 | Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds |  |
THE LITTLE BIRD'S COMPLAINT TO HIS MISTRESS.
Here in this wiry prison where I sing,
And think of sweet green woods, and long to fly,
Unable once to try my useless wing,
Or wave my feathers in the clear blue sky,
And think of sweet green woods, and long to fly,
Unable once to try my useless wing,
Or wave my feathers in the clear blue sky,
Day after day the selfsame things I see,
The cold white ceiling, and this dreary house;
Ah! how unlike my healthy native tree,
Rocked by the winds that whistled through the boughs.
The cold white ceiling, and this dreary house;
Ah! how unlike my healthy native tree,
Rocked 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 kind sunshine cheers my gloomy hours,
Nor kind companion twitters on the spray!
And hangs sweet May-buds on the hedges gay,
But no kind sunshine cheers my gloomy hours,
Nor kind companion twitters on the spray!
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Oh! how I long to stretch my listless wings,
And fly away as far as eye can see!
And from the topmost bough, where Robin sings,
Pour my wild songs, and be as blithe as he.
And fly away as far as eye 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 flowery fields, wide woods, and hedges green;
Torn from my tender mother's downy breast,
In this sad prison-house to die unseen?
From flowery fields, wide woods, and hedges green;
Torn from my tender mother's downy breast,
In this sad prison-house to die unseen?
Why must I hear, in summer evenings fine
A thousand happier birds in merry choirs?
And I, poor lonely I, in grief repine,
Caged by these wooden walls and golden wires!
A thousand happier birds in merry choirs?
And I, poor lonely I, in grief repine,
Caged by these wooden walls and golden wires!
Say not, the tuneful notes I daily pour
Are songs of pleasure, from a heart at ease;—
They are but wailings at my prison door,
Incessant cries to taste the open breeze!
Are songs of pleasure, from a heart at ease;—
They are but wailings at my prison door,
Incessant cries to taste the open breeze!
Kind mistress, come, with gentle, pitying hand,
Unbar that curious grate, and set me free;
Then on the whitethorn bush I'll take my stand,
And sing sweet songs to freedom and to thee.
Unbar that curious grate, and set me free;
Then on the whitethorn bush I'll take my stand,
And sing sweet songs to freedom and to thee.
| Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds | |