Page:Elegiac Sonnets 2.pdf/52

Rh

HEN in a thousand swarms, the Summer o'er, The birds of passage quit our English shore, By various routs the feather'd myriad moves; The Becca-fica seeks Italian groves, No more a Wheat-ear; while the soaring files Of sea-fowl gather round the Hebrid-isles.

But if by bird-lime touch'd, unplumed, confined, Some poor ill-fated straggler stays behind, Driven from his transient perch, beneath your eaves On his unshelter'd head the tempest raves, While drooping round, redoubling every pain, His Mate and Nestlings ask his help in vain.