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200

TO A BOY, ROBBING A BIRD'S-NEST.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Stay, wanton Boy, thy savage arm,
Nor drag, unfeeling, from its nest
The chirping Young, and Egg yet warm,
Late by its feather'd Mother press'd.
How must that feather'd Mother grieve,
Returning from the clover field,
To view the blood wet every leaf,
Her young with tyrant fury kill'd!
Think that e'en now thy Mother's eye
O'er hill and dale doth studious run,
If haply she from far may spy
The coming of her darling son.
Then, if accustom'd to behold
Thy brow with smiles and beauty crown'd,
She sees Thee carried pale and cold,
Stabb'd thro' with many a ruffian wound,
Anguish her heart would inly wear,
Fear freeze, or boiling passion storm,
Or frantic Madness wildly tear;—
Think, Boy, of this, and stay thine arm!