He shall not be cast out like wild-wood things! We will not spurn those delicate remains; No heat shall blanch his plumes, nor soaking rains Shall wash the saffron from his little wings; Nor shall he be inearthed -- but in his cage Stand, with his innocent beauty unimpair'd; And all the skilled'st hand can do, to assuage Poor Dora's grief, by more than Dora shared, Shall here be done. What though these orbs of glass Will feebly represent his merry look Of recognition, when he saw her pass, Or from her palm the melting cherry took -- Yet the artist's kindly craft shall not retain The filming eye, and beak that gasped with pain. |