 | Poems |  |
127
EPITAPH
ON A BLACKBIRD, KILLED BY A HAWK.
Winter was o'er, and spring-flowers decked the glade;
The Blackbird's note among the wild woods rung:
Ah, short-lived note! the songster now is laid
Beneath the bush, on which so sweet he sung.
The Blackbird's note among the wild woods rung:
Ah, short-lived note! the songster now is laid
Beneath the bush, on which so sweet he sung.
Thy jetty plumes, by ruthless falcon rent,
Are now all soiled among the mouldering clay;
A primrosed turf is all thy monument,
And, for thy dirge, the Redbreast lends his lay.
Are now all soiled among the mouldering clay;
A primrosed turf is all thy monument,
And, for thy dirge, the Redbreast lends his lay.
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