But thou, who all didst see and hear,

      Young, active, wast already there,

      And caught the flutterer in air.

      Then up the tree to topmost limb,

      A vine for ladder, borest him.

      Against thy cheek his little heart

      Beat soft. Ah, trembler that thou art,

      Thou spokest smiling; comfort thee!

      With joyous cries the parents flee

      Thy presence none – confidingly

      Pour out their very hearts to thee.

      The mockbird sees thy tenderness

      Of deed; doth with melodiousness,

      In many tongues, thy praise express.

      And all the while, his dappled wings

      He claps his sides with, as he sings,

      From perch to perch his body flings:

      A poet he, to ecstasy

      Wrought by the sweets his tongue doth say.

      Stay, stay! – I hear a flutter now

      Beneath yon flowering alder bough.

      I hear a little plaintive voice

      That did at early morn rejoice,

      Make a most sad yet sweet complaint,

      Saying, "my heart is very faint

      With its unutterable wo.

      What shall I do, where can I go,

      My cruel anguish to abate.

      Oh! my poor desolated mate,

      Dear Cherry, will our haw-bush seek,

      Joyful, and bearing in her beak

      Fresh seeds, and such like dainties, won

      By careful search. But they are gone

      Whom she did brood and dote upon.

      Oh! if there be a mortal ear

      My sorrowful complaint to hear;

      If manly breast is ever stirred

      By wrong done to a helpless bird,

      To them for quick redress I cry."

      Moved by the tale, and drawing nigh,

      On alder branch thou didst espy

      How, sitting lonely and forlorn,

      His breast was pressed upon a thorn,

      Unknowing that he leant thereon;

      Then bidding him take heart again,

      Thou rannest down into the lane

      To seek the doer of this wrong,

      Nor under hedgerow hunted long,

      When, sturdy, rude, and sun-embrowned,

      A child thy earnest seeking found.

      To him in sweet and modest tone

      Thou madest straight thy errand known.

      With gentle eloquence didst show

      (Things erst he surely did not know)

      How great an evil he had done;

      How, when next year the mild May sun

      Renewed its warmth, this shady lane

      No timid birds would haunt again;

      And how around his mother's door

      The robins, yearly guests before —

      He knew their names – would come no more;

      But if his prisoners he released,

      Before their little bosoms ceased

      To palpitate, each coming year

      Would find them gladly reappear

      To sing his praises everywhere —

      The sweetest, dearest songs to hear.

      And afterward, when came the term

      Of ripened corn, the robber worm

      Would hunt through every blade and turn,

      Impatient thus his smile to earn.

      At first, flushed, angrily, and proud,

      He answered thee with laughter loud

      And brief retort. But thou didst speak

      So mild, so earnestly did seek

      To change his mood, in wonder first

      He eyed thee; then no longer durst

      Raise his bold glances to thy face,

      But, looking down, began to trace,

      With little, naked foot and hand,

      Thoughtful devices in the sand;

      And when at last thou didst relate

      The sad affliction of the mate,

      When to the well-known spot she came,

      He hung his head for very shame;

      His penitential tears to hide,

      His face averted while he cried;

      "Here, take them all, I've no more pride

      In climbing up to rob a nest —

      I've better feelings in my breast."

      Then thanking him with heart and eyes,

      Thou tookest from his grasp the prize,

      And bid the little freedmen rise.

      But when thou sawest how too weak

      Their pinions were, the nest didst seek,

      And called thy client. Down he flew

      Instant, and with him Cherry too;

      And fluttering after, not a few

      Of the minuter feathered race

      Filled with their warbling all the place.

      From hedge and pendent branch and vine,

      Recounted still that deed of thine;

      Still sang thy praises o'er and o'er,

      Gladly – more heartily, be sure,

      Were praises never sung before.

      Beholding thee, they understand

      (These Minne-singers of the land)

      How thou apart from all dost stand,

      Full of great love and tenderness

      For all God's creatures – these express

      Thy hazel eyes. With life instinct

      All things that are, to thee are linked

      By subtle ties; and none so mean

      Or loathsome hast thou ever seen,

      But wonderous in make hath been.

      Compassionate, thou seest none

      Of insect tribes beneath the sun

      That thou canst set thy heel upon.

      A sympathy thou hast with wings

      In groves, and with all living things.

      Unmindful if they walk or crawl,

      The