A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing himself around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,
But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now, beneath this walnut shade,
He finds his last long home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.
She, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.
A parrot, from the Spanish Main,
Full young and early caged, came o’er, With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mulla's shore.
To spicy groves where he had won
His plumage of resplendent hue,
His native fruits, and skies, and sun,
He bade adieu.
For these he changed the smoke of turf,
A heathery land and misty sky,
And turned on rocks and raging surf
His golden eye.
But petted in our climate cold,
He lived and chattered many a day : Until with age, from green and gold, His wings grew grey.
At last, when blind, and seeming dumb,
He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more,
A Spanish stranger chanced to come
He hailed the bird in Spanish speech,
The bird in Spanish speech replied;
Flapped round the cage with joyous screech,
Dropt down, and died.
With sweetest milk and sugar, first
I it at mine own fingers nursed;
And as it grew so every day,
It waxed more white and sweet than they,
It had so sweet a breath! and oft
I blushed to see its foot more soft
And white, shall I say? than
Than
any lady's of the land.
It was a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet;
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race,
And when't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay.
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that would it guess
To be a little wilderness,
And all the spring time of the year,
It loved only to be there.
Among the beds of lilies, I
Have sought it oft, where it should lie,
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For in the flaxen lilies' shade,
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed;
And then to me 'twould boldly trip
And print these roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin lips to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold;
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.
THE CRICKET.
Little inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Whereso'er be thine abode
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat,
With a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.
Thus thy praise shall be expressed,
Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,
And the mouse with curious snout,
With what vermin else infest
Every dish, and spoil the best;
Frisking thus before the fire
Thou hast all thine heart's desire.
Though in voice and shape they be
Formed, as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far
Happiest grasshoppers that are ;
Theirs is but a summer song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.
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