Select Poetry.

Thames Star, Volume XIV, Issue 4616, 20 October 1883, Page 1

Select Poetry.

STEAY ABEOWS.

I drew my bow in the morning air, The arrow flew, I knew not where; Though close on its track my gaze I bent, I could not find out which way it went.

Next day while roaming the same old wood, Dear to my heart for its solitude, 1 found the arrow I fihot away, In a wee bird's red breast buried lay. "

What does the world, by sin's shadow blurred, Lose in the death of a helpless bird ? Only a song, one sweet song the less To touch the heart with its tenderness. .

When the tall hedges which line the way Blush 'neath the glances of ardent May, Only one swallow, robin, or wren The less in the woodland, mead and glep.

Pondering over the sacrifice, A thousand thoughts in my mind arise, And tears fall fast as I gently lay The wounded bird in its grave away. .

What are the words we speak but koen, Sharp-barbed arrows of glittering mien. Which carelessly, idly, day hy day, We send from the bow of thought away ?

We let them fly through the balmy air, To follow their flight we do not care. But oftentimes they're keen in tone, ' As blades which come from the sharp'mW stone. ■ . °

And they sometimes pierce a heart which dies Too proud to utter complaints and cries, . And all too lato on a distantly, We find the arrow we shot away.

What do we lose by the unkind deed ? What do we lose in the wounds which bleed ? tmly a fountain of tenderness, Only a heart, just one heart the less.