Field-Birds' Nests

Beyond the Brook so swift I went,
Beyond the fields my course I bent,
Where on the height the oak grove stands,
And Hemlocks thick like iron bands.

And by the marsh, and by the pond,
Though I had wandered oft beyond,
Never before I saw those eight,
Those eight Birds' nests now desolate.

Each nest was filled with snow and leaves,
Each nest that some small songster weaves,
Yet pleasantly they seemed to me,
These little homes of yesterday.

So frail these buildings that the wind
To airy journeys them consigned,
Had not the architect displayed
The quiet cunning of his trade.

On some small twig the house was laid,
That every breath from Heaven swayed,
The nests swing easy as the bush,
The wind in vain on these may push.

Some grass and sticks together piled,
Secure as stately Palace tiled;
A twig the rock on which they stand,
As firm as acres of deep land.

Another summer comes the Bird,
Her sweetly swelling song is heard,
She hops into her little home,
Her mate then merrily does come.

Ye men who pass a wretched life,
Consumed with care, consumed with strife,
Whose gloom grows deeper day by day,
The audience at a tiresome play;

Who build the stately palaces,
Where only endless Gilding is,
Who riot in perpetual show,
In dress, and wine, and costly woe;

Who haunt the narrow City's street,
Surrounded by a thousand feet,
With weary wrinkles in your brows,
And faltering penance in your vows;

Think of the little Field-bird's nest;
Can you not purchase such a rest,
A twig, some straws, a dreamy moor,
The same some Summers going o'er.
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