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THE LARK
THERE is a legend somewhere told
Of how the skylark came of old
To the dying Saviour's cross,
And circling round that form of pain
Poured forth a wild, lamenting strain,
As if for human loss.
Pierced by those accents of despair,
Upon the tiny mourner there
Turning his fading eyes,
The Saviour said, "Dost thou so mourn,
And is thy fragile breast so torn,
That man, thy brother, dies?
"O'er all the world uplifted high,
We are alone here, thou and I;
And near to heaven and thee
I bless thy pity-guided wings!
I bless thy voice—the last that sings
Love's requiem for me!
"Sorrow no more shall fill thy song;
These frail and fluttering wings grown strong,
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