I saw, when she met some poor children one day, Who asked her for alms, she turned frowning away; And told them, "Poor people must work, to be fed, And not trouble ladies, to help them to bread." And just as the sad little mendicants said, Their mother was dying, their father was dead, She entered a store, with a smooth, smiling face, To lay out her purse in gay ribbons and lace. I saw her curl up her sour lip in disdain, Because Ellen Pitiful picked up the cane, A feeble old man had let fall in the sand, And placed it again in his tremulous hand. But little does haughty Miss Patty suppose, Of all, whom she visits, that any one knows How stern she can look, when she 's out of their sight, And fret at the servants, if all is not right. At home, she 's unyielding, and sullen, and cross: Her friends, when she 's absent, esteem it no loss; And some, where she visits, in secret confess, That they love her no more, though they dread her much less. The truth is, Miss Patty, when young, never tried To govern her temper, or conquer her pride. The passions, unchecked in the heart of the child, Like weeds in a garden neglected, ran wild. They grew with her growth, with her strength became strong: Her head, not then righted, has ever been wrong; And so she would never submit to be told Of faults, by long habit made stubborn and bold. And now, among all my young friends, is there one,-- A fair little girl is there under the sun, Who 'd rise to a woman, and have it allowed That she is a likeness of Miss PATTY PROUD? I CAUGHT A BIRD. I caught a bird: She flitted by, So near my window lifted high, She softly ventured in, to spy What I might be about: And then, a little wildered thing, Like many a one without a wing, She fluttered, struck, and seemed to sing, "Alas! I can't get out." She saw her kindred on the tree Before her, sporting light and free; But felt a power, she could not see, Repel and hold her back. In vain her beak, and breast, and feet Against the crystal pane were beat: She could not break the clear deceit, Nor find her airy track. The pretty wanderer then I took; And felt her frame with terror shook: She gave the sad and piteous look Of helplessness and fear; Till quick I spread my hand, to show, I caught her but to let her go; And I, perhaps, may never know A dearer moment here. She piped a short and sweet adieu, As, humming on the air, she threw Her brilliant, buoyant wing, and flew Away from fear and me: But, ere the hour of setting sun, That little constant, grateful one, Returning, had her hymn begun In our old rustling tree.