. Original poems, for infant minds . eseen : And wilful waste, depend upon t, Is, almost always, woful want! THE LITTLE BIRDS COMPLAINT TO HISMISTRESS. HERE in the wiry prison, where I sing, And think of sweet green woods, and long to fly; Unable once to stretch my feeble wing,Or wave my feathers in the clear blue sky. Day after day, the self same things I see,The cold white ceiling, and this wiry house; Ah! how unlike my healthy native tree, Rockd by the winds that whistled through the boughs. Mild spring returning, strews the ground with flowers,And hangs sweet May-buds on the hedges gay; Bu
. Original poems, for infant minds . eseen : And wilful waste, depend upon t, Is, almost always, woful want! THE LITTLE BIRDS COMPLAINT TO HISMISTRESS. HERE in the wiry prison, where I sing, And think of sweet green woods, and long to fly; Unable once to stretch my feeble wing,Or wave my feathers in the clear blue sky. Day after day, the self same things I see,The cold white ceiling, and this wiry house; Ah! how unlike my healthy native tree, Rockd by the winds that whistled through the boughs. Mild spring returning, strews the ground with flowers,And hangs sweet May-buds on the hedges gay; But no warm sunshine cheers my gloomy hours,Nor kind companion twitters on the spray ! Oh! how I long to stretch my weary wings, And fly away as far as I can see;And from the topmost bough where Robin sings, Pour my wild songs, and be as blithe as he. Why was I taken from the waving nest ? From flowry fields, wide woods, and hedges green,Torn from my tender mothers downy breast, In this sad prison-house to die unseen ! ORIGINAL LITTLE BIRDS COMPLAINT. P. 98. A ••* \ \ FOR INFANT MINDS. 99 Why must I hear in summer evenings fine,A thousand happier birds in merry choirs ? And I, poor lonely I, forbid to join, Cagd by these wooden walls and golden wires. Kind mistress come, with gentle, pitying hand, Unbar my prison door and set me free,Then, on the white thorn bush Ill take my stand, And sing sweet songs to freedom and to thee. THE MISTRESSS REPLY TO HER LITTLE BIRD. DEAR little bird, dont make this piteous cry,My heart will break to hear thee thus complain Gladly, dear little bird, Id let thee fly,If that were likely to relieve thy pain. Sad was the boy who climbd the tree so high,And took thee bare and shivring from thy nest; But no, dear little bird, it was not I, Theres more of soft compassion in my breast: But when I saw thee gasping wide for breath,Without one feather on thy callow skin, I beggd the cruel boy to spare thy death,Paid for thy little life, and took t
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