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Whom meet we, Betsey, in the wood? The Lady Pheasant and her Brood; So stand we still, to let them pass On oak-leaves through the tasselled grass.

Down dappled aisles of hazel shade They disappear along the glade, My Lady in her rusty gown, Ten children clad in useful brown.

But one fledged laggard stops to eat The plantain seeds at Betsey’s feet, Who plucks my fingers: “Mother, come We’ll pick him up and take him home!”

The nestling joins the hidden nine Deep in the copse; and I lift mine And bear her home along the lane,— “I want him!” still pouts Betsey-Jane.

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How few alack, There be along the track Of life which hear not at their back

(Though small birds sing And blessèd belfries ring) The creaking of Time’s iron wing;

And, in mad flight From an untempted might, Trample the lovely fields of light,

Nor for a space Pause in their fearful race To look their tyrant in the face.—

In you alone, Dear child, there ever shone Divine deliberation.