The Titmouse 



Of my bird's song: "Live out of doors 

 In the great woods, on prairie floors. 

 I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea, 

 I too have a hole in a hollow tree; 

 And I like less when Summer beats 

 With stifling beams on these retreats, 

 Than noontide twilights which snow makes 

 With tempest of the blinding flakes, 

 For well the soul, if stout within, 

 Can arm impregnably the skin; 

 And polar frost my frame defied, 

 Made of the air that blows outside. " 



With glad remembrance of my debt, 

 I homeward turn; farewell, my pet! 

 When here again thy pilgrim comes, 

 He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs. 

 Doubt not, so long as earth has bread, 

 Thou first and foremost shalt be fed; 

 The Providence that is most large 

 Takes hearts like thine in special charge, 

 Helps who for their own need are strong, 

 And the sky doats on cheerful song. 

 Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant 

 O'er all that mass and minster vaunt; 

 For men mis-hear thy call in Spring, 

 As 'twould accost some frivolous wing, 

 Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be! 

 And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee ! 

 I think old Caesar must have heard 

 In northern Gaul my dauntless bird 

 And, echoed in some frosty wold, 



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