FEATHERS AND MOSS.

The marten flew to the finch's nest,

Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay:

“The arrow it sped to thy brown mate's breast;

Low in the broom is thy mate to-day.”

“Liest thou low, love? low in the broom?

Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,

Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom.”

She beateth her wings, and away, away.

“Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told

( Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay )!

Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold.

O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!”

The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest,

Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,

Mine is the trouble that rent her breast,

And home is silent, and love is clay.