A shadowy tree, that grew beside Its city owner's door, Its branches threw so high and wide, That many a bird could sing, and hide
Among the leaves it bore. A robin came, and built her nest In that green rustling tree. At evening, there she sank to rest
And furled her weary wings, as blest As little bird could be. Upon her side her drowsy head, Beneath her folded wing,
She pillowed, while the night-hours fled; When morning flushed the east with red, She‘ d wake, and mount, and sing. Five pretty eggs of azure hue,
In that soft nest she laid. So clear and vivid was their blue, Like polished balls they shone to view, Of purest sapphire made.
And many a day she brooded o'er Those treasures, till they grew, In what the shells contained before, To something different — something more —
Young birds came peeping through! Five little baby birds were there, In that fond robin's nest, All callow; and their mother's care
Was now to find their daily fare, And shield them with her breast. Her tiny game, or berries ripe From some far distant stem
She‘ d bring them; then her beak she‘ d wipe, And sit upon a twig, and pipe A mother's tune to them. 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.
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