Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/199

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THE DEAD LARK.
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Still freely come, still freely go, And blessings crown thy vigorous wing;May thy wide flight meet no rude foe, Delightful messenger of spring.
The Migration of Birds.
Where the Northern Ocean in vast whirls,Boils round the naked melancholy islesOf farthest Thule, and the Atlantic surgePours in among the stormy Hebrides;Who can recount what transmigrations thereAre annual made? what nations come and go?And how the living clouds on clouds arise?Infinite wings! till all the plume-dark air,And rude resounding shore are one wild cry.
The Dead Lark.
Ah! there it falls, and now 'tis dead,The shot went through its pretty head, And broke its shining wing!How dull and dim its closing eyes!How cold, and stiff, and still it lies, Poor harmless little thing!
It was a lark, and in the skyIn mornings fair it mounted high To sing a merry song;Cutting the fresh and healthy air,It whistled out its music there, As light it skimmed along.
All night beneath her pretty breastShe warmed her young ones in her nest, Hid in the springing corn;And when she saw the sun arise,She flew up singing to the skies, Ah, never to return!
Poor little bird I her helpless brood,Who cry in vain for care or food, Will die when dark night lowers;Nor shall we see her mounting wing,Or hear her song that told of spring, And budding leaves, and flowers!
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