From back to breast, till, your fluttering done,
Your form may be fairly shown.
And when my point shall have reached your heart,
'T will be as a balm to the wounded part,
To think how you're to be copied by art,
And your beauty will all be known!"




=The Stricken Bird=

Here's the last food your poor mother can bring!
Take it, my suffering brood.
Oh! they have stricken me under the wing;
See, it is dripping with blood!

Fair was the morn, and I wished them to rise,
Enjoying its beauties with me.
The air was all fragrance--all splendor the skies,
While bright shone the earth and the sea.

Little I thought, when so freely I went,
Employing my earliest breath,
To wake them with song, it could be their intent
To pay me with arrows and death!

Fear that my nestlings would feel them forgot,
Helped me a moment to fly;
Else I had given up life on the spot,