Classic Poem

In Scotland's realm, where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;
But where, however bleak the view,
Some better things are found: —

For husband there and wife may boast
Their union undefil'd;
And false ones are as rare almost,
As hedge-rows in the wild: —

In Scotland's realm, forlorn and bare,
This hist'ry chanc'd of late, —
This hist'ry of a wedded pair,
A chaffinch and his mate.

The spring drew near, each felt a breast
With genial instinct fill'd;
They pair'd, and only wish'd a nest,
But found not where to build.

The heaths uncover'd, and the moors,
Except with snow and sleet;
Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores,
Could yield them no retreat.

Long time a breeding place they sought,
'Till both grew vex'd and tir'd;
At length a ship arriving brought
The good so long desir'd.

A ship! — could such a restless thing,
Afford them place of rest?
Or was the merchant charg'd to bring
The homeless birds a nest?

Hush! — silent hearers profit most! —
This racer of the sea
Prov'd kinder to them than the coast,
It serv'd them with a tree.

But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal,
The tree they call a mast;
And had a hollow with a wheel
Through which the tackle pass'd.

Within that cavity aloft
Their roofless home they fixt;
Form'd with materials neat and soft,
Bents, wool, and feathers mixt.

Four iv'ry eggs soon pave its floor,
With russet specks bedight; —
The vessel weighs — forsakes the shore,
And lessens to the sight.

The mother-bird is gone to sea,
As she had chang'd her kind;
But goes the mate? Far wiser he
Is doubtless left behind.

No! — soon as from ashore he saw
The winged mansion move;
He flew to reach it, by a law
Of never-failing love!$

Then perching at his consort's side
Was briskly borne along;
The billows and the blast defied,
And cheer'd her with a song.

The seaman, with sincere delight,
His feather'd shipmates eyes,
Scarce less exulting in the sight,
Than when he tows a prize.

For seamen much believe in signs,
And from a chance so new
Each some approaching good divines,
And may his hopes be true!

Hail! honour'd land! a desert, where
Not even birds can hide;
Yet parent of this loving pair,
Whom nothing could divide:

And ye, who rather than resign
Your matrimonial plan,
Were not afraid to plough the brine,
In company with man;

To whose lean country much disdain
We English often show;
Yet from a richer nothing gain
But wantonness and woe;

Be it your fortune, year by year,
The same resource to prove;
And may ye, sometimes landing here,
Instruct us how to love!