“Why, this is a world of curious things,
 Where those who crawl, and those that have wings,
 Are ranked in the classes of beggars, and kings,
   No matter how much the worth
 May be on the side of those who creep,
 Where the vain, the light, and the bold will sweep,
 Others from notice, and proudly keep
   Uppermost on the earth!

“Many a one that has loathed the sight
 Of the piteous worm, will take delight
 In welcoming me, as I look so bright
   In my new and beautiful dress. 
 But some I shall pass with a scornful glance,
 Some, with an elegant nonchalance;
 And others will woo me, till I advance
   To give them a slight caress.”

“Ha, ha!” said the Pin, “you are just the one
Through which I’m commissioned, at once, to run
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,
  Under my murderer’s eye.

Yet, I can never brood o’er you again,
  Closing you under my breast! 
Its coldness would chill you; my blood would but stain
  And spoil the warm down of your nest.

Ere the night-coming, your mother will lie,
  All motionless, under the tree;
Where, deafened, and silent, I still shall be nigh,
  While you will be moaning for me!

=The Young Sportsman=

Harry had a dog and gun;
And he loved to set the one,
Barking, out upon the run,
  While he held the other,
Often charged so heavily,
’Twas a dangerous thing to be
With so young a wight as he
  Mindless of his mother.

Earnestly she warned her child
To forego a sport so wild;
While he, turning, frowned or smiled,
  And away would sidle. 
For, to give him short and long,
Harry had a head so strong,
In the right or in the wrong,
  It was hard to bridle.

On his gunning madly bent,
Often in his clothes a rent
Told the reckless way he went,
  Over hedge and brambles. 
Homeward then would Harry slouch,
With his gun and empty pouch,
Looking like a scaramouch
  Coming from his rambles.