146
THE DEAD ROBIN.
"But our bird knew not of the free blue air,
He had lived in his cage, and his home was there;
No flight had he in the green wood flown—
He pined not for freedom he never had known!
If he had lived amid leaf and bough
It had been cruel to fetter him now;
For I have seen a poor bird die,
And all for love of his native sky.
"But our's would come to our cup and sip,
And peck the sugar away from our lip—
Would sit on our shoulder and sing, then creep
And nestle in our hands to sleep:
There is the water, and there is the seed—
Its cage hung round with the green chickweed;
But the food is untouched—the song is unheard—
Cold and stiff lies our beautiful bird."
