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146
THE BIRD-COMFORTER.
Though from his sealèd lips, alas, no word,On this side Heaven, will ever soothe her ear,
There lives an echo of his accents dear,
Mixed with the music of a warbling bird;
Which not in vain from day to day had heard,
In happy vernal hours, his whistle clear,
But caught the cadence, and repeats it here,
In notes by which a widowed heart is stirred.
Close to the window, in his favourite beech,
It sits and sings to her, at morn and eve,
And seems, for vanished tones of human speech,
Some wingèd angel's cheering strains to weave,
Chanting of bowery rest beyond the reach
Of earth's sharp thorns which mortal bosoms grieve.
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