University of Virginia Library


18

ODE TO THE CROW.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Say, weary Bird, whose level flight,
Thus at the dusky hour of night
Tends thro' the midway air,
Why yet beyond the verge of day
Is lengthen'd out thy dark delay,
Adding another to the hours of Care?
The wren within her mossy nest
Has hush'd her little brood to rest:
The wood-wild pigeon, rock'd on high,
Has coo'd his last soft note of love;
And fondly nestles by his dove,
To guard their downy young from an inclement sky.
Each twittering bill and busy wing,
That flits thro' morning's humid spring,
Is still;—list'ning perhaps so late
To Philomel's enchanting lay,
Who now, asham'd to sing by day,
Trills the sweet sorrows of her fate.
Haste, Bird, and nurse thy callow brood,
They call on heav'n and thee for food,
Bleak—on some cliff's neglected tree;
Haste, weary bird, thy lagging flight—
It is the chilling hour of night;
Fit hour of rest for Thee!