 | The Outcast, and other poems |  |
146
TO A MOTHER,
ON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD.
Beneath my window grew a tree,
And on that tree a bird was bred—
'Twas dear, that little bird to me,
As dew on thirsting roses shed.
And on that tree a bird was bred—
'Twas dear, that little bird to me,
As dew on thirsting roses shed.
Its carol came at misty morn,
Mingling with all my dreams of love—
And from its lowly perch of thorn,
It bore my winged thoughts above.
Mingling with all my dreams of love—
And from its lowly perch of thorn,
It bore my winged thoughts above.
And oh, I never dreamed to part
With one so fair, to me so dear—
But fondly deemed 'twould stay, my heart
With songs of love and peace to cheer.
With one so fair, to me so dear—
But fondly deemed 'twould stay, my heart
With songs of love and peace to cheer.
But winter came, and in the morn,
That gentle bird had flown away—
No music echoed from the thorn,
No foot was clinging to the spray!
That gentle bird had flown away—
No music echoed from the thorn,
No foot was clinging to the spray!
147
'Twas gone, and its sweet silver chime,
To other lands away was borne;
And happy in its genial clime,
I would not, though my heart be torn—
To other lands away was borne;
And happy in its genial clime,
I would not, though my heart be torn—
I would not wish that bird to stay,
In this cold land of storm and sleet—
Yet oft I deem some summer day,
My little bird once more to meet!
In this cold land of storm and sleet—
Yet oft I deem some summer day,
My little bird once more to meet!
| The Outcast, and other poems | |