THE VACANT CAGE.
Our little bird in his full day of health
With his gold-coated beauty made us glad,
But when disease approach'd with cruel stealth,
A sadder interest our smiles forbad.
How oft we watch'd him, when the night hours came,
His poor head buried near his bursting heart.
Which beat within a puft and troubled frame ;
But he has gone at last, and play'd 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 ?
He shall not be cast out like wild-wood things !
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 inearth'd—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 though these 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 gasp'd with pain.
Our little bird in his full day of health
With his gold-coated beauty made us glad,
But when disease approach'd with cruel stealth,
A sadder interest our smiles forbad.
How oft we watch'd him, when the night hours came,
His poor head buried near his bursting heart.
Which beat within a puft and troubled frame ;
But he has gone at last, and play'd 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 ?
He shall not be cast out like wild-wood things !
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 inearth'd—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 though these 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 gasp'd with pain.