dumb,

Sing, little bird! the frosts have come.

When violets pranked the turf with blue The brawling streams shall soon be
And morning filled their cups with dew,
Thy slender voice with rippling trill
The budding April bowers would fill,
Nor passed its joyous tones away
When April rounded into May:
Thy life shall hail no second dawn,

Fast, fast the lengthening shadows

creep,

The songless fowls are half asleep,
The air grows chill, the setting sun
May leave thee ere thy song is done,
The pulse that warms thy breast grow
cold,

The birds have left the shivering pines Thirteen summers, or something less;

On her hand a parrot green
Sits uninoving and broods serene.
Hold up the canvas full in view,
Look! there's a rent the light shines Not the light gossamer stirs with less ;