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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.

No, away with tales like these
Stol’n from Aristophanes![1]
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.

[Footnote 1:

Stol’n from Aristophanes.

See The Birds of Aristophanes, 465-485.]