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The Bird’s Complaint.

I wonpER what my wings were made for,
Fluttering, active, restless things !

If this cage is all of bird-land,
Tell me why a bird has wings.

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.

Shaking, hopping; waiting, restive,
How I long for once to fly—

How my aching pinions tremble—
Give me life, or let me die.

Yonder in a deep-green cedar,
Fair as light, and light as air,

|
Hi

THE YOUTH’S CABINET.

AN
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Shouts aloud a joyous robin—
If you love me send me there.

Else what can my wings be good for?
I as well might be a mouse

As a lonesome prisoner,
Barred forever in the house.

Better anything, with freedom,
Than to know that one has wings,

And must ever keep them fettered—
Thraldom hath a thousand stings.

O, this cage! it does not fit me;
I’m not made for it, I know;

Mine is yonder azure heaven—
If you love me let me go.

Lowe 1, Mass. LILIAN.