The Yellow-hammer's Nest

Just by the wooden bridge a bird flew up,
Scared by the cow-boy, as he scrambled down
To reach the misty dewberry. — Let us stoop,
And seek its nest. The brook we need not dread —
'Tis scarcely deep enough a bee to drown,
As it sings harmless o'er its pebbly bed.

— Aye, here it is! stuck close beside the bank,
Beneath the bunch of grass, that spindles rank
Its husk-seeds tall and high: — 'tis rudely planned
Of bleached stubbles, and the withered fare
That last year's harvest left upon the land, —
Lined thinly with the horse's sable hair.

Five eggs, pen-scribbled o'er with ink their shells,
Resembling writing-scrawls, which Fancy reads
As Nature's poesy, and pastoral spells —
They are the Yellowhammer's; and she dwells,
Most poet-like, where brooks and flowery weeds
As sweet as Castaly her fancy deems;
And that old mole-hill is Parnassus' hill,
On which her partner haply sits, and dreams
O'er all his joys of song. Let's leave it still
A happy home of sunshine, flowers, and streams.

Yet is the sweetest place exposed to ill,
A noisome weed, that burthens every soil;
For snakes are known, with chill and deadly coil,
To watch such nests, and seize the helpless young;
And like as if the plague became a guest,
To leave a houseless home, a ruined nest:
Aye! mournful hath the little warbler sung
When such like woes have rent his gentle breast.