THE FROZEN BIRD.

See, see, what a sweet little prize I have found! A Robin that lay half-benumbed on the ground: Well hous’d and well fed, in your cage you will sing, And make our dull winter as gay as the spring. But stay,—sure ’tis cruel, with wings made to soar, To be shut up in prison, and never fly more— And I, who so often have long’d for a flight, Shall I keep you prisoner?—mamma, is that right? No, come, pretty Robin, I must set you free— For your whistle, though sweet, would sound sadly to me.