THE WOUNDED BIRD 



O STRICKEN bird, what cruel fate 



Has filled with woe thy gentle breast? 

 What wanton fiend hath lain in wait 

 To tear thee from thy loving mate, 

 Thy helpless fledglings in the nest? 



Ah, struggle not in vain to fly 



And torture more thy broken wing; 

 Thy mute appeal for help, wellnigh. 

 Would dim with tears a stoic's eye. 



From hardest heart a sigh would wring. 



Oh, couldst thou speak, what anguished tale 



Wouldst thou outpour in Pity's ear ! 

 Dost think of thy dear birdlings frail 

 As, bleeding there, thy pulses fail 

 And thou beholdest death so near? 



They call — Ah me, thou canst not go! 



No more the shelter of thy wing 

 And downy breast thy young may know; 

 No more may mother-love bestow 



On them its care, nor comfort bring. 



That morsel, which thou boldest still 



In death, tells of thy quest for food; 

 Tells of thy homeward flight to fill 

 Those hungry mouths, nor boding ill, 

 To nestle o'er thy little brood. 



[14] 



