Reuben and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Overhead, in the lattice high,
Our little golden songster hung,
Singing, piping merrily,
With dulcet throat and clipping tongue;
Singing from the peep of morning
To the evening's closing eye;
When the sun in blue was burning,
Or when clouds shut out the sky;
Foul or fair, morn, eve, or noon,
Its little pipe was still in tune.

Its breast was fill'd with fairy shells
That gave sweet echo to its note,
And strings of tiny silver bells
Rang with the pulsings of its throat;
Song all through its restless frame,
Its very limbs were warbling strings;
I well believe that music came
E'en from the tippings of its wings;
Piping early, late and long,
Mad with joy, and drunk with song!
O, welcome to thy little store,
Thy song repays it o'er and o'er.

211

But playful June brought holidays,
And bade our city hearts prepare
To leave a while our beaten ways
For sandy shore and breezy air.
Some busy days the needles flew,
And, though no special heed it drew,
Our warbler up above us there
Was each one's joy—but no one's care.—
The noise of preparation rang
From room to room, from head to head,
Until our little minstrel sang
Almost unheeded, and—unfed;
Singing on with trustful lay,
Piping through the livelong day!

But how it spared its ebbing well,
Or how eked out its lessening meal,
We may but guess, we cannot tell—
We only think, and sadly feel.
It saw the kittens on the floor
Regaled with plenty from our board;
It saw the crumbs swept from our door,
Feeding the sparrows in the yard.
Ah, were those prison wires away,
And were it only free as they!

We know not if its song grew weak
As thirst and hunger gnaw'd apace;
And when to the accustom'd place,
It came its food or drink to seek,

212

We cannot tell if bleak despair
Rose in its breast when none was there!
Or whether, springing to its perch,
It piped again the merry strain,
Alighting to renew its search—
Search and sing again, again:
We cannot tell, our busy brains
Unconsciously drank in its strains;
Nor missed at morning, noon, or night,
The sweet unrecognised delight.

But when our day to leave came round,
“Ah! who will tend the bird?” we said.
“Chirp, chirp! sweet, sweet!—Alas! no sound
Of wing or note! And is it fled?”
We look'd into the cage, and found
Our little minstrel cold and dead!
And scatter'd on its sanded floor
The chaffy remnants of its store.
The last drop in its well was drain'd,
And not a grain of seed remain'd.

We laid it in a little grave,
And wonder'd how so small a thing
Had ever piped the merry stave
That made our hearts and household ring.
Surely it was not this that sung,
But something that has pass'd away—
The life that ran through limb and tongue—
Ay, call it spirit, if we may;

213

Which haply in some other sphere
Repeats the song that charm'd us here.
For life is sacred—great and small,—
And He that notes the sparrow's fall
May keep a higher home for all.