Little bird, little bird, with thy beautiful eye.
Looking as if 't were cut out of a star,
How do I know but it once was on high,
Beaming through evening, sublime from afar?
I cannot say what thy Maker divine,
When he composed thee an optic so bright,
Making the skill of his finger to shine,
Drew from those high upper regions of light.
Little bird, little bird, with thy spirit-like wings,
Fleet as the air,—as the rainbow in hues,
How can I tell but the Ruler of kings
Formed them by those his blest ministers use?
Were not the fancy-like tints of thy plume,
Was not the delicate down of thy breast,
Caught from the flowers that in Paradise bloom,—
Plucked from the couch where the weary ones rest?
Little bird, little bird, with thy musical voice
Tuned like a seraph's, deep, flowing, and clear,
Was not thy melody, touching and choice,
Taught by some angel, who visited here?
What, what, pretty fairy! so soon must thou go,
Fleet as a vision, without a reply,
Just like all other bright treasures below,
Charming a moment, to change or to fly?