MY BIRD.

Ring out, ring out, thy clear sweet note! Art longing to be free— To break thy bars and heavenward float? My bird, this may not be. Thou ne'er hast known another home Than in that cage of thine, And shouldst thou from its shelter roam, Where meet a love like mine? When the gay wealth of leaves and flowers Wreathes every fragrant bough, And hides thee all the summer hours From noontide's sultry glow— And when the limpid grass-fringed brook Reflects thy yellow wing, And thou may'st seek each quiet nook Where sweets are blossoming— And warble there the cheerful song That oft has charmed mine ear, Thou might'st, those leafy shades among, Be happier far than here. But when sad Autumn sheds abroad The stillness of decay, And leaves beneath the feet are trod Where young winds love to play— When icy chains the streams have bound, Gems hang from every tree, And but the snow-bird skims the ground, Where would my trembler flee? Ah, fold thy wing and rest thee there, Nor trust deceitful skies, Though balmy now the gentle air, Dark tempests will arise. And Freedom! 'tis a glorious word! But should the rude winds come, Then wouldst thou wish, my warbling bird, For thine own quiet home. My bird! I too would take my flight, I long to soar away To those far realms where all is bright, Where beams an endless day. I may not tread a holier sphere, I may not upward move, But bound like thee, I linger here And trust a Father's love.