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High on yon poplar, clad in glossiest green,
orange, black-capp'd Baltimore is seen ;
Bernard de Ventadour.
When I behold the Lark up spring
To meet the bright sun joyfully, How he forgets to poise his wing
In his gay spirit's revelry; Alas! that mournful thoughts should spring
E'en from the happy songster's glee ! Strange, that such gladdening sight should bring
Not joy, but pining care to me.
I thought my heart had known the whole
Of love, but small its knowledge proved; For still the more my longing soul
Loves on, itself the while unloved : She stole my heart, myself she stole,
And all I prized from me removed ; She left me but the fierce control
Of vain desires for her I loved.
All self-command is now gone by,
E’er since the luckless hour when she Became a mirror to my eye,
Whereon I gazed complacently. Thou fatal mirror! there I
spy Love's image; and my doom shall be, Like young Narcissus, thus to sigh,
And thus expire, beholding thee.
SWEET social bird, with breast of red,
How prone's my heart to favour thee ! Thy look oblique, thy prying head,
Thy gentle affability;
Thy cheerful song in winter's cold,
And, when no other lay is heard, Thy visits paid to young and old,
Where fear appals each other bird.
Thy friendly heart, thy nature mild,
Thy meekness and docility, Creep to the love of man and child,
And win thine own felicity.
The gleanings of the sumptuous board,
Convey'd by some indulgent fair, Are in a nook of safety stored,
And not dispensed till thou art there.
In stately hall and rustic dome,
The gaily-robed and homely poor Will watch the hour when thou shalt come,
And bid thee welcome to the door.
The herdsman on the upland hill,
The ploughman in the hamlet near, Are prone thy little paunch to fill,
And pleased thy little psalm to hear.
The woodman, seated on a log,
His meat divides atween the three ; And now himself, and now his dog,
And now he casts a crumb to thee.
For thee a feast the schoolboy strews
At noontide, when the form 's forsook ;
A worm to thee the delver throws,
And angler when he baits a hook.
At tents where tawny gipsies dwell,
In woods where hunters chase the hind, And at the hermit's lonely cell,
Dost thou some crumbs of comfort find.
Nor are thy little wants forgot,
In beggar's hut or Crispin's stall ; The miser only feeds thee not,
Who suffers ne'er a crumb to fall.
The youth who strays, with dark design,
To make each well-stored nest a prey, If dusky hues denote them thine,
Will draw his pilfering hands away.
The finch a spangled robe may wear,
The nightingale delightful sing, The lark ascend most high in air,
The swallow fly most swift on wing.
The peacock’s plumes in pride may swell,
The parrot prate eternally ;
As thou with thy simplicity.