 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
LINES
On finding a Dead Young Bird in the Corn-field, while Hoeing.
Poor little bird! 'tis sad to see
Thee lying here so sorrily,
Lost from thy native sheltering tree,
And leaf-roofed nest.
Beside this hill of corn shall be
Thy noteless rest.
Thee lying here so sorrily,
Lost from thy native sheltering tree,
And leaf-roofed nest.
Beside this hill of corn shall be
Thy noteless rest.
Did wanton school-boy hurl the stone?
Or murderous villain aim the gun?
Or, yester evening, when the sun
Sank down the hill,
Did the cold rain-rills round thee run,
To drench and chill?
Or murderous villain aim the gun?
Or, yester evening, when the sun
Sank down the hill,
Did the cold rain-rills round thee run,
To drench and chill?
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Now, bright around thee pours the day;
The springing corn-blades waving play,
And all thy sportive mates are gay
With tuneful breath.
O, do they know that here you stay
Songless in death?
The springing corn-blades waving play,
And all thy sportive mates are gay
With tuneful breath.
O, do they know that here you stay
Songless in death?
'Tis thus with selfish man, I know:
He sees a fellow mortal go,
And, saving when he feels the blow
Strike home and near,
He little heeds the sufferer's woe,
The mourner's tear.
He sees a fellow mortal go,
And, saving when he feels the blow
Strike home and near,
He little heeds the sufferer's woe,
The mourner's tear.
Ah, me! I'd once a birdie sweet,
Whose days, like thine, were winged and fleet!
The angels came; her little feet
Had weary grown,
And with them to the blest retreat,
Long since, she's flown!
Whose days, like thine, were winged and fleet!
The angels came; her little feet
Had weary grown,
And with them to the blest retreat,
Long since, she's flown!
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |