MY CHAFFINCH. 



His hours he spends upon a fragrant fir ; 



His merry ' chink,' his happy ' Kiss me, dear,' 

 Each moment sounded, keeps the copse astir. 



Loudly he challenges his rivals near, 

 Anon aslant down to the ground he springs, 

 Like to a sunbeam made of coloured wings. 



The firm and solid azure of the ceil 



That struck by hand would give a hollow sound, 

 A dome turned perfect by the sun's great wheel, 



Whose edges rest upon the hills around, 

 Rings many a mile with blue enamelled wall ; 

 His fir-tree is the centre of it all. 



A lichened cup he set against the side 



High up this mast, earth-stepped, that could not fail, 

 But swung a little as a ship might ride, 



Keeping an easy balance in the gale ; 

 Slow-heaving like a gladiator's breast, 

 Whose strength in combat feels an idle rest. 



Whether the cuckoo or the chaffinch most 

 Do triumph in the issuing of their song ? 



I say not this, but many a swelling boast 

 They throw each at the other all day long. 



Soon as the nest had cradled eggs a-twin 



The jolly squirrel climbed to look therein. 

 33° 



