Yet, poor bird, thy tiny corse Moves me, somehow, to remorse; Something haunts my conscience, brings Sad, compunctious visitings. Other favourites, dwelling here, Open lived to us, and near; Well we knew when they were glad, Plain we saw if they were sad, Joy'd with them when they were gay, Soothed them in their last decay; Sympathy could feel and show Both in weal of theirs and woe. Birds, companions more unknown, Live beside us, but alone; Finding not, do all they can, Passage from their souls to man. Kindness we bestow, and praise, Laud their plumage, greet their lays; Still, beneath their feather'd breast, Stirs a history unexpress'd. Wishes there, and feelings strong, Incommunicably throng; What they want, we cannot guess, Fail to track their deep distress-- Dull look on when death is nigh, Note no change, and let them die. Poor Matthias! couldst thou speak, What a tale of thy last week! Every morning did we pay Stupid salutations gay, Suited well to health, but how Mocking, how incongruous now! Cake we offer'd, sugar, seed, Never doubtful of thy need; Praised, perhaps, thy courteous eye, Praised thy golden livery. Gravely thou the while, poor dear! Sat'st upon thy perch to hear, Fixing with a mute regard Us, thy human keepers hard, Troubling, with our chatter vain, Ebb of life, and mortal pain-- Us, unable to divine Our companion's dying sign, Or o'erpass the severing sea Set betwixt ourselves and thee, Till the sand thy feathers smirch Fallen dying off thy perch! Was it, as the Grecian sings, Birds were born the first of things, Before the sun, before the wind, Before the gods, before mankind, Airy, ante-mundane throng-- Witness their unworldly song! Proof they give, too, primal powers, Of a prescience more than ours-- Teach us, while they come and go, When to sail, and when to sow. Cuckoo calling from the hill, Swallow skimming by the mill, Swallows trooping in the sedge, Starlings swirling from the hedge, Mark the seasons, map our year, As they show and disappear. But, with all this travail sage Brought from that anterior age, Goes an unreversed decree Whereby strange are they and we; Making want of theirs, and plan, Indiscernible by man.