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The REDBREAST and the BUTTERFLY.
Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best,
The Bird that comes about our doors
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
And Russia far inland?
The Bird, whom by some name or other
The Darling of Children and men?
And see this sight beneath the skies,
If the Butterfly knew but his friend
Hither his flight he would bend,
And find his way to me
Under the branches of the tree:
In and out, he darts about;
His little heart is throbbing:
Can this be the Bird, to man so good,
Our consecrated Robin!
That, after their bewildering,
Did cover with leaves the little children,
What ail'd thee Robin that thou could'st pursue
A beautiful Creature,
That is gentle by nature?
Beneath the summer sky
From flower to flower let him fly;
'Tis all that he wishes to do.
The Chearer Thou of our in-door sadness,
And fly about in the air together?
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.
One morning (raw it was and wet,
A foggy day in winter time)
A Woman in the road I met,
Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.
The ancient Spirit is not dead;
Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Such strength, a dignity so fair:
She begg❜d an alms, like one in poor estate; I look'd at her again, nor did my pride abate.
When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
I said to her, "Beneath your Cloak
She answer'd soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."
And, thus continuing, she said,
Sail'd on the seas; but he is dead;
In Denmark he was cast away;
And I have been as far as Hull, to see
What clothes he might have left, or other property.
The Bird and Cage they both were his;
He kept it: many voyages
This Singing-bird hath gone with him;
When last he sail'd he left the Bird behind;
As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind,