132 STORIES ABOUT BIRDS. 



Nay, it can't be — He who made me 

 Planted, thrilling, in my breast, 



Something longing, aye, for freedom, 

 And these wires destroy my rest. 



in. 



Shaking, hopping, waiting, restive, 

 How I long for once to fly — 



How my aching pinions tremble — 

 Give me life, or let me die. 



IV. 



Yonder in a deep-green cedar, 

 Fair as light, and light as air, 



Shouts aloud a joyous robin — 

 If you love me, send me there. 



V. 



Else what can my \nngs be good for? 



I as well might be a mouse 

 As a lonesome moping prisoner, 

 Barred forever in the house. 



VL 



Better any thing, with freedom. 



Than to know that one has wings, 



And must ever keep them fettered — 

 Thraldom hath a thousand stings. 



