The summer Sun's refulgent noontide, now
Reviving, raise their heads and put forth all
Their verdurous majesty. Each leaf is decked
With drops of rain, like pearls and diamonds bright
Quivering in the gentle gale, which breathes
Delightful fragrance round.
To a Dead Crow.
Gay minstrel of the Indian clime!
How oft at morning's rosy prime
When thou didst sing in caw, caw numbers,
Vexed I've awoke from my sweet slumbers,
And to avoid that hateful sound,
That plagues a head howe'er profound,
Have walked out in my garden, where
Beside the tank, in many a square,
Sweet lilies, jasmines, roses bloom,
Far from those trees within whose gloom
Of foliage thick, thou hadst thy nest
From daily toil at night to rest.
Now lifeless on the earth, cold, bare,
Devoid alike of joy and care,
The offals of my meal no more
Attract thee as they did before.
There's rubbish scattered round thee, but
Thy heart is still, thine eyes are shut.
No more that blunt yet useful beak
From carcases thy food can seek,
Or catch the young unheeded mouse,
Which from the flooring of my house
Urged by its hapless luck, would stray
And bask beneath the solar ray.
