The Empty Bird's Nest

And thou, my sad, little, lonely nest,
Hast oft been sought as the peaceful rest
Of a weary wing and a guiltless breast!
But where is thy builder now?
And what has become of the helpless brood,
For which the mother, with daily food,
Came flitting so light, through the spicy wood,
To her home on the waving bough?

The fowler, perhaps, has hurled the dart,
Which the parent bird has received in her heart;
And her tender orphans are scattered apart,
So wide, they never again
In thy warm, soft cell of love can meet,
And thou hast been filled with the snow and the sleet,
By the hail and the winds have thy sides been beat,
And drenched by the pitiless rain.

Though great was the toil which thy building cost,
With thy fibres so neatly coiled and crossed,
And thy lining of down, thou art lorn and lost,
A ruin beyond repair!
So I'll take thee down, as I would not see
Such a sorrowful sight on the gay green tree;
And when I have torn thee, thy parts shall be,
Like thy tenants, dispersed in air.

Thou hast made me to think of each heart-woven tie;
Of the child's first home, and of her, whose eye
Watched fondly o'er those, who were reared to die
Where the grave of a distant shore
Received to its bosom the strangers' clay;
For when, as thy birds, they had passed away,
'T was not to return, and the mother and they
In time were to meet no more!