POETRY.
' SWEEP ': AN ELEGY.
POOR bird! you left your windy shaws A callow squab, with vigorous caws Denouncing man, his ways and laws
And dull dominions; But age and philosophic pause Changed your opinions.
For soon you compromised with fate, And walked the world with mien sedate, Cocking an eye to contemplate New forms of madness, Or plunged in some profounder stater Of "humorous sadness."
Alas ! too short a life, for when The last-year's neat was built again, And joyous cawings filled the glen, You flattered down And died amid the haunts of men In Rouen town.
Were mine the magic harp that brings. Immortal fame to mortal things, I'd have you soar on shining wings To uplands airy, Where Lesbia's lovely sparrow sings. With Nell's canary,
But these were they the gods preferred : A minor bard's dishonoured bird Is never to the skies transferred,
Lest he should harrow Matthias' soul with some base word Or peck the sparrow.
Rather go seek the sunless flats Of Hades, hunting goblin bats And pulling fur with spectral cats In worlds of hoax, Filled with all vague material that's Required for jokes.
Meanwhile, poor friend, the garden mould Wherein you delved of yore shall hold Your mortal part—where, 'spite the cold Black earth above you, Long shall your tender praise be told By them that love you.
ARTHUR AUSTIN-JACKSON.
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