[As I sat alone by my chamber window, a few evenings after the death of a beloved friend, a beautiful bird, of a peculiar kind, came and stood on my work-basket. There was something so plaintive in its low, melancholy note, it touched a chord of sympathy, and immediately turning over the leaves of my Scrap-Book, I inserted the following lines.]
BIRD OF THE SUMMER.
Bright bird of the summer!
From whence hast thou flown?
Ah! speak, pretty warbler,—
Art left all alone?
From whence hast thou flown?
Ah! speak, pretty warbler,—
Art left all alone?
Have thy playmates all left thee?
Thy companions all gone?
Come, then, to this bosom—
I too am alone!
Thy companions all gone?
Come, then, to this bosom—
I too am alone!
