 | Songs of two centuries |  |
59
TO A DEAD BIRD.
Poor, perished thing,
How helpless, now, thy angel-painted wing;
How tired of death the unaffected grace
That lingers on thy little feathered face!
Could any gem that mortals choose to prize
Assume to match the radiance of thine eyes?
Some man destroyed what ne'er again can be,
In killing thee.
How helpless, now, thy angel-painted wing;
How tired of death the unaffected grace
That lingers on thy little feathered face!
Could any gem that mortals choose to prize
Assume to match the radiance of thine eyes?
Some man destroyed what ne'er again can be,
In killing thee.
Say, silent thing:
Hadst thou the Heaven-invented gift to sing?
Couldst chant a sonnet, undefiled by art,
And thrill and win the chosen of thy heart?
Couldst hush the silent sobbing of the air,
With strains of jewelled laughter, free from care?
One fancies some of God's unsullied glee
Went back with thee.
Hadst thou the Heaven-invented gift to sing?
Couldst chant a sonnet, undefiled by art,
And thrill and win the chosen of thy heart?
Couldst hush the silent sobbing of the air,
With strains of jewelled laughter, free from care?
One fancies some of God's unsullied glee
Went back with thee.
Didst love to fling
Thyself upon the swelling breast of Spring?
Didst joy to thread the airy lanes with ease,
Or find a swaying throne among the trees?
With dainty prow and firmly planted sail,
Couldst ride along the billows of the gale?
Heaven meant the earth and azure safe and free,
For such as thee.
Thyself upon the swelling breast of Spring?
Didst joy to thread the airy lanes with ease,
Or find a swaying throne among the trees?
With dainty prow and firmly planted sail,
Couldst ride along the billows of the gale?
Heaven meant the earth and azure safe and free,
For such as thee.
But, plumaged thing,
If deathly splendor can a comfort bring,
If but thy body, from its sweet control,
May send a message to the restless soul,
Rejoice: it hath a more than royal bed:
Thy mausoleum is my lady's head.
And I can fancy many swains I see,
That envy thee!
If deathly splendor can a comfort bring,
If but thy body, from its sweet control,
May send a message to the restless soul,
Rejoice: it hath a more than royal bed:
Thy mausoleum is my lady's head.
And I can fancy many swains I see,
That envy thee!
| Songs of two centuries | |