THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 75 
these interesting little creatures of their dearly cher- 
ished treasures, I cannot suppose youths to be 
naturally cruel ; thoughtless they certainly are : it 
therefore behoves us to regulate their feelings, and to 
instil into their young minds principles of fellow 
feeling to all creatures. 
Stay, wanton boy, thy savage arm, 
Nor drag, unfeeling from its nest 
The chirping young, and egg yet warm. 
Late by its feather'd mother press'd. 
How must that feather'd mother grieve, 
Returning from the clover field, 
To view the blood wet every leaf. 
Her young with tyrant fury kill'd ! 
Think that e'en now thy mother's eye, 
O'er hill and dale doth studious run, 
If haply she from far may spy. 
The coming of her darling son : 
Then, if accustom'd to behold 
Thy brow with smiles and beauty crown'd. 
She sees thee carried, pale and cold, 
Stabb'd through with many a ruffian wound, 
