Little pilgrim swallow, still
Thou dost perch upon my sill,
Singing every morning, till
My heart repeats thy plaintive rill;
⁠What is wrong, tell me along,
⁠Little swallow, in thy song?

Art forsaken by thy mate,
Abandoned and left desolate;
Or weep'st perhaps my cruel fate,
Seeing me disconnsolate?
⁠With sorrow wrung, my heart's unstrung,
⁠Little swallow, by thy tongue.

Yet have I most cause to sigh
Thou canst on thy wings rely,
Skim the lake and soar on high,
Wake in echoes from the sky
⁠Notes that each my prison reach,
⁠Little swallow, with thy speech.

Ah! if I — but fates, compel
Me dungeoned to this narrow cell,
Whence the sun may not dispel
The gloom that drowns my voice as well,
⁠Lifted vain, in sad refrain,
⁠Little swallow, to thy strain.

Now September is at hand
Thou wilt leave me with thy band,
Calling mountains, dreary sand,
Calling oceans, flowery land,
⁠Without choice, to rejoice,
⁠Little swallow, with thy voice.

Still shall I, awake from sleep
Opening my eyes to weep,
Though the earth with snow be deep,
Fresh thy love and pity keep;
⁠Without restraint, to hear I'll feint,
⁠Little swallow, still, thy plaint.

When spring comes in radiance bright,
A cross will stand upon yon height;
Little swallow, check thy flight,
Upon its topmost bar to light;
⁠Salute my grave, and at its verge,
⁠Little swallow, chant my dirge.

Thy face, so sweet and fair to see,
Of late has come in my dreams to me;
It is so gentle, and angel-fair,
And yet so wan, so wan with care.

The lips are rose-red; but anon
Death kisses them, and they are wan;
And quench'd is the celestial light,
That from thy sweet eyes flashes bright.

Flashes of gold that fleck the sober grey;
⁠Dark ruddy tints that crimson in the light;
⁠Soft streaks of silver glimmering pearly white,
Amid the russet browns half hid away;
Pure green of spring that lingers while it may;
⁠Patches of ivy-foliage dark as night;
⁠Rich purple shades that peep out from the height:
Such crown with glory the September day.
Oh autumn woods! I lie beside the stream
⁠That winds you round about so lovingly,
⁠And rapt in sensfe of wondrous beauty, see
How vain must be ambition's lofty dream
To rival tints like yours, or dare to trace
Your perfect harmony, your perfect grace.

At fashion's call, with cruel shears,
They cropped poor Tray's superfluous ears;
Twice shrieked the mutilated pup,
Then sniffed and ate the fragments up,
Nor stayed his losses to deplore,
But wagged his tail and roared for more.
Here, without Tupper, we may see
The marrow of philosophy,
The how and where, with natural ease,
To stow away our miseries;
Nor simply to gulp down our pain,
But turn disaster into gain;
And, when her scissors shear our pate,
To batten on the spoils of Fate.

⁠My wife and child, come close to me,
⁠The world to us is a stormy sea;
With your hands in mine, if your eyes but shine,
⁠I care not how wild the storm may be.

⁠For the fiercest wind that ever blew
⁠Is nothing to me, so I shelter you:
No warmth do I lack, for the howl at my back
⁠Sings down to my heart, "Man, bold and true."

⁠A pleasant sail, my child! my wife!
⁠O'er a pleasant sea, to many is life;
The wind blows warm, and they dread no storm,
⁠And wherever they go, kind friends are rife.

⁠But, wife and child! the love, the love,
⁠That lifteth us to the saints above,
Could only have grown where storms have blown,
⁠The truth and strength of the heart to prove.