Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 2, August 1852Various
General
Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 2, August 1852
Various
Literature -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals
One long and shuddering sigh—one short, sharp spasm—and the dark eyes
opened, but their orbs were glazed and sightless—her jaw fell.
And Egypt never more bowed to a native sovereign.
And Rome was never more uncursed by a Cæsar.
* * * * *
=THE TWO BIRDS.—A STREET LYRIC.=
=BY GEORGE H. BOKER.=
Two birds hang from two facing windows;
One on a lady’s marble wall,
The other, a seamstress’ sole companion,
Rests on her lattice dark and small.
The one, embowered by rare exotics,
Swings in a curious golden cage;
The other, beside a lone geranium,
Peeps between wires of rusty age.
The one consumes a dainty seedling
That, leagues on leagues, in vessels comes;
The other pecks at the scanty leavings,
Strained from his mistress’ painful crumbs.
The lady’s bird has careful lackeys,
To leave him in the cheerful sun;
Upon her bird the seamstress glances,
Between each stitch, till work is done.
Doubtless the marble wall shines gayly,
And sometimes to the window roam
Guests in their stately silken garments;—
But yon small blind looks more like home.
Doubtless the tropic flowers are dazzling,
The golden cage is rare to see;
But sweeter smells the low geranium—
The mean cage has more liberty.
’Tis well to feed upon the fruitage,
Brought from a distant southern grove;
But better is a homely offering,
Divided by the hand of love.
The purchased service of a menial
May, to the letter, fill its part;
But there’s an overflowing kindness
Springs from the service of a heart.
Hark! yonder bird begins to warble:
Well done, my lady’s pretty pet!
Thy song is somewhat faint and straitened,
Yet sweeter tones I seldom met.
And now the seamstress’ bird—Oh, listen!
Hear with what power his daring song
Sweeps through its musical divisions,
Striking each note in rapture strong!
Hear how he trills, with what abundance
He flings his varied stores away!
Bursting through wood and woven iron
With the wild freedom of his lay!
Cease, little prisoner to the lady,
Cease, till the rising of the moon;
Thy feeble song is all unsuited
To the full mid-day glare of June.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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