Classic Poem

I looked to find Spring's early flowers,
In spots where they were wont to bloom;
But they had perished in their bowers;
The haunts they loved had proved their tomb!

The alder, and the laurel green,
Which sheltered them, had shared their fate;
And but the blackened ground was seen,
Where hid their swelling buds of late.

From the bewildered, homeless bird,
Whose half-built nest the flame destroys,
A low complaint of wrong I heard,
Against the thoughtless, ruthless boys.

Sadly I heard its notes complain,
And ask the young its haunts to spare;
Prophetic seemed the sorrowing strain,
Sung o'er its home, but late so fair!

"No more with hues like ocean shell
The delicate wind-flower here shall blow;
The spot that loved its form so well
Shall ne'er again its beauty know.

"Or, if it bloom, like some pale ghost
'T will haunt the black and shadeless dell,
Where once it bloomed a numerous host,
Of its once pleasant bowers to tell.

"And coming years no more shall find
The laurel green upon the hills;
The frequent fire leaves naught behind,
But e'en the very roots it kills.

"No more upon the turnpike's side
The rose shall shed its sweet perfume;
The traveler's joy, the summer's pride,
Will share with them a common doom.

"No more shall these returning fling
Round childhood's home a heavenly charm,
With song of bird in early spring,
To glad the heart and save from harm.'