THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS. ÆGROTUS. PRING,-art thou come, O Spring! SPRI I am too sick for words; How hast thou heart to sing, O Spring, with all thy birds? MERULA. I sing for joy to see again The merry leaves along the lane, The little bud grown ripe; And look, my love upon the bough! Hark, how she calleth to me now, "Pipe! pipe!" ÆGROTUS. Ah! weary is the sun : Love is an idle thing; But, Bird, thou restless one, HIRUNDO. By shore and sea I come and go On no man's eaves I sit But voices bid me rise once more, Flit! Flit! ÆGROTUS. This is Earth's bitter cup :- ALAUDA. A secret Spirit gifteth me With song, and wing that lifteth me,— A Spirit for whose sake, Striving amain to reach the sky, Still to the old dark earth I cry, "Wake! wake!" ÆGROTUS. My hope hath lost its wing. Thou, that to Night dost call, How hast thou heart to sing Thy tears made musical? PHILOMELA. Alas for me! a dry desire Is all my song,- -a waste of fire That will not fade nor fail; To me, dim shapes of ancient crime Moan through the windy ways of time, “Wail! wail !" ÆGROTUS. This is the sick man's song, Mournful, in sooth, and fit; Unrest that cries "How long !"— "Sweetheart, save me and you, Flowers of as fair a hue,- Therewith I laughed aloud, Spake on this wise, "O little flowers so proud, Have ye seen eyes Change through the blue in them,— Change till the mere Loving that grew in them Turned to a tear? "Flowers, ye are bright of hue, Delicate, sweet; Flowers, and the sight of you Lightens men's feet; "This, then, O Flowers, I sing; God, when He made ye, Made yet a fairer thing Making my Lady; |