I took the wren"s nest: Heaven forgive me!
Its merry architects so small Had scarcely finished their wee hall That, empty still, and neat and fair, Hung idly in the summer air.
The mossy walls, the dainty door, Where Love should enter and explore, And Love sit carolling outside, And Love within chirp multiplied;-- I took the wren"s nest; Heaven forgive me!
How many hours of happy pains Through early frosts and April rains, How many songs at eve and morn O"er springing gra.s.s and greening corn, What labors hard through sun and shade Before the pretty house was made!
One little minute, only one, And she"ll fly back, and find it--gone!
I took the wren"s nest: Bird, forgive me!
Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear, Ye have before you all the year, And every wood holds nooks for you, In which to sing and build and woo; One piteous cry of birdish pain-- And ye"ll begin your life again, Forgetting quite the lost, lost home In many a busy home to come.
But I? your wee house keep I must, Until it crumble into dust.
I took the wren"s nest: G.o.d forgive me!
DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK.
ON ANOTHER"S SORROW.
Can I see another"s woe, And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another"s grief, And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow"s share?
Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
_And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird"s grief and care,_ Hear the woes that infants bear--
And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast, And not sit in the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant"s tear?
And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away?
Oh no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
WILLIAM BLAKE.
THE SHEPHERD"S HOME.
My banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets blow.
Not a pine in the grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech"s more beautiful green, But a sweet-brier entwines it around.
Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.
I found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me such plunder forbear, She will say "twas a barbarous deed; For he ne"er could be true, she averred, Who would rob a poor bird of its young; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
SHENSTONE (d. 1673).
THE WOOD-PIGEON"S HOME.
Come with me, if but in fancy, To the wood, the green soft shade: "Tis a haven, pure and lovely, For the good of mankind made.
Listen! you can hear the cooing, Soft and soothing, gentle sounds, Of the pigeons, as they nestle In the branches all around.
In the city and the open, Man has built or tilled the land; But the home of the wood pigeon Bears the touch of G.o.d"s own hand.
ANON.
THE s.h.a.g.
"What is that great bird, sister, tell me, Perched high on the top of the crag?"
""Tis the cormorant, dear little brother; The fishermen call it the s.h.a.g."
"But what does it there, sister, tell me, Sitting lonely against the black sky?"
"It has settled to rest, little brother; It hears the wild gale wailing high."
"But I am afraid of it, sister, For over the sea and the land It gazes, so black and so silent!"
"Little brother, hold fast to my hand."
"Oh, what was that, sister? The thunder?
Did the s.h.a.g bring the storm and the cloud, The wind and the rain and the lightning?"
"Little brother, the thunder roars loud.
"Run fast, for the rain sweeps the ocean; Look! over the lighthouse it streams; And the lightning leaps red, and above us The gulls fill the air with their screams."
O"er the beach, o"er the rocks, running swiftly, The little white cottage they gain; And safely they watch from the window The dance and the rush of the rain.
But the s.h.a.g kept his place on the headland, And, when the brief storm had gone by, He shook his loose plumes, and they saw him Rise splendid and strong in the sky.
Clinging fast to the gown of his sister, The little boy laughed as he flew: "He is gone with the wind and lightning!
And--I am not frightened,--are you?"
CELIA THAXTER.
THE LOST BIRD.
My bird has flown away, Far out of sight has flown, I know not where.
Look in your lawn, I pray, Ye maidens kind and fair, And see if my beloved bird be there.
His eyes are full of light; The eagle of the rock has such an eye; And plumes, exceeding bright, Round his smooth temples lie, And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh.