How parson on his tithes was bent, The candles safe, the hearths all clear, And nought from thieves or fire to fear, FROM yonder wood mark blue-eyed Eve proceed : The clinging ivy from the battlements, Mingles in broad embrace the obdurate stone, (All one vast ocean), and goes swelling on In slow and silent, dim and deepening waves. THE JACKDAW. THERE is a bird, who, by his coat, Might be supposed a crow; A great frequenter of the church, Above the steeple shines a plate, From what point blows the weather, Fond of the speculative height, The bustle and the raree-show You think, no doubt, he sits and muses If he should chance to fall. He see, that this great roundabout, Its customs and its businesses Is no concern at all of his, And says--what says he?-Caw. Thrice-happy bird! I too have seen W. Cowper. THE THRUSH. 'LL pay my rent in music,' said a thrush, Who took his lodging 'neath my eaves in spring, Where the thick foliage droop'd. And well he kept His simple contract. Not for quarter-day He coldly waited, nor a draft required To stir his memory, nor my patience tried With his sweet-ringing coin. Sometimes a song, All wildly trilling through his dulcet pipes, Each feather quivering with excess of joy, For your especial benefit.' The lay With overruling shrillness more than once. Did summon me to lay my book aside And wait its close; nor was that pause a loss, But seemed to tune and shape the inward ear Then I had a share In softer songs, that cheer'd his brooding mate, Who, in the patience of good hope, did keep Her lengthen'd vigil; and the voice of love That flow'd so fondly from his trusting soul Made glad mine own. Then, too, there was a strain From blended throats, that to their callow young Breathed tenderness untold; and the weak chirp Of new-born choristers, so deftly train'd Each in the sweet way that he ought to go, Mix'd with that breath of household charities Which makes the spirit strong. And so I felt My rent was fully paid, and thought myself But when autumn bade The northern birds to spread their parting wing, The hush of silence settled, I grew sad Yet leave within our hearts Dear melodists, the spirit of your praise, Until ye come again; and the brown nest, That now its downy lining to the winds H |