THE LAST SHOT.
“The Prince had never been known to fail of his aim; he raised his bow, and a beautiful bird fell bleeding to the earth, which uttered at the same time the mournful words, ‘Why did you aim at me sitting.’”—
Arabian Nights.
An archer who ne'er drew his bow
Except at bird upon the wing.
Once bent it at the dancing spray,
Where lurked a bird but born to sing!
The flutter 'mid the glancing boughs,
The herd of vagrant shooters near,
Misled the veteran of the field,
Who thought his wonted quarry here!
And even when the songster fell
Wounded before his very eyes,
Still, still confused the archer gazed
In feeling half, and half surprise;
The stricken bird might beat its wing,
From pain that he of all would rue—
How could he trace its radiant plume,
Flitting amid that common crew?
A note—a throb—a gush of song!
“That wildwood music! God of grace!
'T is heaven's own warbler that I hear—
The spirit-song my soul would trace!”
Half-cursed, half-blessed he then the aim,
Which wounded, but still spared the bird;
Cursed, that he blindly thus should shoot,
But, weeping, blessed the song he heard.
And rapt by that pure spirit-strain,
Away from all that charmed before,
He knelt upon his shattered bow,
And vowed that he would shoot no more.
That bird, fresh plumed, with vigorous wing,
More rich in melody they say.
To him in greenwood bower will sing,
Who loves to list the live-long day.
