A WREN'S NEST

                    Among the dwellings framed by birds
                       In field or forest with nice care,
                    Is none that with the Jittle Wren's
                       In snugness may compare.

                    No door the tenement requires,
                       And seldom needs a laboured roof:
                    Yet is it to the fiercest sun
                       Impervious, and storm-proof.

                    So warm, so beautiful withal,
                       In perfect fitness for its aim,
                    That to the Kind by special grace;
                       Their instinct surely came.

                    And when for their abodes they seek
                       An opportune recess,
                    The hermit has no finer eye
                       For shadowy quietness.

                    These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls,
                       A canopy in some still nook;
                    Others are pent-housed by a brae
                       That overhangs a brook.

                    There to the brooding bird her mate
                       Warbles by fits his low clear song;
                    And by the busy streamlet both
                       Are sung to all day long.

                    Or in sequestered lanes they build,
                       Where, till the flitting bird's return,
                    Her eggs within the nest repose,
                       Like relics in an urn.

                    But still, where general choice is good,
                       There is a better and a best;
                    And, among fairest objects, some
                       Are fairer than the rest;

                    This, one of those small builders proved
                       In a green covert, where, from out
                    The forehead of a pollard oak,
                       The leafy antlers sprout;

                    For She who planned the mossy lodge,
                       Mistrusting her evasive skill,
                    Had to a Primrose looked for aid
                       Her wishes to fulfil.

                    High on the trunk's projecting brow,
                       And fixed an infant's span above
                    The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest
                       The prettiest of the grove!

                    The treasure proudly did I show
                       To some whose minds without disdain
                    Can turn to little things; but once
                       Looked up for it in vain:

                    'Tis gone — a ruthless spoiler's prey,
                       Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,
                    Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved
                       Indignant at the wrong.

                    Just three days after, passing by
                       In clearer light the moss-built cell
                    I saw, espied its shaded mouth;
                       And felt that all was well.

                    The Primrose for a veil had spread
                      The largest of her upright leaves;
                    And thus, for purposes benign,
                       A simple flower deceives.

                    Concealed from friends who might disturb
                      Thy quiet with no ill intent,
                    Secure from evil eyes and hands
                       On barbarous plunder bent,

                    Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young
                       Take flight, and thou art free to roam,
                    When withered is the guardian Flower,
                       And empty thy late home,

                    Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,
                       Amid the unviolated grove
                    Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft
                       In foresight, or in love.

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