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One gift and we ’re gone;
A small aid to our mirth ;
Let its size speak its worth.
Upon you doth wait :
He stands at your gate ;
door; Neither giants nor grey-beards,
We your bounty implore.
O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still ;
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May, Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill
Portend success in love. O, if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh;
sung too late
TO A WOUNDED SINGING-BIRD.
Poor singer! hath the fowler's gun,
Or the sharp winter done thee harm? We 'll lay thee gently in the sun,
And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm; Perhaps some human kindness still May make amends for human ill.
We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well,
And save thee from the winter wild, Till summer fall on field and fell,
And thou shalt be our feather'd child; And tell us all thy pain and wrong, When thou canst speak again in song.
Fear not, nor tremble, little bird,
We'll use thee kindly now;
An accent even thou should'st know;
For kindness which the heart doth teach, Disdaineth all peculiar speech.
'Tis common to the bird and brute,
To fallen man, to angel bright, And sweeter 'tis than lonely lute
Heard in the air at night, Divine and universal tongue, Whither by bird or spirit sung!
But hark! is that a sound we hear
Come chirping from its throat: Faint-short—but weak, and very clear,
And like a little grateful note ? Another ? ha! look where it lies : It shivers—gasps—is still—it dies !
'Tis dead—'tis dead! and all our care
Is useless. Now, in vain
Calling her nestling bird again!
is dim—its fate is told !
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day