A LITTLE BIRD.
In his cage my blithe canary, swinging,
Trills with merry voice a roundelay;
From the early sunrise he is singing,
Chirping, flying, flitting all the day.
They who call it cruel thus to hold him
Never saw his joyous, twinkling eyes,
Never heard the something that I told him
Once, beneath delusive April skies:
When my hand drew back the sliding casement,
Bidding him be happy and go free,
Thinking all the while, in self-abasement,
Never more a jailer stern to be.
So I left him, lingering, fearing, sighing,
Loath to watch him soar and speed away,
Loath to see him from my roof-tree flying,
Sad to miss his songs and pretty play.
Evening fell, and in my chamber lying,
Wondering where the bird had found a nest,
What was that around me feebly flying,
What was that low drooping on my breast?
Ruffled plumage, tiny pinions weary,
Every flutter seemed a throb of pain;
Ah! the prison-house was not so dreary,
Tired Robin had come home again!
They who deem it cruel thus to hold him
Should have seen the wanderer’s listless eyes
Greet the loving care so quick to fold him
Safe and warm from show’ry April skies.
Never morning now but sees him flitting
In and out, as happy as can be;
Never twilight but it finds him sitting
Drowsy-eyed, a willing captive he.
Birdie, warbler, beautiful canary!
Trill the fulness of thy roundelay;
Of the rippling sweetness never chary,
Sing, my pretty Robin, all the day!