THE WILD DUCK AND HER BROOD.
How calm that little lake! no breath of wind
Sighs through the reeds; a clear abyss it seems,
Held in the concave of th' inverted sky,—
In which is seen the rook's dull flagging wing
Move o'er the silvery clouds. How peaceful sails
Yon little fleet, the wild duck and her brood!
Fearless of harm, they row their easy way;
The water-lily neath the plumy prows,
Dips, reappearing in their dimpled track.
Yet, e'en amid that scene of peace, the noise
Of war, unequal, dastard war, intrudes.
Yon revel rout of men, and boys, and dogs,
Boisterous approach; the spaniel dashes in;
Quick he descries the prey; and faster swims,
And eager barks; the harmless flock dismay'd,
Hasten to gain the thickest grove of reeds.
All but the parent pair; they, floating, wait
To lure the foe, and lead him from their young;
But soon themselves are forced to seek the shore.
Vain then the buoyant wing; the leaden storm
Arrests their flight; they, fluttering, bleeding, fall,
And tinge the troubled bosom of the lake.
EPITAPH ON A BLACKBIRD KILLED BY A
HAWK.
WINTER was o'er, and spring-flowers deck'd 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.
Thy jetty plumes, by ruthless falcon rent,
Are now all soil'd among the mouldering clay;
A primrosed turf is all thy monument,
And for thy dirge the redbreast lends his lay.
THE POOR MAN'S FUNERAL.
YON motley, sable-suited throng, that wait
Around the poor man's door, announce a tale
Of wo; the husband, parent, is no more.
Contending with disease, he labour'd long,
By penury compell'd; yielding at last,
He laid him down to die; but, lingering on
From day to day, he from his sick-bed saw,
Heart-broken quite, his children's looks of want
Veil'd in a clouded smile; alas! he heard
The elder lispingly attempt to still
The younger's plaint,-languid he raised his head
TO A REDBREAST, THAT FLEW IN AT MY And thought he yet could toil, but sunk
FROM Snowy plains, and icy sprays,
From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast:-
How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting,
Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
No: freely flutter round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.
That note, that summer note, I know;
It wakes at once, and soothes my wo;
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see, ah, still prolong the dream!
Still with thy song those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my view.
No more now, at my lonely meal,
While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
For soon, devoid of all distrust,
Thou'lt nibbling share my humble crust;
Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice;
And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,
Be't work of poet or of sage,
Safe thou shalt hop across the page;
Uncheck'd, shall flit o'er Virgil's groves,
Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.
Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past;
And when the primrose tells 'tis spring,
And when the thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.
Into the arms of death, the poor man's friend!
The coffin is borne out; the humble pomp
Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand
(Poor helpless child!) just reaches to the pall.
And now they pass into the field of graves,
And now around the narrow house they stand,
And view the plain black board sink from the sight.
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds,
As falls each spadeful of the bone-mix'd mould.
The turf is spread; uncover'd is each head,-
A last farewell: all turn their several ways.
Wo's me! those tear-dimm'd eyes, that sobbing
Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand
That wont to lead thee home: No more that hand
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gentle stroke
Thy sun-bleach'd head and downy cheek.
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,—
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone,
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze
Of wo profound. Haste to the widow'd arms;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief.
THE THANKSGIVING OFF CAPE TRA
UPON the high, yet gently rolling wave,
The floating tomb that heaves above the brave,
Soft sighs the gale, that late tremendous roar'd,
Whelming the wretched remnants of the sword.
And now the cannon's peaceful thunder calls
The victor bands to mount their wooden walls,
And from the ramparts, while their comrades fell,
The mingled strain of joy and grief to swell:
Fast they ascend, from stem to stern they spread,
And crowd the engines, whence the lightnings sped:
The white-robed priest his upraised hands extends:
Hush'd is each voice, attention leaning bends;
Then from each prow the grand hosannas rise,
Float o'er the deep, and hover to the skies.
Heaven fills each heart; yet home will oft intrude,
And tears of love celestial joys exclude.
The wounded man, who hears the soaring strain,
Lifts his pale visage, and forgets his pain;
While parting spirits, mingling with the lay,
On hallelujahs wing their heavenward way.
TWICE has the sun commenced his annual round,
Since first thy footsteps totter'd o'er the ground,
Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine ear,
By faltering out the name to fathers dear.
O! nature's language, with her looks combined
More precious far than periods thrice refined!
O! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile,
I prize you more than beauty's magic smile:
Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm
I gaze with bliss, unmingled with alarm.
Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies
Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries.
Almighty Power! his harmless life defend,
And if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send.
And yet a wish will rise,—would I might live
Till added years his memory firmness give'
For, O! it would a joy in death impart,
To think I still survived within his heart;
To think he'll cast, midway the vale of years,
A retrospective look, bedimm'd with tears;
And tell, regretful, how I look'd and spoke;
What walks I loved; where grew my favourite oak
How gently I would lead him by the hand;
How gently use the accent of command;
What lore I taught him, roaming wood and wild,
And how the man descended to the child;
How well I loved with him, on Sabbath morn,
To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn;
To teach religion, unallied to strife,
And trace to him the way, the truth, the life.
But far and farther still my view I bend,-
And now I see a child thy steps attend ;-
To yonder churchyard wall thou takest thy way,
While round thee, pleased, thou seest the infant play.
Then lifting him, while tears suffuse thine eyes,
Pointing, thou tell'st him, There thy grandsire lia
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