86 THE PAPIA Who, that thy mournful song has heard, Can e'er forget its swell and fall? Minstrel of sorrow! with thy cry- Pew kahan! Pew kahan! Thou flingest show'rs of melody, Thrilling the feeling heart of man. And near or far-in shade or light- Thou fleest unseen from tree to tree. A joyless spirit restless quite, As from some secret misery. I watch thee close, but see thee not, O haunter of my summer grove ! I love thy song with sadness fraught, Lamenting lone thy vanish'd love. That passionate outburst, wherein Thou pourest out thy very soul, Might break another heart, I ween, The cuckoo loudly, chants his lay, The world deceiving by his art ; The spring is come ! he seems to say,-- But does it come to every heart? Away, thou false and fickle thing, Intent on pleasures of the hour! Vain prodigal! minion of spring! Base run-away from Winter's pow'r! But hail, sweet Papia, hail to thee! Thy spotted grey to me appears And yet thou seemest sound and whole.
