« PreviousContinue »
Those burnish'd colours to bestow,
Her pencil in the heavenly bow
She dipp'd, and made thy plumes to glow With every hue
That in the dancing sunbeam plays,
And with the ruby's vivid blaze,
Mingled the emerald's lucid rays
Then placed thee under genial skies,
And bade thee pass thy happy hours
There, lovely Bee-bird, may'st thou rove
There rapid fly, more heard than seen,
With glowing fruits and flowers between, Of purest white.
There feed, and take thy balmy rest,
There weave thy little cotton nest,
Thy timid bride;
Nor those bright, changeful plumes of thine
Where some dark Beauty loves to shine
Nor may her sable lover's care
Add to the baubles in her hair
Thy dazzling feathers, rich and rare;
For this inhuman purpose bleed,
While gentle hearts abhor the deed,
Oh! bid the thoughtless triflers know,
And that not half so lovely seems
The ray that from the diamond gleams,
TO THE CROW, THAT FLIES HOME AT NIGHT.
SAY, weary bird, whose level flight, Thus, at the dusky hour of night, Waves through the midway air,
Why thus beyond the verge of day Is lengthen'd out thy dark delay, Adding another to the hours of care?
The wren, within her mossy nest, Has hush'd her little brood to rest; The wild wood-pigeon, rock'd on high, Has coo'd his last soft notes of love, And fondly nestles by his dove,
To guard her downy young from the inclement
Haste, bird, and nurse thy callow brood,
Fit hour for rest for me and thee.
PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast,
And from each hill let music shrill
Sing my fair love good morrow!