On being awoke by his singing
Soon as in eastern clime approaching morn
Breaks from the spangled train of ebon night,
While yet the dewdrop quivers on the thorn
Or o’er the distant landscape meets my sight,
Involv’d in mists remote the valleys lie,
Still hid in dusky vest the mountains steep,
Or orient daylight wid’ning on the sky,
Thy tune sweet warbler breaks the charm of sleep.
Sweet sounds that early thus salute mine ear
Breathe louder at command the welcome note,
It is my bully’s voice so soft and clear,
For me my bully strains his little throat.
Sweet bird! the most belov’d of all thy kind,
The treasure dearest to my youthful heart,
Tho’ here within the gilded cage confined
Say would’st thou from the mansion ere depart.
Ah no — for this was e’en thy nest forsook
Here daily fed, and cherished so long,
’Twas here thy feather’d pinions first were shook
And heard the warble of thy mimic song.
Live then ador’d and breathe the freshest air,
Here be provision, safety, peace, thine own,
Nor ever see abroad thro’ danger’s snare
The path of liberty thou ne’er hast known.