Poems By Edward Quillinan. With a Memoir by William Johnston |
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THE CANARY GOLDFINCH. |
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THE CANARY GOLDFINCH.
At Paris, in the month of June,
Within the square of Carrousel,
We heard as blithe a voice in tune,
As ever trill'd from wiry cell.
Within the square of Carrousel,
We heard as blithe a voice in tune,
As ever trill'd from wiry cell.
A hundred songsters dinn'd the wall
With music—'twas a bird-slave mart;
But one pied hybrid o'er them all
Sang triumph in his strength of heart.
With music—'twas a bird-slave mart;
But one pied hybrid o'er them all
Sang triumph in his strength of heart.
He reign'd by innate power of voice
O'er all his rivals sweet and shrill,
Their Monarch self-acclaim'd by choice
No other than his vocal will.
O'er all his rivals sweet and shrill,
Their Monarch self-acclaim'd by choice
No other than his vocal will.
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To sing him down they oft broke out
In vain they one and all rebell'd;
Prolong'd through “many a winding bout”
His roundelay the triumph held.
In vain they one and all rebell'd;
Prolong'd through “many a winding bout”
His roundelay the triumph held.
Born in a cage, to reach his throne,
A perch, was all his use for wings:
Happier than He who made his own
Yon palace of the Bourbon Kings.
A perch, was all his use for wings:
Happier than He who made his own
Yon palace of the Bourbon Kings.
But birds no more than men can long
Evade Parisian glory's fate:
This golden-feather'd lord of song
Was now compell'd to abdicate.
Evade Parisian glory's fate:
This golden-feather'd lord of song
Was now compell'd to abdicate.
By foreign hands was he deposed,
By foreign hands to exile borne;
We brought him to a vale enclosed
By mountains that delay the morn.
By foreign hands to exile borne;
We brought him to a vale enclosed
By mountains that delay the morn.
How fared he then? at such a change
Perhaps at first his taste revolted;
These rocks and quiet meads were strange,
But soon his city feelings moulted.
Perhaps at first his taste revolted;
These rocks and quiet meads were strange,
But soon his city feelings moulted.
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No bird Ovidian to lament
His Tiber in a weary strain,
He sang on Rotha's banks content
As if he ne'er had known the Seine.
His Tiber in a weary strain,
He sang on Rotha's banks content
As if he ne'er had known the Seine.
He found in Her who brought him thence,
A nature he could understand,
Endearing to his subtle sense
Of harmony, a foreign land.
A nature he could understand,
Endearing to his subtle sense
Of harmony, a foreign land.
Yet once, as if her cheerful care
But tantalised caprice, away
He flitted to the cliffs, and there
He play'd the truant half a day.
But tantalised caprice, away
He flitted to the cliffs, and there
He play'd the truant half a day.
We thought him lost, and sigh'd to think
On what might be the rover's doom,
For hawks o'er-eye the craggy brink,
And owlets haunt the woody gloom.
On what might be the rover's doom,
For hawks o'er-eye the craggy brink,
And owlets haunt the woody gloom.
Who knows not danger knows not fear:—
But soon he found his freedom pall;
Ere eventide his carol clear
Announced him at the garden-wall.
But soon he found his freedom pall;
Ere eventide his carol clear
Announced him at the garden-wall.
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A moment's pause—a sudden whirr
And lo, the prize was ours again!
He could not tarry long from her
For whom he had forgot the Seine.
And lo, the prize was ours again!
He could not tarry long from her
For whom he had forgot the Seine.
But when her voice no more was heard,
But when her smile no more was seen,
He ceased to be the glossy bird,
The bright-eyed warbler he had been.
But when her smile no more was seen,
He ceased to be the glossy bird,
The bright-eyed warbler he had been.
From day to day, from week to week,
He miss'd his friend and pined away;
His note became a sound to seek,
A fitful effort at a lay.
He miss'd his friend and pined away;
His note became a sound to seek,
A fitful effort at a lay.
Though now and then he plainly strove,
By little fond familiar ways,
To thank us for the watchful love
That fain would have prolong'd his days.
By little fond familiar ways,
To thank us for the watchful love
That fain would have prolong'd his days.
And when he died, this very morn,
Of moss I made his winding-sheet,
And, in a mood the wise may scorn,
Her bird I buried at her feet.
Of moss I made his winding-sheet,
And, in a mood the wise may scorn,
Her bird I buried at her feet.
February 26, 1848.
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