Ill 



Nay, Bird; my grief gainsays the Lord's best right 

 The Lord uuas fain, at some late festal ti??ie, 

 That Keats should set all Heaven's -woods in 

 rhyme. 

 And thou in hird-notes. Lo, this tearful night, 

 Methinks I see thee, fresh from de^ith's despite. 

 Perched in a palm-grove, wild with pantomime. 

 O'er blissful companies couched in shady thyme, 

 — Methinks I hear thy silver whistlings bright 

 Mix with the mighty discourse of the wise, 

 Till broad Beethoven, deaf no more, and Keats, 

 'Midst of much talk, uplift their stniling eyes. 

 And mark the music of thy wood-conceits. 

 And halfway pause on some large, courteous word. 

 And call thee "-Brother," thou heavenly Bird! 



Baltimore, 1878. 



