In yonder glass behold a drowning fly,
Its little feet how vainly does it ply!
Its cries we hear not, yet it loudly cries;
And gentle hearts can feel its agonies.
Poor helpless victim! and will no one save?
Will no one snatch thee from the threat’ning wave?
Is there no friendly hand, no helper nigh?
And must thou, little struggler, must thou die?
Thou shalt not, whilst this hand can set thee free,
Thou shalt not die; this hand shall rescue thee.