Poor little mite with mottled breast,

Half-fledged, and fallen from the nest,

For whom this world hath just begun,

Who want to fly, yet scarce can run;

Why open wide your yellow beak?

Is it for hunger, or to speak-

To tell me that you fain would be

Loosed from my hand to liberty?

Well, you yourself decide your fate,

But be not too precipitate.

Which will you have? If you agree

To quit the lanes, and lodge with me,

I promise you a bed more soft,

Even than that where you aloft

First opened wondering eyes, and found

A world of green leaves all around.

When you awake, you straight shall see

A fresh turf, green and velvety,

Well of clear water, sifted seed,

All things, in short, that bird can need;

And gentle beings, far more fair

Than build on bough, or skim through air,

When all without is wet and bleak,

Laying against your cage their cheek,

To make you pipe shall coax and coo,

And bud their pretty lips at you.

And when the clammy winter rain

Drips from the roof and clouds the pane,

When windows creak and chimneys roar,

And beggars wail outside the door,

And stretch out fingers lank and thin,

You shall be safely housed within,

And through the wood-fire’s flickering glow

Watch drifting leaves or driving snow,

Till Marian pulls the shutters up,

And you go sleep, and I go sup.

But now suppose I let you go,

To rains that beat, to winds that blow,

To heedless chance and prowling foe?

Mayhap this very day, alas!

You will be drowned in tangled grass:

Or, that escaped, some slinking stoat

May seize and suck your speckled throat;

Or hawk slow wheeling in the sky

Your fluttering feeble wings descry,

And, straightway downward flashing thence,

Relish and rend your innocence.

Should you survive, and glad and strong

Make autumn spring-like with your song,

You will be lured, the very first,

Where netted berries bulge and burst,

And, by their guardian caught alive,

You may, before I can arrive

To bid him not be so unsparing,

Have paid the forfeit of your daring.

Time too will come, there will not be

Berry on bush, or pod on tree,

Stripped be the hawthorn, bare the holly,

And all the boughs drip melancholy;

And you will have to scrape for food

Amid a frosty solitude.

Which shall it be? Now quick decide!

Safety confined, or peril wide?

Then did the little bird reply:

“’Tis true, as yet I scarce can fly;

But oh! it is such joy to try!

Just as you came, I was beginning

To win my wings, exult in winning;

To feel the promptings of the pinion,

The dawn of a divine dominion

Over the empty air, and over

Fields of young wheat and breadths of clover:

Pledge of a power to scale, some day,

My native elm-tree’s topmost spray,

And mid the leaves and branches warm

Sing far beyond the reach of harm.

And shall I barter gift like this

For doled-out joy and measured bliss?

For a trim couch and dainty fare

Forfeit the freedom of the air?

Shall I exchange for punctual food

April’s sweet loves and summer’s brood;

The dewy nest ‘neath twinkling stars

For crushing roof and cramping bars?

No! Come what chance or foe that may,

Menace of death this very day,

The weasel’s clutch, the falcon’s swoop-

What if these kill? they do not coop.

Autumn’s worst ambush, winter’s rage,

Are sweeter than the safest cage.”

Off, little mite! I let you fly,

And do as I would be done by.

Nature within your heart hath sown

A wisdom wiser than my own,

And from your choice I learn to prize

The birth-right of unbounded skies,

Delightful danger of being free,

Sweet sense of insecurity;

The privilege to risk one’s all

On being nor captive, caged, nor thrall,

The wish to range, the wing to soar

Past space behind, through space before,

The ecstasy of unknown flight,

The doubt, the danger, the delight,

To range and roam, unchained, unvext,

Nor know what worlds will open next;

And, since Death waits both caged and free

To die, at least, of liberty.

Alfred Austin
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