But thou, who all didst see and hear, Young, active, wast already there, And caught the flutterer in air. Then up the tree to topmost limb, A vine for ladder, borest him. Against thy cheek his little heart Beat soft. Ah, trembler that thou art, Thou spokest smiling; comfort thee! With joyous cries the parents flee Thy presence none--confidingly Pour out their very hearts to thee. The mockbird sees thy tenderness Of deed; doth with melodiousness, In many tongues, thy praise express. And all the while, his dappled wings He claps his sides with, as he sings, From perch to perch his body flings: A poet he, to ecstasy Wrought by the sweets his tongue doth say. Stay, stay!--I hear a flutter now Beneath yon flowering alder bough. I hear a little plaintive voice That did at early morn rejoice, Make a most sad yet sweet complaint, Saying, "my heart is very faint With its unutterable wo. What shall I do, where can I go, My cruel anguish to abate. Oh! my poor desolated mate, Dear Cherry, will our haw-bush seek, Joyful, and bearing in her beak Fresh seeds, and such like dainties, won By careful search. But they are gone Whom she did brood and dote upon. Oh! if there be a mortal ear My sorrowful complaint to hear; If manly breast is ever stirred By wrong done to a helpless bird, To them for quick redress I cry." Moved by the tale, and drawing nigh, On alder branch thou didst espy How, sitting lonely and forlorn, His breast was pressed upon a thorn, Unknowing that he leant thereon; Then bidding him take heart again, Thou rannest down into the lane To seek the doer of this wrong, Nor under hedgerow hunted long, When, sturdy, rude, and sun-embrowned, A child thy earnest seeking found. To him in sweet and modest tone Thou madest straight thy errand known. With gentle eloquence didst show (Things erst he surely did not know) How great an evil he had done; How, when next year the mild May sun Renewed its warmth, this shady lane No timid birds would haunt again; And how around his mother's door The robins, yearly guests before-- He knew their names--would come no more; But if his prisoners he released, Before their little bosoms ceased To palpitate, each coming year Would find them gladly reappear To sing his praises everywhere-- The sweetest, dearest songs to hear. And afterward, when came the term Of ripened corn, the robber worm Would hunt through every blade and turn, Impatient thus his smile to earn.