POETRY.
HER DEAD BIRD.
[On turning out for repair the inside of a church organ in a high gallery there was found, covered with dust, a little cardboard box, shaped like a coffin and inscribed— "To MT DEAR DICKY WHO DIED AGED 18 MONTHS DEEPLY REGRETTED."
Inside was the skeleton of a bird.] WHOSE were the loving hands, the sorrowing breast, That, when thou couldst thyself no longer sing, Brought thee in holy Music's home to rest,
High above earth, fit refuge for thy wing ?
Methinks some tearful maiden, in her pains For one who, for a while her daily care, Had ever paid her back with joyous strains, To holy Church entrusting laid thee there.
Wisely and well thy sepulchre she chose Mid pipes whence Art to God its tribute pays, As from thy little throat to Him arose Spontaneous bursts of Nature's grateful praise.
Sleep on, sweet birdie, take thy hallowed rest : Haply to Heaven thy gladness still may rise,* Mingling with choral tributes of the blest To Him without Whom not one sparrow dies.
RUFUS.
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