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 feathered child,
And tell us all thy pain and wrong
When thou again canst speak 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_ shouldst 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 toungue,
Whether 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 fortune told!
A versification of a story in Mrs. Barbauld's "Evenings at home," by
Sneyd Edgeworth, Esq. deserves favourable mention; even the names will
tempt the reader.
There are eleven plates; the frontispiece, "_Little Flora_," from
Boaden, and engraved by Edwards, is a sweet production; and the figures
in "_the Broken Pitcher_," from Gainsborough,[A] are well executed by
H. Robinson. To conclude, we cordially recommend this little volume to
such purchasers as wish to combine simplicity with talent, and the
several beauties of picture and print in their "New Year's Gift," for
1830.
[4] We should like to see a volume of poems written by Wordsworth,
and illustrated by Gainsborough. How delightfully too would a
few of the poet's lines glib off in a Juvenile Annual.
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