Literary Gazette 11th October 1823, Page 650
Beautiful are the hues that lie
On that Indian bird's blue wing,
With his rainbow crest and soft black eye,
And neck like the rose of spring.
Love's fond fancies are quickly caught
By links love only can see;
But too much truth there was in the thought
That likened that bird to thee.
To each all outward gifts belong,
But each wants the inward part:
That fair bird has not the sweet gift of song,
And you—oh, you want a heart!
Last night, a fairy bark, for Hope,
That lily floated o'er the wave,
Which now curls round the scattered leaves,
Kissing the flower it cannot save.
A sweet hymn to the setting sun
Came yesterday from that white thorn;
But no song welcomes his return,
The shade is bare, the nest is torn.
What can have made so desolate
What was last night so very fair?
Were I to judge by my own heart,
I should but say Love had been there.—L. E. L.