OF ST. FRANCIS: HIS WRATH
And oftentimes he raised his hand
Blessing those little birds,
Who piped in answer to his words,
As they could understand.
Blessing those little birds,
Who piped in answer to his words,
As they could understand.
But this young lark of whom I tell,
Content not with his share
Of worms and flies and such-like fare,
Cruel, insatiable,
Content not with his share
Of worms and flies and such-like fare,
Cruel, insatiable,
Upon his little brethren set,
And with his beak them slew.
It chanced our father came thereto
While yet the blood was wet;
And with his beak them slew.
It chanced our father came thereto
While yet the blood was wet;
And saw the parents flying round,
Their song all turned to moan;
The murderer, careless, cold as stone
Surveyed that slaughter-ground.
Their song all turned to moan;
The murderer, careless, cold as stone
Surveyed that slaughter-ground.
Our father's wrath and pity grew
And kindled to a flame:
"Ah, thou vile bird of woe and shame,
Ill fate will thee pursue!
And kindled to a flame:
"Ah, thou vile bird of woe and shame,
Ill fate will thee pursue!
"Miserably shalt thou die," he said,
"Be drowned, for all thy wings;
And hated by all living things,
Even when thou art dead.
"Be drowned, for all thy wings;
And hated by all living things,
Even when thou art dead.
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