Classic Poem

Must thou, sweet bird, no more thy master cheer?
No more shall I thine artless chantings hear?
Oh skill'd in music's pure simplicity!
How have my tranquil hours been blest by thee!
When tir'd with efforts of laborious thought,
Sooth'd were my languors by thy sprightly note:
When borne on Poesy's swift-sailing wing,
To some fair scene, all paradise and spring,
Listening to thee, I felt the scene more fair,
And with a wilder transport wander'd there:
When (by dark, threat'ning clouds a captive made)
I sigh'd for vernal scene, and vocal shade,
While thy domestic warblings chas'd my spleen,
I miss'd nor vocal shade, nor vernal scene.
Each day I listen'd to thy varied song,
Pleas'd with the labours of thy little tongue:
Sweet was thy song, when morning shed its ray:
Sweet was thy song, when evening clos'd the day.
When care oppress'd me, thou could'st bid it flee;
When friends were far, I found a friend in thee.
The most melodious dweller in the grove,
Ne'er told in notes so soft its artless love.
Well knows the clear-ton'd blackbird how to sing,
And with sweet sounds to hail the welcome spring;
Charm'd with the song, the silent swain the while,
Leans on his staff, and listens with a smile;
Yet must the jetty songster's sweetest note
Yield to the strains that tremble in thy throat!
Oft have I mark'd the active sky-lark rise,
On soaring wings, ambitious of the skies;
Oft have I stood the ascending song to hear,
Till the lost songster lessen'd into air:
Much have I prais'd the lively melody —
But more I prize the notes that flow from thee!
When the fall'n sun but faintly streaks the sky,
And softer colours sooth the pensive eye;
The plaining chantress of the night I love,
Warbling her sadness to the silent grove:
Thro' the calm air the lone mellifluous song
Pours its full tide of harmony along:
Low it begins, while all is hush'd around,
And gently steals from silence into sound:
With gradual rise ascends the skilful lay,
Prolongs the liquid swell, and slowly melts away.
Sweet is the strain, as Hammond's tender line;
Dear is the song — but not so dear as thine!

Yet ere I go, this honest sigh receive!
'Tis all thy parting master has to give.
Oh! as thy last, be thy next owner kind!
Give him, benignant Heaven, a gentle mind!
Each day, with punctual hand, let him bestow
Whate'er of bliss thy little breast can know;
Thy cheap and simple pleasures ne'er forget,
And strive to make thy captive moments sweet.
So may kind stars on all his wishes shine!
Calm be his breast, sweet songster, calm as thine!
Flow all his hours like thy melodious lay;
Smooth and harmonious, let 'em glide away.
Till at the last his kindred soul shall fly,
Where the seraphic minstrels of the sky
Sweep from their silver wires immortal harmony.