THE WHITE STORK. 203 



Look upward at that feeble bird : 

 From her no cry of woe is heard; 

 With all a mother's love possest, 

 She hovers fondly o'er her nest, 

 And ev'ry tender art she tries, 

 To bear her children thro' the skies. 



Poor bird ! in vain is all thy care : 

 Thy cherish'd ones must perish there : 

 Their doom is seal'd, they can but die ; 

 But thou mayst spread thy wings and fly. 

 Thy children soon must breathe their last, 

 Their death-pang will be quickly past. 

 All that maternal love can do 

 Has proved thee faithful, fond and true. 

 Oh ! linger not a moment more, 

 Thy chance of life will soon be o'er. 



Think ye maternal love will cease, 

 When danger and distress increase ? 

 Believe it not stronger than death, 

 It braves the fierce volcano's breath ; 

 Undaunted faces every ill, 

 And bids the tempest work its will : 

 Lifts to the last the guardian shield, 

 And cannot fly, and will not yield. 

 That faithful Jbird heeds not your cry, 

 She will not spread her wings and fly. 



Think not maternal love can tire ; 

 That nest will be her funeral pyre. 

 More closely still she spreads her wings 

 Above those feeble, trembling things. 

 " Fly, faithful bird, there still is space, 

 Nor perish with thy helpless race !" 

 She heeds us not i the flames ascend, 

 And all in one wide ruin blend ; 

 And since their lives she cannot save, 

 She shares with them one common grave. 



