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Thus counting, then, the Jackdaws' call
A proper time to rise,
And taking gratefully the sticks,
And trying what they teach to fix
The Daws and I right pleasantly
And, truth to say, I think that noise,
Now, reader, do not reckon this
Long tale an empty bubble;
But from it learn, how much of rest
"The beast of the field shall know me, the Dragons, and the Owls."-ISA. XLIII. 20.
the solitary bird of night,
And yet above, how calmly shines the moon!
While Philomel's high notes of rapture thrill! O sing a dirge, lone minstrel! some sad tune For those who cheer the world when thou art still.
Tell to the winds of night a tale of grief;
While he that now is revelling in death,
Triumphant o'er the deeds that he has done, Will lurk unheard, and tremble at the breath Of every breeze, and hide him from the sun!
Ah, no! I wrong thee, wanderer of the night!
Thy breast is guiltless, though thou shun the day: Sweetly thou sleepest through the hours of light; For thine in darkness is but destined prey.
'Tis man alone offends in shedding blood!
Would that the world were innocent as thou! Thy looks but speak the wisdom of thy ways; And, though thy voice be quivering and low, Not Philomel's is more a voice of praise!
THE MINSTREL'S REQUITAL.
SERVANT of God! that even yet may lend