Note 247 — Chapter XXI · THE ANTHOLOGY.
Reading edition
Why, ruthless shepherds, from my dewy spray In my lone haunt, why tear me thus away? Me, the Nymphs' wayside minstrel, whose sweet note O'er sultry hill is heard and shady grove to float? Lo! where the blackbird, thrush, and greedy host Of starlings fatten at the farmer's cost! With just revenge those ravages pursue; But grudge not my poor leaf and sip of grassy dew.
Wrangham.