The Mourner Comforted.
The Mourner Comforted.
PoorPhil was once a blithe Canary—But then his mate was at his side;His spirits never seemed to vary,Till she, one autumn evening, died.And now upon his perch he clung,With ruffled plumes and spirits low,His carol hushed, or if he sung,’Twas some sad warble of his wo.His little mistress came with seed—Alas! he would not—could not feed.She filled the cup with crystal dew,She called—she whistled—’twould not do;The little mourner bowed his head,And gently peeped,—“my mate is dead!”Alas, poor Phil—how changed art thou!The gayest once—the saddest now.The dribbled seed, the limpid wave,Would purchase, then, thy sweetest stave:Or if thou hadst some softer spell,Thine ear had stolen from the shell,That sings amid the silver sand,That circles round thy native land—’Twas only when, with wily art,Thou sought’st to charm thy partner’s heart.And she is gone—thy joys are fled—Thy music with thy mate is dead!Poor bird—upon the roost he sate,With drooping wing—disconsolate—And as his little mistress gazed,Her brimming eyes with tears were glazed.In vain she tried each wonted artTo heal the mourner’s broken heart.At last she went, with childish thought,And to the cage a mirror brought.She placed it by the songster’s side—And lo, the image seemed his bride!Forth from his perch he wondering flew,Approached and gazed, and gazed anew!And then his wings he trembling shook,And then a circling flight he took—And then his notes began to rise,A song of triumph to the skies!And since, for many a day and year,That blissful bird—the mirror near—With what he deems his little wife,His partner still, has spent his life—Content if but the image stay,Sit by his side, and list his lay!Thus fancy oft will bring relief—And with a shadow, comfort grief.
PoorPhil was once a blithe Canary—But then his mate was at his side;His spirits never seemed to vary,Till she, one autumn evening, died.And now upon his perch he clung,With ruffled plumes and spirits low,His carol hushed, or if he sung,’Twas some sad warble of his wo.His little mistress came with seed—Alas! he would not—could not feed.She filled the cup with crystal dew,She called—she whistled—’twould not do;The little mourner bowed his head,And gently peeped,—“my mate is dead!”Alas, poor Phil—how changed art thou!The gayest once—the saddest now.The dribbled seed, the limpid wave,Would purchase, then, thy sweetest stave:Or if thou hadst some softer spell,Thine ear had stolen from the shell,That sings amid the silver sand,That circles round thy native land—’Twas only when, with wily art,Thou sought’st to charm thy partner’s heart.And she is gone—thy joys are fled—Thy music with thy mate is dead!Poor bird—upon the roost he sate,With drooping wing—disconsolate—And as his little mistress gazed,Her brimming eyes with tears were glazed.In vain she tried each wonted artTo heal the mourner’s broken heart.At last she went, with childish thought,And to the cage a mirror brought.She placed it by the songster’s side—And lo, the image seemed his bride!Forth from his perch he wondering flew,Approached and gazed, and gazed anew!And then his wings he trembling shook,And then a circling flight he took—And then his notes began to rise,A song of triumph to the skies!And since, for many a day and year,That blissful bird—the mirror near—With what he deems his little wife,His partner still, has spent his life—Content if but the image stay,Sit by his side, and list his lay!Thus fancy oft will bring relief—And with a shadow, comfort grief.
PoorPhil was once a blithe Canary—
But then his mate was at his side;
His spirits never seemed to vary,
Till she, one autumn evening, died.
And now upon his perch he clung,
With ruffled plumes and spirits low,
His carol hushed, or if he sung,
’Twas some sad warble of his wo.
His little mistress came with seed—Alas! he would not—could not feed.She filled the cup with crystal dew,She called—she whistled—’twould not do;The little mourner bowed his head,And gently peeped,—“my mate is dead!”
His little mistress came with seed—
Alas! he would not—could not feed.
She filled the cup with crystal dew,
She called—she whistled—’twould not do;
The little mourner bowed his head,
And gently peeped,—“my mate is dead!”
Alas, poor Phil—how changed art thou!The gayest once—the saddest now.The dribbled seed, the limpid wave,Would purchase, then, thy sweetest stave:Or if thou hadst some softer spell,Thine ear had stolen from the shell,That sings amid the silver sand,That circles round thy native land—’Twas only when, with wily art,Thou sought’st to charm thy partner’s heart.And she is gone—thy joys are fled—Thy music with thy mate is dead!
Alas, poor Phil—how changed art thou!
The gayest once—the saddest now.
The dribbled seed, the limpid wave,
Would purchase, then, thy sweetest stave:
Or if thou hadst some softer spell,
Thine ear had stolen from the shell,
That sings amid the silver sand,
That circles round thy native land—
’Twas only when, with wily art,
Thou sought’st to charm thy partner’s heart.
And she is gone—thy joys are fled—
Thy music with thy mate is dead!
Poor bird—upon the roost he sate,With drooping wing—disconsolate—And as his little mistress gazed,Her brimming eyes with tears were glazed.In vain she tried each wonted artTo heal the mourner’s broken heart.At last she went, with childish thought,And to the cage a mirror brought.She placed it by the songster’s side—And lo, the image seemed his bride!
Poor bird—upon the roost he sate,
With drooping wing—disconsolate—
And as his little mistress gazed,
Her brimming eyes with tears were glazed.
In vain she tried each wonted art
To heal the mourner’s broken heart.
At last she went, with childish thought,
And to the cage a mirror brought.
She placed it by the songster’s side—
And lo, the image seemed his bride!
Forth from his perch he wondering flew,Approached and gazed, and gazed anew!And then his wings he trembling shook,And then a circling flight he took—And then his notes began to rise,A song of triumph to the skies!And since, for many a day and year,That blissful bird—the mirror near—With what he deems his little wife,His partner still, has spent his life—Content if but the image stay,Sit by his side, and list his lay!
Forth from his perch he wondering flew,
Approached and gazed, and gazed anew!
And then his wings he trembling shook,
And then a circling flight he took—
And then his notes began to rise,
A song of triumph to the skies!
And since, for many a day and year,
That blissful bird—the mirror near—
With what he deems his little wife,
His partner still, has spent his life—
Content if but the image stay,
Sit by his side, and list his lay!
Thus fancy oft will bring relief—And with a shadow, comfort grief.
Thus fancy oft will bring relief—
And with a shadow, comfort grief.