59
TO THE REDBREAST.
ING on, sweet bird! thy plaintive toneFalls sweet yet mournful o'er the ear,
For now, alas! thy notes alone
Are heard to wail the dying year.
That year is trembling on the verge
Of long past Time's unfathomed deep,
With thy sad voice to sound her dirge,
While sinking to her last long sleep.
Of long past Time's unfathomed deep,
With thy sad voice to sound her dirge,
While sinking to her last long sleep.
She must away!—her hour is come!
She only waits her midnight knell;
And then departs to seek the tomb
Where ages past in darkness dwell.
She only waits her midnight knell;
And then departs to seek the tomb
Where ages past in darkness dwell.
And though, save thine, each voice is gone,
Which swelled for her when glad and gay,
Still, faithful bird, thou warblest on,
To mourn yet cheer her dying day.
Which swelled for her when glad and gay,
Still, faithful bird, thou warblest on,
To mourn yet cheer her dying day.
As sweet as then thy wild notes fall,
Though all around is sad and drear,
And swiftly Nature's shadowy pall
Is closing round another year.
Though all around is sad and drear,
And swiftly Nature's shadowy pall
Is closing round another year.
