BLACKTHORN. 151 



His fairy revels are exchanged for rage ; 

 His banquet marred, grown dull his hermitage. 

 The fields become his prison, till on high, 

 Benighted birds to shades and coverts fly. 



" Look, then, from trivial up to greater woes ; 

 From the poor bird-boy with his roasted sloes, 

 To where the dungeoned mourner heaves the sigh ; 

 "Where not one cheering sunbeam meets his eye. 

 Though ineifectual pity thine may be, 

 No wealth, no power to set the captive free ; 

 Thy slights can make the wretched more forlorn, 

 And deeper drive affliction's barbed thorn. 

 Say not, ' I'll come and cheer thy gloomy cell 

 With news of dearest friends ; how good, how well : 

 I'll be a joyful herald to thine heart ; ' 

 Then fail, and play the worthless trifler's part." 



Think of these lines in connection with the blackthorn, 

 and the " poor bird-boy and his roasted sloes," whenever 

 you. are inclined to neglect some one, whom sickness makes 

 a prisoner, or whose dull hours, confined, perchance, to a 

 monotonous occupation, are rarely cheered by a friendly 

 voice or smile. 



