 | The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems |  |
151
SONNET.
2.
[As we approach'd, that little wretched thing]
As we approach'd, that little wretched thing,Storm-drench'd, rose up with meek imploring eye,
And gave a feeble, but a piteous cry,
As if it deem'd that we did comfort bring.
But, as we onward pass'd, still following
With pleading gaze, at length it wearily press'd
Once more, in mute despair, its mother's breast.
What is there in a sound, a glance, to bring
All the soul gushing out beneath its power?
For pleasure I was wandering in that land,
A stranger, and there never from that hour
Perchance to be, yet pity seized my hand,
My heart—nay all, and goaded me until
I sought and sent the shepherd to that hill.
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