Classic Poem

Spare thy reproach, thou more than tongue,
That little, lively eye!
It was not I that stole thy young;
Indeed it was not I.

With pleasure equal to thine own,
I've watch'd thy tender brood;
And mark'd how fondly thou hast flown,
To bear them daily food.

Nor e'en than thine with less delight,
I look'd and long'd to see,
The first attempts of infant flight,
With patience taught by thee.

And now that restless thou dost rove,
And with sad note repine,
Think not, lorn mourner, that I prove
A pang less keen than thine.

Ah, base were he, whose hand could stain
Fair hospitality,
With act so foul as thus to pain
An harmless guest like thee.

Pursue me not from spray to spray:
How shall I teach my tongue
Some sound that may to thee convey,
I did not do the wrong?

Oh, that I knew, sweet innocent,
The language of thy kind;
Or could some lucid sign invent,
Fitting thy feeble mind!

This spot indignant do not quit;
Thy confidence replace;
And here with generous trust commit,
Once more, thy tender race.

For here thy young have oft before
Securely spread the wing:
Oh grant my shades one trial more,
Here pass one other spring.

Meanwhile this comfort I will take,
Not long thy woes shall last:
All hearts but man's soon cease to ache:
Thy griefs shall soon be past.

For him, whose hand hath broke thy rest,
Be this his curse through life;
A mind, by the mild muse unblest,
Base care and vulgar strife.