No, away with tales like these Stol'n from Aristophanes![36] Does it, if we miss your mind, Prove us so remote in kind? Birds! we but repeat on you What amongst ourselves we do. Somewhat more or somewhat less, 'Tis the same unskilfulness. What you feel, escapes our ken-- Know we more our fellow men? Human suffering at our side, Ah, like yours is undescried! Human longings, human fears, Miss our eyes and miss our ears. Little helping, wounding much, Dull of heart, and hard of touch, Brother man's despairing sign Who may trust us to divine? Who assure us, sundering powers Stand not 'twixt his soul and ours? Poor Matthias! See, thy end What a lesson doth it lend! For that lesson thou shalt have, Dead canary bird, a stave! Telling how, one stormy day, Stress of gale and showers of spray Drove my daughter small and me Inland from the rocks and sea. Driv'n inshore, we follow down Ancient streets of Hastings town-- Slowly thread them--when behold, French canary-merchant old Shepherding his flock of gold In a low dim-lighted pen Scann'd of tramps and fishermen! There a bird, high-coloured, fat, Proud of port, though something squat-- Pursy, play'd-out Philistine-- Dazzled Nelly's youthful eyne. But, far in, obscure, there stirr'd On his perch a sprightlier bird, Courteous-eyed, erect and slim; And I whisper'd: "Fix on _him_!" Home we brought him, young and fair, Songs to trill in Surrey air. Here Matthias sang his fill, Saw the cedars of Pains Hill; Here he pour'd his little soul, Heard the murmur of the Mole. Eight in number now the years He hath pleased our eyes and ears; Other favourites he hath known Go, and now himself is gone. --Fare thee well, companion dear! Fare for ever well, nor fear, Tiny though thou art, to stray Down the uncompanion'd way! We without thee, little friend, Many years have not to spend; What are left, will hardly be Better than we spent with thee. KAISER DEAD _April_ 6, 1887. What, Kaiser dead? The heavy news Post-haste to Cobham calls the Muse, From where in Farringford she brews The ode sublime, Or with Pen-bryn's bold bard pursues A rival rhyme. Kai's bracelet tail, Kai's busy feet, Were known to all the village-street. "What, poor Kai dead?" say all I meet; "A loss indeed!" O for the croon pathetic, sweet, Of Robin's reed![37] Six years ago I brought him down, A baby dog, from London town; Round his small throat of black and brown A ribbon blue, And vouch'd by glorious renown A dachshound true. His mother, most majestic dame, Of blood-unmix'd, from Potsdam came; And Kaiser's race we deem'd the same-- No lineage higher. And so he bore the imperial name. But ah, his sire!