Can a mother sit and hear
    An infant groan, an infant fear? 
    No, no! never can it be! 
    Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird’s grief and care, Hear the woes that infants bear—­

    And not sit beside the nest,
    Pouring pity in their breast,
    And not sit in the cradle near,
    Weeping tear on infant’s tear?

    And not sit both night and day,
    Wiping all our tears away? 
    Oh no! never can it be! 
    Never, never can it be!

WILLIAM BLAKE.

* * * * *

THE SHEPHERD’S HOME.

    My banks they are furnished with bees,
      Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
    My grottoes are shaded with trees,
      And my hills are white over with sheep. 
    I seldom have met with a loss,
      Such health do my fountains bestow;
    My fountains all bordered with moss,
      Where the harebells and violets blow.

    Not a pine in the grove is there seen,
      But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: 
    Not a beech’s more beautiful green,
      But a sweet-brier entwines it around. 
    Not my fields in the prime of the year,
      More charms than my cattle unfold;
    Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
      But it glitters with fishes of gold.

    I found out a gift for my fair,
      I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
    But let me such plunder forbear,
      She will say ’twas a barbarous deed;
    For he ne’er could be true, she averred,
      Who would rob a poor bird of its young;
    And I loved her the more when I heard
      Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

SHENSTONE (d. 1673).

* * * * *

THE WOOD-PIGEON’S HOME.

    Come with me, if but in fancy,
      To the wood, the green soft shade: 
    ’Tis a haven, pure and lovely,
      For the good of mankind made.

    Listen! you can hear the cooing,
      Soft and soothing, gentle sounds,
    Of the pigeons, as they nestle
      In the branches all around.

    In the city and the open,
      Man has built or tilled the land;
    But the home of the wood pigeon
      Bears the touch of God’s own hand.

ANON.

* * * * *

THE SHAG.

    “What is that great bird, sister, tell me,
      Perched high on the top of the crag?”
    “’Tis the cormorant, dear little brother;
      The fishermen call it the shag.”

    “But what does it there, sister, tell me,
      Sitting lonely against the black sky?”
    “It has settled to rest, little brother;
      It hears the wild gale wailing high.”

    “But I am afraid of it, sister,
      For over the sea and the land
    It gazes, so black and so silent!”
      “Little brother, hold fast to my hand.”