About this thatch-roof’d dwelling, so remote,
A blackbird chirped from its tiny throat
Its rural anthem; and for this Jane gave
The brown-bread crumbs, she’d made a rule to save.
So came the pretty robin-redbreast, too,—
(Oh! that the world was half so good and true,)
She from the leaded window-sill would pick
With birdlike aptitude—so wondrous quick—
The frugal fragments of Jane’s surplus store;
Haste to her offspring, and return for more:
Sometimes the pretty creature chirp’d in vain,
But not when Jane could spare a crumb or grain.
Throughout the months of April, May, and June,
Forth came the cuckoo, and chimed out his tune
Upon the sky-branch of the apple-tree;
There, unmolested, perch’d he merrily:—
O! happy favourite, of the wingèd host,
Where dost thou dwell—inland? or on the coast?—
Or in some dreary cave, where all is night,—
Belike earth’s chaos ere God gave the light?
Say—whither shall imagination trace
Thy magic form; to hear thee chime with grace
Thy rare ding-dong harmonious voice:
Oh! tell us, tell us, that we may rejoice
In thy long absence,—that we may obtain
A fancied hearing of thy heav’nly strain:
Ah! thine, indeed, must be a cherub’s throat:
Who taught thee singing, blest one? or, by rote,
Didst thou, thy pretty self improve the note
With such precision, that for miles around
Attentive list’ners hear thy twofold sound?
Thou art a sort of majesty in air,
Without a crown, without a kingdom’s care:
When in July thou’st bidden all farewell—
Methinks I hear thee still in yonder vale;
And long the joy to list thy voice again
When winter’s past, and spring resumes her reign.