THE LANGUAGE OF BJRDS. 
205 
Yet still his native fields he mourns, 
His gaoler hates, his kindness scorns, 
For freedom pants, for freedom burns : 
That darling freedom once obtain'd, 
Unskiird, untaught, to search for prey, 
He mourns the liberty he gain'd. 
And hungry pines his hours away. 
Helpless the little wand'rer flies. 
Then homeward turns his longing eyes, 
And warbling out his grief, he dies. 
I have known many persons who, having taken 
birds, either from the nest or in a trap, after some 
time becoming tired with the trouble of attending to 
them, or from a generous (but, alas, too late) feeling 
of the misery of captivity, have given them their 
liberty. This is mistaken kindness, as birds, after being 
caged, and having become tame, cannot live again 
in a state of nature ; they are either pecked to death 
by the wild birds, or they easily become the victim 
of cats or birds of prey. 
What pity it is that we cannot be content to enjoy 
bounteous nature in her own haunts ; what a sacri- 
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