Classic Poem

Lament all ye birds, and ye quadruped train,
Who dwell in the branches, or rest on the plain;
All ye, who dwell under the shade of the tree,
Come hither, and mingle your sorrows with me:
For gone is your glory, and fallen your pride,
And faded your glory, since Cressida died.

Lament him, for graceful and tall was his mien,
And stately his step on the smooth shaven green;
And royally high on his head did he bear
The turban that mark'd him the king of the air;
And bright in the sun did his gay plumage shine,
Then hasten, and mingle your sorrow with mine.

How shrill was his note at the close of the day,
When he challeng'd each wild fowl that passed on his way!
And how gentle the murmur that flow'd from his breast,
When, in fondness, he peck'd at the hand he lov'd best!
Then hasten, all birds, that dwell under the tree,
And join your complainings and sorrows with me.

To his friends he was always submissive and low;
But, how proudly he rose at the sight of a foe,
When with wide-spreading pinions, and high swelling chest,
He chas'd the intruder who troubled his rest!
But gone is his spirit, and sunk is his pride,
And vanish'd my pleasure, since Cressida died.

He is dead, and for ever lies under the sod,
No more shall he mimic the bow and the nod;
No more with significant gesture advance,
And join the spectator in whimsical dance.
Then haste to lament, tho' your sorrow is vain,
Ye fowls of the forest, and birds of the plain.

Lament, for you know what a beautiful streak
Of lively carnation once colour'd his cheek;
But you know not how quickly that colour so gay
His life and his loveliness faded away;
Nor how mournful his note when he strove to complain —
Then lament him, ye birds, tho' your sorrow is vain.

You too may lament him, ye birds of the tree,
But you will not, you cannot, lament him like me:
You may form other friendships, but when shall I find
A friend so affectionate, gentle, and kind.
Then leave me in silence, ye sons of the plain,
For I will still grieve, tho' I grieve but in vain.

Lament all ye birds, and ye quadruped train,
Who dwell in the branches, or rest on the plain;
All ye, who dwell under the shade of the tree,
Come hither, and mingle your sorrows with me:
For gone is your glory, and fallen your pride,
And faded your glory, since Cressida died.

Lament him, for graceful and tall was his mien,
And stately his step on the smooth shaven green;
And royally high on his head did he bear
The turban that mark'd him the king of the air;
And bright in the sun did his gay plumage shine,
Then hasten, and mingle your sorrow with mine.

How shrill was his note at the close of the day,
When he challeng'd each wild fowl that passed on his way!
And how gentle the murmur that flow'd from his breast,
When, in fondness, he peck'd at the hand he lov'd best!
Then hasten, all birds, that dwell under the tree,
And join your complainings and sorrows with me.

To his friends he was always submissive and low;
But, how proudly he rose at the sight of a foe,
When with wide-spreading pinions, and high swelling chest,
He chas'd the intruder who troubled his rest!
But gone is his spirit, and sunk is his pride,
And vanish'd my pleasure, since Cressida died.

He is dead, and for ever lies under the sod,
No more shall he mimic the bow and the nod;
No more with significant gesture advance,
And join the spectator in whimsical dance.
Then haste to lament, tho' your sorrow is vain,
Ye fowls of the forest, and birds of the plain.

Lament, for you know what a beautiful streak
Of lively carnation once colour'd his cheek;
But you know not how quickly that colour so gay
His life and his loveliness faded away;
Nor how mournful his note when he strove to complain —
Then lament him, ye birds, tho' your sorrow is vain.

You too may lament him, ye birds of the tree,
But you will not, you cannot, lament him like me:
You may form other friendships, but when shall I find
A friend so affectionate, gentle, and kind.
Then leave me in silence, ye sons of the plain,
For I will still grieve, tho' I grieve but in vain.