TO THE BIRD ON MY HAT. 



A. C. WEBB. 



Poor silent bird ! 

 Till late I had not thought of thee 

 As animated once with life 

 And singing carols to the morn. 

 These ghastly holes now filled with beads 

 Once held bright eyes that softly gazed 

 With love light on thy helpless brood; 

 While hushed forever is the voice 

 That once poured out from tree top high, 

 A flood of melody more sweet 

 Than notes of lute or lyre. 



These shattered wings, 



Now lifeless poised upon my hat 



In mockery of what they were 



E're claimed by Fashion's cruel whim, 



Once bore thee lightly o'er the earth, 



A messenger from other lands, 



A visitor from alien shores. 



Where was thy home? 

 Was it in shady forest cool, 

 On rugged mountain side, where falls 

 The sunlight scant on moss-grown log, 

 And lightly gleams on leaf and fern? 

 Didst thou roam o'er the ocean vast 

 Until some rocky, barren isle 

 Gave thee a mate, an home where thou 

 Didst rear thy downy young, and soar 

 And sing in joy 'mid wind and storm? 

 Or didst thou nest near home of man, 

 And that protection claim from him 

 Which he too oft denies? 



When thou wast slain 



By hand of cruel man, for me, 



Thy nestlings cried for warmth and food 



Till, worn with cold, and hunger's pangs, 



They perished in the nest. 



Wake, songster, wake! 

 Canst thou not sing thy songs again, 

 Thy blithesome carols, sweet and clear? 

 Ah, no! thy silv'ry notes are gone, 

 Thy tuneful voice forever stilled. 

 My heart is sore at that sad fate 

 Which I have brought to thee and thine ; 

 And could I bring thee back to life, 

 I'd give thee to thy native home 

 To wake again the echoes sweet, 

 Till Nature, mother of us all, 

 Removed thee from her placid scenes 

 To slumber on her breast. 



I put thee by, 



Poor cover of a once glad life, 



To mind me of the crimes oft wrought 



In Fashion's name, against thy kind. 



And nevermore shall death-bought plume 



By me be worn. But this I pray: 



May He who notes the sparrow's fall 



Forgive the wrong which took thy life, 



As sacred as my own. 



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AMATEUR PHOTO BY JOHN H. WHEELER 



