 | Sonnets by the Rev. Charles Turner [i.e. Charles Tennyson] |  |
17
THE VACANT CAGE.
Our little bird in his full day of healthWith his gold-coated beauty made us glad,
But when disease approached with cruel stealth,
A sadder interest our smiles forbade.
How oft we watched him, when the nighthours came.
His poor head buried near his bursting heart,
Which beat within a puft and troubled frame;
But he has gone at last, and played his part:
The seed-glass, slighted by his sickening taste
The little moulted feathers, saffron-tipt,
The fountain, where his fever'd bill was dipt,
The perches, which his failing feet embraced
All these remain—not even his bath removed—
But where's the spray and flutter that we loved?
18
We will not spurn those delicate remains;
No heat shall blanch his plumes, nor soaking rains
Shall wash the saffron from his little wings;
Nor shall he be inearthed—but in his cage
Stand, with his innocent beauty unimpair'd;
And all the skilled'st hand can do, to assuage
Poor Dora's grief, by more than Dora shared,
Shall here be done. What tho' those orbs of glass
Will feebly represent his merry look
Of recognition, when he saw her pass,
Or from her palm the melting cherry took—
Yet the artist's kindly craft shall not retain
The filming eye, and beak that gasped with pain.
| Sonnets by the Rev. Charles Turner [i.e. Charles Tennyson] | |