The timid bird, a human heart—
The snare, a smooth seducer's art—
How can my pitying pen rehearse
The burden of its mournful verse,
Since he who triumphed in his power
To crush so meek and low a flower,
Contemptuous spurned it from his path,
To die a lone neglected death,
And to the winds his bauble tost—
Left Alice Hill, betrayed and lost.