A CHERISH'D captive, ere thy tender wing As yet was fledg'd; through many a summer's day Thy song hath charm'd me with its thrilling lay; Still seem its echoes round thy cage to cling. In this thy narrow realm, a tiny king! Fierce warfare waging with thine insect prey; Crest, beak, and spur—crown, sword, and sceptre they, A turf thy emerald throne,—say, pamper'd thing, Yon flood of glory can thy sight sustain? With wing unpractis'd canst thou heavenward soar? Unaw'd by space renew thy wonted strain? Or, like some spirit unprepar'd to quit Its cage, the body, dost thou earth deplore? Thy voice, thy pinion, for the skies unfit? |