The Burial Of The Linnet.

Found in the garden—dead in his beauty. Ah! that a linnet should die in the spring! Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty, Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring. Bury him kindly—up in the corner; Bird, beast, and gold-fish are sepulchred there; Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner, Waving her tail like a plume in the air. Bury him nobly—next to the donkey; Fetch the old banner, and wave it about: Bury him deeply—think of the monkey, Shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out. Bury him softly—white wool around him, Kiss his poor feathers,—the first kiss and last; Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him: Plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast. Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty, Silent through summer, though other birds sing; Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty, Muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring.