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There is a bird, who by his coat,
Might be supposed a crow;
And dormitory too.
Above the steeple shines a plate,
From what point blows the weather; Look up your brains begin to swim, , "Tis in the clouds—that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height,
And thence securely sees
Secure, and at his ease.
You think, no doubt, he sits and muses On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall. No; not a single thought like that Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.
He sees that this great round-about,"
Church, army, physic, law;
And says—what says he ?-Caw.
Thrice happy bird ! I too have seen
And, sick of having seen 'em,
And such a head between 'em.
What ail'd thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue
A beautiful creature,
The cheerer thou of our indoor sadness,
THE SWALLOW'S RETURN.
WELCOME, welcome, feather'd stranger,
Now the sun bids nature smile ; Safe arrived, and free from danger,
Welcome to our blooming isle ! Still twitter on my lonely roof,
And hail me at the dawn of day, Each morn the recollected proof
Of time that ever fleets away.
Fond of sunshine, fond of shade,
Fond of skies serene and clear,
In fairest seasons of the year:
What bids thee shun the wintry gale,
Hail! wondrous bird! hail, Swallow, hail!
Sure something more to thee is given,
Than myriads of the feather'd race, Some gift divine, some spark from heaven,
That guides thy flight from place to place: Still freely come, still freely go,
And blessings crown thy vigorous wing, May thy rude flight meet no rude foe,
Delightful messenger of Spring.