330 FIELD AND HEDGEROW. 
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, 
