Poor little thing, how can'st thou sing,
Confin'd within the cage,
Whilst other birds on bush and tree,
In happy sport engage?
Is it because thy home looks bright,
That thou cans't sing with heart so light?
Is it because thy master's kind,
That thou dost such contentment find?
Poor little thing, I pity thee—
'Tis poor redress for Liberty?
Perhaps, poor bird, thou'st never heard
The music of the leaves,
Nor felt the zephyr's soothing breath,
On balmy summer eves;
This may have been a liberal home,
And thus have checked the wish to roam;
With food and water always nigh,
Content to live, content to die;
Yet still, poor bird, I pity thee,
Thou hast not tasted Liberty.
Yet I confess in great distress,
Man oft resembles thee—
He rests within earth's gaudy cage,
Whilst other souls are free;
The present world is all to him,
Beyond his prison all is dim,
Bound—strongly bound by nature's chains,
His spirit never freedom gains;—
Oh, how delighted he would be,
Could he but taste Christ's Liberty.
