Poor, wounded bird! my bosom aches for thee,
As I thy torn and bleeding form behold.
Wide in the sky no more thou shalt unfold
Thy wings, exulting in their liberty.

It was but yester morn, I saw thee blest;
I marked thy plumage gay and heard thee sing,
And watched thee upward on thy early wing,
Before the sunbeam found thy dewy nest.

Thou wast a tenant of the boundless air;
Thy song, at coming morn, rejoicing loud,
Thrilled from the bosom of the golden cloud,
And thou didst lodge in light and beauty there.

Poor bird! I would that I could bring relief,
And call thee back to joys and songs again;
But that can never be; these tears are vain;
And thou shalt bow thy head in early grief.

I see thy heaving heart with throbs dilate;
I mark the shadows of thy closing eye;
Yes, thou art fallen low, but shalt not die,
Without a friend to mourn thy cruel fate.