And feeling death swim in his endless bleeding,
His heavy head his fainting strength exceeding,
Bade farewell to the woods that round him wave,
While tears from drooping flowers bedew his turfy grave.

THE SWALLOW.

HE gorse is yellow on the heath,

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,

The oaks are budding; and beneath,

The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,

The silver wreath of May.

The welcome guest of settled Spring,
The Swallow too is come at last;
Just at sun-set, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,

And hail'd her as she pass'd.

THE SWALLOW.

I would inquire how, journeying long
The vast and pathless ocean o'er,
You ply again those pinions strong,
And come to build anew among

The scenes you left before?

But if, as colder breezes blow,

Prophetic of the waning year,

You hide, though none know when or how,

In the cliff's excavated brow,

And linger torpid here;

Thus lost to life, what favouring dream
Bids you to happier hours awake,
And tells that, dancing on the beam,
The light gnat hovers o'er the stream,
The May-fly on the lake?

Or if, by instinct taught to know
Approaching dearth of insect food,

To isles and willowy aits you go,
And, crowding on the pliant bough,
Sink in the dimpling flood;

How learn ye, while the cold waves boom

Your deep and oozy couch above, The time when flowers of promise bloom, And call you from your transient tomb,

To light, and life, and love?