The Stricken Bird
Here's the last food your poor mother can bring!
Take it, my suffering brood.
Oh! they have stricken me under the wing;
See, it is dripping with blood!
Fair was the morn, and I wished them to rise,
Enjoying its beauties with me.
The air was all fragrance—all splendor the skies,
While bright shone the earth and the sea.
Little I thought, when so freely I went,