At length, the owner of the tree One dismal, stormy day, His window from the shade to free, The better in his room to see, Some branches lopped away. He dropped the very bough that hung A curtain o'er the nest. The sun burnt through the clouds, and flung His fire the helpless brood among, Till they were sore oppressed. Their tender mother then was seen To stand on weary feet, Where now they missed the leafy green, With one wing raised her babes to screen From sultry noontide heat. And, patient there, she day by day, Upon her nest's round edge, Stood up to keep the sun away, While, shaded thus, her nestlings lay Till time their forms could fledge. Then, when the master of the tree Beheld what love and care Within a mother bird could be, He wished in vain that he could see The bough still living there. Thus, thoughtless we may often pain Or grieve a feeling heart, Wherein the anguish must remain, While we may wish, but wish in vain, To lay or lull the smart. A good destroyed 's a fearful thing, And so 's a good undone! We, serving self, on self may bring A heavier ill--a keener sting Than what we sought to shun. 'T is little acts of good or ill, That make our vast account. No _one_, though great, does _all_ God's will Small drops the caves of ocean fill; And sands compose the mount. SONG. Little bird, little bird, with thy beautiful eye. Looking as if 't were cut out of a star, How do I know but it once was on high, Beaming through evening, sublime from afar? I cannot say what thy Maker divine, When he composed thee an optic so bright, Making the skill of his finger to shine, Drew from those high upper regions of light. Little bird, little bird, with thy spirit-like wings, Fleet as the air,--as the rainbow in hues, How can I tell but the Ruler of kings Formed them by those his blest ministers use? Were not the fancy-like tints of thy plume, Was not the delicate down of thy breast, Caught from the flowers that in Paradise bloom,-- Plucked from the couch where the weary ones rest? Little bird, little bird, with thy musical voice Tuned like a seraph's, deep, flowing, and clear, Was not thy melody, touching and choice, Taught by some angel, who visited here? What, what, pretty fairy! so soon must thou go, Fleet as a vision, without a reply, Just like all other bright treasures below, Charming a moment, to change or to fly?