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Who, whether from their lowly bed
TO A REDBREAST-(IN SICKNESS).
STAY, little cheerful Robin! stay,
Though I, alas! may ne'er enjoy
Methinks that in my dying hour
Then, little Bird, this boon confer,
I KNOW an aged Man constrained to dwell
When he could creep about, at will, though poor And forced to live on alms, this old Man fed 6 A Redbreast, one that to his cottage door Came not, but in a lane partook his bread.
There, at the root of one particular tree,
Dear intercourse was theirs, day after day; What signs of mutual gladness when they met ! Think of their common peace, their simple play, The parting moment and its fond regret.
Months passed in love that failed not to fulfil, In spite of season's change, its own demand, By fluttering pinions here and busy bill; There by caresses from a tremulous hand.
Thus in the chosen spot a tie so strong
Wife, children, kindred, they were dead and gone;
But, if no evil hap his wishes crossed,
O that the good old Man had power to prove, By message sent through air or visible token, 30 That still he loves the Bird, and still must love;
That friendship lasts though fellowship is
TO AN OCTOGENARIAN.
AFFECTIONS lose their object; Time brings forth
No successors; and, lodged in memory,
The utmost solitude of age to face,
Still shall be left some corner of the heart Where Love for living Thing can find a place.
These lines are by the Author of the Address to the Wind, &c., published heretofore along with my Poems. Those to a Redbreast are by a deceased female Relative.
HARMONIOUS Powers with Nature work
Once did I see a slip of earth
Food, shelter, safety, there they find;
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom;
Might see it, from the mossy shore
Float with its crest of trees adorned
On which the warbling birds their pastime take.
And thus through many seasons' space
Perchance when you are wandering forth
Without an object, hope, or fear,
Buried beneath the glittering Lake,
How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high
A brightening edge will indicate that soon
"Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, Percy's Reliques.
The dusky Shape within her arms imbound,
Which some have named her Predecessor's
Young, like the Crescent that above me shone,