 | Poems (1806) |  |
197
SONNET V.
[Lorn Birds! whose simple minstrelsy, the last]
Lorn Birds! whose simple minstrelsy, the lastThat nature pouring on the pensive ear,
Bids echo back her vernal music past,
And breathe a requiem o'er the closing year;
Who, while the softest pity loves to steal
From every cadence of your melting strain;
Ah, who suspects such little breasts can feel
Ungentle strife, or work each other pain?
And yet, though seeming harmony of heart
Flow in the sweetness of each charming note;
Oft from the bitter fray ye bleeding part,
Torn the stain'd plume, and pierc'd the vocal throat!
Beneath the fairest aspect of disguise,
Alas, too oft the cruel bosom lies!
P.
| Poems (1806) | |