The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Tis many a long year now, Birdie!
Ay, sure—some seven years good,
Since I rhymed to you one day,
On a certain morn of May,
In an idle, sing-song mood.

I remember it all as well, Birdie,
The hour, and the place, and the mood,
As if time, since slipt away,
Were little more than a day,
And yet is it seven years good!

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A great sum of life struck off, Birdie!
And I feel it has told with me:
But you're looking as young and bright
As you did in that May morn's light,
And you're singing more merrily.

For then you were moping and mute, Birdie,
Though I begged, and you seemed to hear me,
That you'd tune up that little throat,
But you never vouchsafed a note,
Not a single note to cheer me.

And your silence seemed very unkind;
For in sooth, as I well remember,
Though Earth wore her best array
That beautiful month of May,
My heart was as sad as December.

For then first I felt myself lonely,
Quite, quite left alone upon earth;
Hid for ever the last loving face,
And even the old dog's place
Forsaken beside the hearth.

And I, though a sickly creature,
Might still live lingering on,
Like a trampled passion-flower,
Torn down from its bonny bower,
When all I had clung to was gone.

I sat at my pleasant window,
Where the myrtle and rose peeped in,
And without such a smile serene
Pervaded the quiet scene,
That sorrow seemed almost a sin,

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And I tried to rejoice with Nature,
For my heart was not sullen, though sad;
But the cloud of my spirit lay
On all beautiful things that day,
And I could not—I could not be glad.

So I bent again to the task
That had dropt unperceived on my knee,
And my needle began to ply,
Busily, busily,
As fast as fast could be.

Stitch after stitch I set,
Mechanically true;
But the seeming gaze intent,
On that dull labour bent,
Had little with thought to do.

And soon from the careless finger
A crimson drop was drawn;
And next, from a source less near,
Another, as crystal clear,
Dropt on the snowy lawn.

And my sight grew dim, and again
My hands fell listlessly,
And the sound of my very breath,
In that stillness as deep as death,
Was a distress to me.

“Oh! for a sound of life
From a single living thing,”
I passionately cried—
And thou wert by my side,
Birdie! and didst not sing.

160

Then 'twas that rhymed remonstrance—
So famous!—I spake to thee,
Not surely less improving,
Than it was deeply moving,
And its effect on me

Was wondrously relieving;
For as my verse flowed on,
Sad thoughts it did beguile,
And for a little while
My loneliness was gone.

And from that very moment,
Birdie, I do opine,
There has been more in thee
Than common eyes can see,
Or any eyes but mine.

'Tis not because thy music
Is ceaseless now all day—
As many a deafened guest
Can ruefully attest—
That thus of thee I say:

But that when night is round us,
And every guest is gone,
And by the taper's beam,
Or fire-light's ruddier gleam,
I'm sitting all alone,

Forth from thy gilded prison
Soft silvery tones 'gin swell,
More sweet and tender far
Than tenderest warblings are
Of love-lorn Philomel;

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And thou the while fast perched,
As if asleep—so still!
That tremulous undertone,
Liquidly gurgling on,
Like a tiny, tinkling rill.

And when I watch thee closer,
Small creature! with surprise,
Half doubtful, if from thee
That marvellous melody,
I meet thy watchful eyes,

Those bright black eyes, so strangely,
Methinks, that answer mine;
It surely seems to me,
Some spirit thou must be,
Pent in that plumy shrine;

But whether spirit, fairy,
Or mortal fowl thou art,
I thank thee, pretty creature,
My comforter, my teacher,
I thank thee from my heart!

My comforter I call thee—
For many a heavy hour,
Hath lightened of its sadness,
Nay, half attuned to gladness,
Thy small pipe's witching power.

And often-time while listening,
I've caught the infectious tone,
And murmured fitful words,
And struck a few faint chords,
Wild music of my own,

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Till to the realms of Cloudland,
Freed Fancy winged her flight,
Far, far beneath her leaving
This world of sin and grieving:
So, Birdie, with good right

My Comforter I call thee—
My Teacher thou shouldst be;
For sure some lesson holy,
Of wisdom meek and lowly,
May reason learn from thee.

Debarred from choicest blessings,
Inferior good to prize,
Thou hymn'st the light of heaven,
Though not to thee 'tis given
To soar into the skies.

Content thou art, and thankful,
For some poor gathered weed,
Though nature's chartered right
In gardens of delight
Gave thee to sport and feed.

Thou renderest good for evil:
For sad captivity
Sweet music—all thy treasure.
Oh, Birdie! when I measure
Philosophy with thee,

I feel how much I'm wanting,
Though more is given to me—
That thou, poor soulless creature,
Mayst truly be the teacher
Of proud humanity.