Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/85

 To brook the harsh confinement of the cage. Oft when, returning with her loaded bill, Th' astonish'd mother finds a vacant nest, By the hard hand of unrelenting clowns Robb'd, to the ground the vain provision falls; Her pinions ruffle, and low-drooping scarce Can bear the mourner to the poplar shade; Where, all abandon'd to despair, she sings Her sorrows thro' the night; and on the bough Sole-sitting, still at every dying fall Takes up again her lamentable strain Of winding woe; till wide around, the woods Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound.

now the feather'd youth their former bounds, Ardent, disdain; and, weighing oft their wings, Demand the free possession of the sky; This one glad office more, and then dissolves Parental love at once, now needless grown. Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain. 'Tis on some evening, funny, grateful, mild, When nought but balm is breathing thro' the woods, With yellow lustre bright, that the new tribes Visit the spacious heavens, and look abroad On Nature's common, far as they can see, Or wing, their range, and pasture. O'er the boughs Dancing about, still at the giddy verge Their resolution fails; their pinions still, In loose libration stretch'd, to trust the void Trembling refuse: till down before them fly The parent-guides, and chide, exhort, command, Or push them off. The surging air receives Its plumy burden; and their self-taught wings Winnow the waving element. On ground Rh