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.