POETRY

Te Aroha News, Volume VIII, Issue 488, 12 July 1890, Page 3

POETRY

DEATH FROM THE CATAPULT. (Written for Our Boys.) saw a thrush ono pleasant day. Dragging a wounded wing along. Ah ! silent now his sweetest lay, Ilis rippiing trill, his glory song. O, who hath tortured thee, sweet bird, What wretched boy hath done this wrong Perhaps thou wert singing by some tree In forest brake, or mountain steep; And little throttles piped to thee. And thou wert hushing them to sleep. And now thi3 wrong hath stayed thy song. And thou must bleed, and I must weep. Perchance the hoy who did the wrong Was never taught to guard the weak; Perchance lie never heard that God Can only love the pure and mock. He must have been some heathen child That Christian pastors love to seek! He was not-could not he a child Whose home is fenced around with prayer; No mother (aught him “ God is lovo,” And birds arc in the Father’s cave; Ah, no! though in a Christian land The ways of Christ were wanting there! But come, sweet bird, come lo my breast, With gentlest care I’ll bind thy wing; I, too, have suffered curst unrest, For sorrow comes to all who sing— Some devil wounds the weak and t. uc With pierced heart or broken wing! Yet thou and I will sing again. Though crncl wrongs are tinged with hate And thou wilt sing of purpled May, And hasten to thine anxious mate; And I will sing— Alas, sweet bird. Thy heart is cold—mine, desolate ! W. R. Wills.