ON THE POISONING OF SPARROWS.
My fondled ones! whom every day
In childhood I call’d forth to play,
A call ye minded not until
The crumbs were on the window-sill;
Then down ye flutter’d; then ye fought
More fiercely than good sparrows ought,
For there was not a speckled breast
To cause a jealous one unrest,
And not a Lesbia at whose beck
There came a pouting lip to peck.
Ah me! what rumour do I hear?
It makes me shrivel up with fear.
Can it.. it never can.. be true,
That poison is prepared for you,
Who clear the blossoms as they shoot
And watch the bud and save the fruit?
Turn, turn again your sideling eyes
On one more grateful and more wise.