In truth, I rather take it thou hast got By instinct wise much sense about thy lot, And hast small care Whether an Eden or a desert be Thy home, so thou remain'st alive, and free To skim the air.
God speed thee, pretty bird; may thy small nest With little ones all in good time be blest. I love thee much; For well thou managest that life of thine, While I! oh, ask not what I do with mine! Would I were such!
THE SWALLOW, THE OWL, AND THE COCK'S SHRILL CLARION IN THE "ELEGY."
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient, solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
Forms of saints and kings are standing The cathedral door above; Yet I saw but one among them Who hath soothed my soul with love.
In his mantle,--wound about him, As their robes the sowers wind,-- Bore he swallows and their fledglings, Flowers and weeds of every kind.
And so stands he calm and child-like, High in wind and tempest wild; Oh, were I like him exalted, I would be like him, a child!
And my songs,--green leaves and blossoms,-- To the doors of heaven would bear, Calling, even in storm and tempest, Round me still these birds of air.
The bird let loose in eastern skies, When hastening fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam;
But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way.
So grant me, God, from every care And stain of passion free, Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, To hold my course to thee!