THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE

I have seen a nightingale
On a sprig of thyme bewail
Seeing the dear nest which was
Hers alone, borne off, alas!

By a laborer. I heard,
For this outrage, the poor bird
Say a thousand mournful things
To the wind which on its wings

To the Guardian of the sky
Bore her melancholy cry,
Bore her tender tears. She spake
As if her fond heart would break,

One while in a sad, sweet note
Gurgled from her straining throat,
She enforced her piteous tale,
Mournful prayer and plaintive wail;

One while, with the shrill dispute
Quite outwearied, she was mute;
Then afresh, for her dear brood
Her harmonious shrieks renewed.

Now she winged it round and round;
Now she skimmed along the ground;
Now from bough to bough, in haste,
The delighted robber chased,

And, alighting in his path,
Seemed to say 'twixt grief and wrath,
«Give me back, fierce rustic rude,
Give me back my pretty brood»,—
And I heard the rustic still
Answer,—«That I never will».—