TO A DEAD BIRD,
151
And left his scorn to pierce thy bleeding heart,
Till Death, in pity, drew away its dart.
Till Death, in pity, drew away its dart.
Or thine, perchance, has been a perfect love,
(If any love can be without a sting!)
And thy lone mate may come to mourn above
Thy blighted beauty, with a drooping wing,
Till, like all lonely mates, he seek relief,
In some new rapture, for his transient grief.
(If any love can be without a sting!)
And thy lone mate may come to mourn above
Thy blighted beauty, with a drooping wing,
Till, like all lonely mates, he seek relief,
In some new rapture, for his transient grief.
Or thou mayst have been of a royal race;
And radiant throngs of minstrel-things to-day,
Even in thine airy realm's remotest place,
May mourn, or joy, that thou hast passed away,—
For gold and purple glitter on thy breast,
And thou art laid right regally to rest.
And radiant throngs of minstrel-things to-day,
Even in thine airy realm's remotest place,
May mourn, or joy, that thou hast passed away,—
For gold and purple glitter on thy breast,
And thou art laid right regally to rest.
Was thy death tranquil—Or, amid the glare
Of Heaven's fierce fire-arms was thy being sped?
Or did some winged assassin of the air,
For hate, or envy, meet and strike thee dead?
Was life still blushing with youth's rosy glow,
Or, worn and weary, wast thou glad to go?
Of Heaven's fierce fire-arms was thy being sped?
Or did some winged assassin of the air,
For hate, or envy, meet and strike thee dead?
Was life still blushing with youth's rosy glow,
Or, worn and weary, wast thou glad to go?
