And as sweet sang the Bullfinch, although he confest That the anguish he felt was more deep than the rest, And they all marvelled much how he'd spirits to sing, When to show them his anguish he held up his wing; From his throat to his tail not a feather was found But what had been stained red with blood from the wound. And sad chirped the Sparrow of joys fled and gone, Of his love being lost he so doted upon; So he vowed constant silence for that very thing, And this is the reason why Sparrows don't sing. Then next came the Rook and the sorrowful Crow, To tell birds the cause why in mourning they go, Ever since their old loves their embraces forsook; And all seemed to pity the Crow and the Rook. The Jay he affected to hide his despair, And rather than mourn he had spirits to wear A coat of all colours, but in it some blue Denoted his passion; though crossed, 't was true; So now in lone woods he will hide him all day, And aloud he scolds all that intrude in his way. The Magpie declared it should never be said That he mourned for a lover, though fifty had fled; Yet his heart all the while was so burnt and distrest, That it turned all the feathers coal-black on his breast. The birds they all marvelled, but still he denied, And wore a black cap his deep blushes to hide; So that is the reason himself and his kin Wear hoods with the lappets quite under the chin. Then last came the Owl, grieving loud as he flew, Saying how his false lover had bade him adieu; And though he knew not where to find her or follow, Yet round their old haunts he would still whoop and halloo, For no sleep could he get in his sorrowful plight. So that is the reason Owls halloo at night. And here ends the song of each woe-stricken bird. Now was a more pitiful story e'er heard? The rest were all coupled, and happy, and they Sung the old merry songs which they sing at this day: And good little boys, when this tale they read o'er, Will ne'er have the heart to hurt birds any more, And add to the griefs they already have sung By robbing their nests of their eggs and their young; But feel for their sufferings, and pity their pain, Nor give them new cause of their lot to complain. FAREWELL AND DEFIANCE TO LOVE [After Sir John Harrington] [From the "European Magazine" March, 1826] Love and thy vain employs, away From this too oft deluded breast! No longer will I court thy stay, To be my bosom's teasing guest. Thou treacherous medicine--reckon'd pure; Thou quackery of the harass'd heart, That kills what it pretends to cure, Life's mountebank thou art. With nostrums vain of boasted powers, That, ta'en, a worse disorder leave; An asp hid in a group of flowers, That bites and stings when few perceive; Thou mock-peace to the troubled mind, Leading it more in sorrow's way, Freedom that leaves us more confined, I bid thee hence away.