The Robin

See, mamma, what a sweet little prize I have found!
A Robin that lay half benumbed on the ground!
I caught him, and fed him, and warm’d in my breast,
And now he’s as nimble and blithe as the rest.
Look, look, how he flutters! – He’ll slip from my hold.
Ah, rogue! you’ve forgotten both hunger and cold!
But indeed ’tis in vain, for I sha’n't set you free,
For all your whole life you’re a prisoner with me;
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 longed for a flight,
Shall I keep you prisoner? – Mamma – is it right?
No, come, pretty Robin, I must set you free -
For your whistle, though sweet, would sound sadly to me.