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ON TAKING UP A BIRD SHOT THROUGH THE

WING.

ago,

EVEN this
poor bird some hours
Did strength of wing, and freedom know.
Where'er his little will would steer,
He traced each landscape far and near;
And felt each joy the neighbouring field
To virtuoso bird could yield.
At every halt the shades among,
Gustful and ready flowed his song;
He chirp'd in self-applauding lay,
Whate'er a joyful heart could say.
But most his conscious soul was blest,
When of aerial walk possessed,

He could look down on man and beast.
As there the purer breezes play,
And glitters the superior day,
He'd grow more stately than before,
And drink in pride through every pore.
But now, no boastful notes he sings,
No more he wields his former wings;
On lowly earth his path now lies,
And he's a reptile, till he dies.
So when to high abstractions wrought
By fine machinery of thought;
(As sages, skilled in nature, tell)
The sons of contemplation fell.
Some magic dart, in silence thrown,

To human life has fetched them down;

}

With other mortals humbly mixed,
Their courage quailed, their wing transfixed.

While thus with tender moan I talked,
And held him in my hand and walked;
His head the bird with languor waved,
His eyes grew dull, his bosom heaved,
His plumes were of their gloss bereaved.
On the next hedge I perched him fair;
High and well poised in fresher air:
In vain that wing no more must fly!
That fainting heart forgets the sky :
He sunk amidst the thickets low,
Obedient to his weight of woe.

I bade the boughs that o'er him spread
Gently to hide his luckless head.

ON LOWNESS OF SPIRITS.

IN nature's ebbs, which lay the soul in chains,
Beneath weak nerves, and ill-sufficing veins;
Who can support bare being, unendowed
With gust voluptuous, or reflection proud?
No more bright images the brain commands,
No great design the glowing heart expands,-
No longer shines the animated face,
Motion and speech forget their conscious grace:
How can the brave, the witty, and the gay

Survive when mirth, wit, courage-die away?
None but the Christian's all-comprising power
Subdues each chance, and lives through every hour:
Watchful he suffers all-and feels within
All smart proportioned to some root of sin;
He strikes each error with his Maker's rod,
And by self-knowledge penetrates to God.

So

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.

many years I've seen the sun,

And called these eyes and hands my own, A thousand little acts I've done,

And childhood have, and manhood known:

O what is life! and this dull round
To tread, why was a spirit bound?

So many airy draughts and lines,

And warm excursions of the mind,
Have filled my soul with great designs,
While practice grovell'd far behind:
O what is thought! and where withdraw
The glories which my fancy saw?

So

many tender joys and woes

Have on my quivering soul had power; Plain life with heightening passions rose, The boast or burden of their hour:

O what is all we feel! why fled
Those pains and pleasures o'er my head?

So many human souls divine,

So at one interview displayed,

Some oft and freely mixed with mine,
In lasting bonds my heart have laid:
O what is friendship! why impressed
On my weak, wretched, dying breast?

So many wondrous gleams of light,
And gentle ardours from above,
Have made me sit, like seraph bright,

Some moments on a throne of love:
O what is virtue! why had I,
Who am so low, a taste so high?

Ere long, when sovereign wisdom wills,
My soul an unknown path shall tread,
And strangely leave, who strangely fills
This frame, and waft me to the dead:
O what is death! 'tis life's last shore,
Where vanities are vain no more;
Where all pursuits their goal obtain,
And life is all retouched again;
Where in their bright result shall rise

Thoughts, virtues, friendships, griefs, and joys.

TO A FRIEND ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.

FROM life's whole drama half-retired
My breast with nought poetic fired,
(If e'er the muse dwelt there)
Whence shall I take the tribute meet
Of votive lays, wherewith to greet
Thy new commencing year?

I'll take it from a spring ne'er lost
'Midst Hermit's apathy and frost,
Or lethe of old age:

No! it still bubbles fresh and young,
When nature's tone is all unstrung,

And thoughts even leave the sage.

This never-failing source is love,
As human instinct raised above
All other human things;

But as a new birth from the heat
Of the prime lover's pangs and sweat,
Fledged with immortal wings.

This gives me words, (which, though but few, Yet in their central import true

All optatives comprise:)

The Lord, who bought thee by his blood
Keep thee endowed with all the good
Which in his merit lies!

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