One gift and we ’re gone;
Refuse, and anon
On your gate

and
your

door
All our fury we pour.
Or our strength shall be tried
On your sweet little bride :
From her seat we will tear her ;
From her home we will bear her;
She is light, and will ask
But small hands to the task.
Let your bounty then lift

A small aid to our mirth ;
And whatever the gift,

Let its size speak its worth.
The Swallow, the Swallow,

Upon you doth wait :
An almsman and suppliant,

He stands at your gate ;
Yet open, yet open

and
your

door; Neither giants nor grey-beards,

We your bounty implore.

Your gate

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;
As thou, from

hast
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:
Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

sung too late

TO A WOUNDED SINGING-BIRD.

Barry Cornwall.

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;
And sure there's in a friendly word,

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
The mother's woe doth pierce the air,

Calling her nestling bird again!
All's vain : the singer's heart is cold,
Its
eye

is dim—its fate is told !

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the west; no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still :
A balmy night! and, though the stars be dim,