Spring of 1838.
A stranded soldier's epaulet,
The waters cast ashore,
A little winged rover met,
And eyed it o'er and o'er.
The silver bright so pleased her sight,
On that lone, idle vest,
She knew not why she should deny
Herself a silver nest.
The shining wire she pecked and twirled;
Then bore it to her bough,
Where, on a flowery twig 't was curled—
The bird can show you how:—
But, when enough of that bright stuff
The cunning builder bore
Her house to make, she would not take,
Nor did she covet more.
And when the little artisan,
While neither pride nor guilt
Had entered in her pretty plan,
Her resting-place had built;
With here and there a plume to spare,
About her own light form,
Of these, inlaid with skill, she made
A lining soft and warm.
But, do you think the tender brood
She fondled there, and fed,
Were prouder, when they understood
The sheen about their bed?
Do you suppose they ever rose
Of higher powers possessed,
Because they knew they peeped and grew
Within a silver nest?