Ah ! sweetest of the feather'd throng,
That chirps, and flits the glades along,
When summer cheers the sky:
With ruddy breast, and thigh of down,
And back, and wing of glossy brown
And pretty sparkling eye—

Who, oft when brumal storms assail'd,
And blust'ring wind, and rain prevail'd
Against my humble seat,
Would'st, shivering, to my roof retire,
And fearless view the sparkling fire,
Cheer'd by the genial heat.

At early dawn, thy quavering throat
Pour'd forth the wild enchanting note—
In descant sweet and strong;
What time my faint returning sight
First caught the trembling beams of light,
Roused by the matin song.

Alas! poor bird, I mourn thy lot!
No more thy carol from my cot
Shall drive the lingering gloom:
The weeping Muse her tribute pays,
And in her own, inferior lays,
She consecrates thy tomb.