THE BIRD. 
Hither thou com’st: the busy wind all night 
Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing 
Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm, 
For which coarse man seems much the fitter born, 
Rain’d on thy bed 
And harmless head. 
And now as fresh and cheerful as the light 
Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing 
Unto that providence, Whose unseen arm 
Curb’d them, and cloth’d thee well and warm. 
All things that be praise Him; and had 
Their lesson taught them when first made. 
HENRY VAUGHAN, 
Silurist, 1650. 
