IN FRENCH FIELDS.
139
Rhyme's the tiniest humming-bird
Startled at any sound that's heard,
It flies away, and on my word
Seems subject to vertigo;
But you may make the wild thing tame,
And prompt obedience from it claim,
If Molière should be your name,
Or you be Victor Hugo.
As a prisoner left alone,
Upon his own resources thrown,
In a dungeon dank of stone,
Easy finds it to entice
Upon his shoulder, lap or hand,
Thanks to forced leisure, patience planned,
Spider or lizard, and command
Out to peer the timid mice,
So by long effort, time and will,
Is obtained at last the skill
With confidence and trust to fill
Rhyme, the bird so shy before;
