LINES TO A CANARY BIRD.

God bless thee! and thy joyous throat! Thy trill, thy churr, thy piercing note, My sweet canary! Thou gush of song, thou waterbrook Of joy, thou poem, doctrine, book, Vocabulary! Thou caged-up treasure of delight! That know'st to make a prison bright Through music's mystery! To swell thy rich notes in full tide, Or highest reach of sound divide Like Paganini! Where didst thou gain this wondrous lore? Where that, (which I admire yet more,) The glad Philosophy, That smiles at iron bars and doors? In loneliness a spirit pours Of mirthful minstrelsy? Wert ever old? or broken-hearted? Hast ever from thy mate been parted To meet hereafter? It cannot be; that gleesome strain Springs from a heart that ne'er knew pain— 'Tis almost Laughter! Now thou art still; thy chaunt is o'er; Thou seem'st intent on something more Important to thee. Hast any thing to lose? or gain? What think'st thou of the war in Maine? And Sir John Harvey? Would'st Scott, or Prescott, rather be? The Cotton crop—is't aught to thee? The Crayon Papers? Art rich at heart? or yet to know— But hark! thy strain again doth flow, Again, in music, stirs! Ah Rogue! I see thee, have thee now— That leap from off the transverse bough, That knowing look, inspires; The sound thou lov'st shall now be heard: 'Fresh seed and water for my bird, And sugar for his wires!' 'Tis done—and here 'King, Cawdor, Glamis,' Not more to Macbeth were, than this Thy stock of seed renew'd Is joy to thee!—would I might draw, From thy bright gayety, a Law Of confidence and good: Forget my bars, forget my cage Like thee; my wants, my cares, my age, A lone and widow'd bed; And raise to Heaven thy magic song In words, that might to both belong, 'Thanks for our daily bread.'