A. M. Wells

HE sat upon his humble perch, nor flew

At my approach;

But as I nearer drew,

Looked on me, as I fancied, with reproach,

And sadness too:

And something still his native pride proclaim’d,

Despite his wo;

Which, when I marked,—ashamed

To see a noble creature brought so low,

My heart exclaim’d,

Where is the fire that lit thy fearless eye,

Child of the storm,

When from thy home on high,

Yon craggy-breasted rock, I saw thy form

Cleaving the sky?

It grieveth me to see thy spirit tamed;

Gone out the light

That in thine eye-ball flamed,

When to the midday sun thy steady flight

Was proudly aimed!

Like the young dove forsaken, is the look

Of thy sad eye,

Who in some lonely nook,

Mourneth upon the willow bough her destiny,

Beside the brook.

While somewhat sterner in thy downward gaze

Doth seem to lower,

And deep disdain betrays,

As if thou cursed man’s poorly acted power,

And scorned his praise.

Oh, let not me insult thy fallen dignity,

Poor injured bird,

Gazing with vulgar eye

Upon thy ruin;—for my heart is stirr’d

To hear thy cry;

And answereth to thee, as I turn to go,

It is a stain

On man!—Thus, even thus low

Be brought the wretch, who could for sordid gain,

Work thee such wo!