Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/181

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search
This page needs to be proofread.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I meditate the sylvan reign no,wrong, But drink, with ear and heart, thy extasy of song. Poor harmless tenants of the woods and plains, I mourn that man has made you what ye are, He, who your tyrant, not your master, reigns, And what he shoal? protect, delights to mar ? Of all that bleed beneath his barbarous hand, How small a part is that, his real wants demand But ye can only know that I Of these tyrannic sovereigns of earth, And ye are wise, the near approach to shun Of those, who make your agonies their mirth. Oh man, to read thy fall, thou need'st but look In every sullied page of Nature's open book ! 161 ON A LOCK OF HAIR. T?ov simplest, dearest gift of love, More precious far than gold or gems, M