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One gift and we 're gone;
On your gate and your
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.
An almsman and suppliant,
Yet open, yet open
Your gate and your door; Neither giants nor grey-beards,
We your bounty implore.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
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 year to year, hast sung too late 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.
TO A WOUNDED SINGING-BIRD.
POOR singer! hath the fowler's gun,
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,
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,-
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,
But hark! is that a sound we hear
'Tis dead-'tis dead! and all our care
The mother's woe doth pierce the air,
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day