The Widowed Bird.
The grove is silent, and alone is heard
The pious mourning of a widowed bird,
Who weeps unceasingly her mate at rest,
Her offspring nestled to her throbbing breast.
O'erwhelmed in woe her faithful heart, she steeps
In sorrow's fount, and mournful vigil keeps,
Becoming grief! yet certain seasons past,
It is decreed, the dark hour may not last.
The heart's warm blood with gentle joy elate,
At Nature's bidding, asks another mate;
(Wise dispensation for the common good—
A feeling never to be long withstood).
Love lives on memory till time soften'd hours
Into another source its fondness pours.
Soon as the feather'd choir began to sing
Their hymn of gratitude to welcome spring,
Each innate feeling thus by music stirr'd.
Its genial influence reach'd the Widowed Bird.
Unerring Nature wills that every kind,
Alike in feeling, character, and mind,
Consort together, and neglecting this,
Small, small indeed, the chance of wedded bliss.
The lovely Philomel, with instinct rife,
Takes none save Nightingale to be his wife:
Thrush will to Thrush, as Lark to Lark repairs,
From fellow feeling known each other's cares;
