
Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
No! freely flutter round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.
That note, that summer note, I know;
It wakes, at once, and soothes my woe,—
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see,-ah, still prolong the dream!
Still, with thy song, those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my view.
No more now, at my lonely meal,
While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
For soon, devoid of all distrust,
Thou'lt, nibbling, share my humble crust;
Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice;
And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,
Be't work of poet or of sage,
Safe thou shalt hop across the page;
Unchecked, shalt flit o'er VIRGIL's groves,
Or flutter 'mid TIBULLUS' loves.
Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Thou❜lt dwell with me till winter's past;
And when the primrose tells 'tis spring,
And when the thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.
ON A BLACKBIRD, KILLED BY A HAWK.
WINTER was o'er, and spring-flowers decked the glade; The Blackbird's note among the wild woods rung: Ah, short-lived note! the songster now is laid Beneath the bush, on which so sweet he sung.
Thy jetty plumes, by ruthless falcon rent,
Are now all soiled among the mouldering clay; A primrosed turf is all thy monument,
And, for thy dirge, the Redbreast lends his lay.
YON motley, sable-suited throng, that wait
Around the poor man's door, announce a tale
Of woe; the husband, parent, is no more.
Contending with disease, he laboured long,
By penury compelled; yielding at last,
He laid him down to die; but, lingering on
From day to day, he, from his sickbed, saw,
Heart-broken quite, his childrens' looks of want
Veiled in a clouded smile; alas! he heard
The elder, lispingly, attempt to still
The younger's plaint,-languid he raised his head,
And thought he yet could toil, but sunk
Into the arms of death, the poor man's friend.
The coffin is borne out; the humble pomp
Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand
(Poor helpless child!) just reaches to the pall.
And now they pass into the field of
graves,
And now around the narrow house they stand,
And view the plain black board sink from the sight.
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds,
As falls each spadeful of the bone-mixed mould.
The turf is spread; uncovered is each head,—
A last farewell: all turn their several ways.
Woes me! those tear-dimmed eyes, that sobbing
breast!
Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand
That wont to lead thee home: no more that hand
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gently stroke
Thy sun-bleached head, and downy cheek.
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone,
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze
Of woe profound. Haste to the widowed arms;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief.
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