144 SONG SPARROW. 



Say! when the blast 



Of winter swept our whitened plains, what clime, 

 What summer clime thou charm'dst, and how 

 was past 



Thy joyous time ? 



0, well I know 



Why thou art here thus soon, and why the bowers 

 So near the sun have lesser charms than now 



Our land of flowers. 



Thou art returned 



On a glad errand, to rebuild thy nest, 

 And fan anew the gentle fire that burned 



Within thy breast. 



And thy wild strain 



Poured on the gale, is love's transporting voice 

 That, calling on the plumy choir again 



Bid them rejoice. 



Nor calls alone 



To enjoy, but bids improve the fleeting hour 

 Bids all that ever heard love's witching tone 



Or felt his power. 



The poet, too, 



It soft invokes to touch the trembling wire; 

 Yet, ah, how few its sounds shall list, how few 



His songs admire! 



