I spake, when whispered a low voice,
"Bard! moderate your ire ;
Spirits of all degrees rejoice
In presence of the lyre.

The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,
Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays,

Have shells to fit their tiny hands
And suit their slender lays.

Some, still more delicate of ear,
Have lutes (believe my words)

Whose framework is of

gossamer,

While sunbeams are the chords.

Gay Sylphs this miniature will court,
Made vocal by their brushing wings,
And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport
Around its polished strings;

Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear,
While in her lonely bower she tries
To cheat the thought she cannot cheer,
By fanciful embroideries.

Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite,
Nor think the Harp her lot deplores;
Though mid the stars the Lyre shine bright,
Love stoops as fondly as he soars.”

1827.

XIX.

THE CONTRAST,

THE PARROT AND THE WREN.

I.

WITHIN her gilded cage confined,
I saw a dazzling Belle,

A Parrot of that famous kind
Whose name is NON-PAREIL.

Like beads of glossy jet her eyes; And, smoothed by Nature's skill, With pearl or gleaming agate vies Her finely-curvèd bill.

Her plumy mantle's living hues

In mass opposed to mass,

Outshine the splendour that imbues
The robes of pictured glass.

And, sooth to say, an apter Mate
Did never tempt the choice

Of feathered Thing most delicate
In figure and in voice.

But, exiled from Australian bowers,
And singleness her lot,

She trills her song with tutored

powers,

Or mocks each casual note.

No more of pity for regrets

With which she may have striven !
Now but in wantonness she frets,
Or spite, if cause be given;

Arch, volatile, a sportive bird
By social glee inspired;
Ambitious to be seen or heard,

And pleased to be admired!

II.

THIS MOSS-LINED shed, green, soft, and dry,
Harbours a self-contented Wren,

Not shunning man's abode, though shy,
Almost as thought itself, of human ken.

Strange places, coverts unendeared,

She never tried; the very nest

In which this Child of Spring was reared,

Is warmed, thro' winter, by her feathery breast.

To the bleak winds she sometimes gives
A slender unexpected strain;

Proof that the hermitess still lives,

Though she appear not, and be sought in vain.

Say, Dora! tell me, by yon placid moon,
If called to choose between the favoured pair,
Which would you be,-the bird of the saloon,
By lady-fingers tended with nice care,
Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed,

Or Nature's DARKLING of this mossy shed?

1825.

XX.

THE DANISH BOY.

A FRAGMENT.

1.

BETWEEN two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie Sacred to flowerets of the hills, And sacred to the sky.

And in this smooth and open dell There is a tempest-stricken tree; A corner-stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a lonely hut; And in this dell you see

A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The Shadow of a Danish Boy.