SAD THRUSH.

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SAD THRUSH.

O THRUSH that pourest far and near,

From some dark bower thy passionate song, Thou speakest sadder to my ear

To-day than all the feathered throng.

For when, alas! in search of food
The mother-bird had left her young,
With axe in hand, a woodman rude,
I roved my leafy shades among ;

Till cruel chance! my critic eye
Discerned a wildering beechen bough;
I heaved the sturdy steel on high,

And with three strokes I struck it through.

It trembled, tottered, crashed, and fell,
And turning, tossed upon the air
Four throstles, scarce escaped the shell,
With downy breasts and pinions bare ;

Whilst wildly wheeling o'er their fall,
Returned, alas! one moment late,
The parent thrush, with piteous call,
Bewail'd her children's cruel fate.

Each bird, with wafts of warmest breath,
I strove to stir to life again;
But oh so rude the rock beneath-

All, all the little ones were slain.

K

In their own nest, that scarce was cold,
Their tender corses I inurned;
Then made their grave of garden mould,
And homeward melancholy turned.

And this is why, in cadence clear,
Pouring afar her passionate song,
One thrush speaks sadder to my ear
To-day than all the feathered throng.

A. P. GRAVES.

HUSH!

GLAD THRUSH.

O hush!

For the yellow-throated thrush
Comes winging fleetly—

Whither? Hither,

The yellow-throated, mellow-noted thrush

Comes winging fleetly;

Singing, how sweetly,

"Kwee-kwee, kwee-kwee,
Trill-lilla-la."

Then hush! O hush!

My pipe of holly
Most melancholy;
For our sad song

Would greatly wrong

His carol jolly;

"Kwee-kwee, kwee-kwee,
Trill-lilla-la."

THE NEGLECTED CANARY.

He, perching thus,
Pipes back to us,—
"Light-hearted swain,
Thy jocund flute
To-day is mute.
Oh, why refrain
Its mirthful strain

To pour; when I
From this tree nigh,
Am piping plain,

'Kwee-kwee, kwee-kwee,
Trill-lilla-la.""

And I reply,

"Sweet bird, because

Grief only was

In my flute's sigh,

Till you came by ;
But your kwee-kwee
Of gushing glee,
Bids sorrow fly.

So, overhead,

Sing on kwee-kwee,

Trill-lilla-la,

Till day is dead."

A. P. GRAVES.

THE NEGLECTED CANARY.

OVERHEAD, in the lattice high,

Our little golden songster hung,

Singing, piping merrily,

With dulcet throat and clipping tongue;

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Singing from the peep of morning
To the evening's closing eye;
When the sun in blue was burning,

Or when clouds shut out the sky;
Foul or fair, morn, eve, or noon,
Its little pipe was still in tune.

Its breast was fill'd with fairy shells
That gave sweet echo to its note,
And strings of tiny silver bells

Rang with the pulsings of its throat;
Song all through its restless frame,
Its very limbs were warbling strings;
I well believe that music came

E'en from the tippings of its wings;
Piping early, late and long,

Mad with joy, and drunk with song!
Oh, welcome to thy little store,
Thy song repays it o'er and o'er.

But playful June brought holidays,
And bade our city hearts prepare
To leave awhile our beaten ways

For sandy shore and breezy air.

Some busy days the needles flew,
And, though no special heed it drew,
Our warbler up above us there

Was each one's joy-but no one's care.

The noise of preparation rang

From room to room, from head to head,

Until our little minstrel sang

Almost unheeded, and-unfed ;

Singing on with trustful lay,

Piping through the livelong day!

THE NEGLECTED CANARY.

But how it spared its ebbing well,
Or how eked out its lessening meal,
We
may but guess, we cannot tell-
We only think and sadly feel.
It saw the kittens on the floor

Regaled with plenty from our board;
It saw the crumbs swept from our door,
Feeding the sparrows in the yard.
Ah, were those prison wires away,
And were it only free as they!

We know not if its song grew weak
As thirst and hunger gnawed apace;
And when to the accustomed place
It came its food or drink to seek ;
We cannot tell if bleak despair

Rose in its breast when none was there!
Or whether, springing to its perch,

It piped again the merry strain,
Alighting to renew its search-
Search and sing again, again :
We cannot tell, our busy brains
Unconsciously drank in its strains;
Nor missed at morning, noon, or night,
The sweet unrecognised delight.

But when our day to leave came round,
"Ah! who will tend the bird ?" we said.
"Chirp, chirp! sweet, sweet!-Alas! no sound
Of wing or note! And is it fled ?"
We look'd into the cage, and found

Our little minstrel cold and dead!

And scatter'd on its sanded floor

The chaffy remnants of its store.

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