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T'was winter,-but the sun-beams shed
Their light o'er sleeping earth;

Like smiles which stay, though life be fled,
The type of happier birth!

The copse

which closed the world was bare, Each flower and leaf had perish'd : Save thou and we, no life was there, No hope which once we cherish'd.

Who made the 'we?' 'tis, Bully, thou,
And only thou canst say:

Thou only heardst our parting vow,
Whilst throned upon thy spray.

Thou saw'st our tears in silence flow,
Our love amidst despair;

Thou caught'st the essence of our woe,
And murmur'd it in air.

For this, I'll love thee till I die ;
For this, my prayers are given
For love and life, with liberty,—
Without, what's earth or heaven!

Sweet sylvan bird, till thou shalt die,
I'll wish thee, Bully, this;
And, after death, a purer sky,
A tiny world of bliss!

*The Bulfinch in a state of nature does not sing,-it has but one melancholy note, at least, such is the idea it conveys to the human ear. The poor birds which are kept in prison by our "gentle fair," owe their musical talent to the arts of education, and, in some instances, to that brutal act of cruelty, piercing the brilliant eye of Bully with a red hot needle.

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