MRS. BARBAULD.

THE WREN.

He sat, and never spoke a word

A holy and religious bird

He seem'd unto me then.

I thought, perchance, that sin and strife Might, in a winged creature's life,

Be somehow strangely blent;

So hermit-like he lived apart,
And might be, in his little heart,
A woodland penitent.

Deceitful thing! into the brook,
Hour after hour, a stedfast look

From off his perch was sent;

And yet, I thought his eyes too bright, Too happy, for an anchorite,

On lonely penance bent.

Ah, yes! for long his nest hath been
Behind yon alder's leafy screen,

By Rothay's chiming waters;
Two rapid years are run, and now,
This monk hath peopled every bough
With little sons and daughters

I will not blame thee, Friar Wren,
Because, among stout-hearted men,
Some truant monks there be;
And, if

you could their names collect, I rather more than half suspect

That I should not be free.