THE BIRD's NEST

Yes, little Nest, I'll hold you fast, And little birds, one, two, three, four; I've watch'd you long; you're mine at last, Poor little things; you'll 'scape no more.

Chirp, cry, and flutter as you will, Ah! simple rebels, 'tis in vain; Your little wings are unfledg'd still; How can you freedom then obtain?

What note of sorrow strikes my ear? Is it their mother thus distrest? Ah yes—and see, their father dear, Flies round and round, to seek their nest.

And is it I who cause their moan? I, who so oft in summer's heat, Beneath yon oak have laid me down, To listen to their song so sweet?

If from my tender mother's side Some wicked wretch should make me fly, Full well I know 'twou'd her be tide To break her heart, to sink, to die!

And shall I, then, so cruel prove Your little ones to force away? No, no; together live and love, See, here they are—Take them, I pray.

Teach them in yonder wood to fly, And let them your soft warbling hear, Till their own wings can soar as high, And their own notes may sound as clear.

Go, gentle birds, go free as air! While oft again in summer's heat, To yonder oak I will repair, And listen to your song so sweat.