Poems and Essays

by Joseph Howe

 

TO THE LINNET.

 
Oh! fear me not, sweet little Bird,
    Nor quit the bough for me,
But let your evening song be heard
    Of artless minstrelsy. [Page 158]

Think not I wish to do you harm
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    Or drive you from the spray,
In hopes your song my thoughts may charm
    I’m listening to your lay.

Oh! sing the saddest, wildest strain
    You’ve e’er been taught by grief,
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And chaunt it o’er and o’er again
    ’Twill give my soul relief.

If you have watched a Parent dear
    Whose life was on the wane,
The mournful song pray let me hear,
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    You sang to soothe his pain.

If you have seen his eyelids close
    Without the power to save,
Warble the lay, ’twill bring repose,
    You sang beside his grave.
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How oft by yonder aged tree,
    My Father at my side,
I’ve listen’d many an hour to thee
    At silent eventide.

For then, the merriest roundelay
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    You sang on summer eve
Was welcome, to a heart so gay
    It knew no cause to grieve.

E’en yet your simple strain I love
    Altho’ by care oppress’d, [Page 159]
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To hear thee warbling as I rove
    Relieves my aching breast.

Then fear me not, sweet little Bird
    Nor quit the bough for me,
But let your evening song be heard
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    Of artless minstrelsy. [Page 160]