Classic Poem

A Dying thrush young Edwy found,
As flutt'ring in a field of snow;
Its little wings with ice were bound,
Awhile its heart forgot to glow;
In eager haste he homeward ran,
The quiv'ring charge to me resign'd;
" Oh save it, Celia! if you can,
Protect it from the wint'ry wind. "

My bosom press'd the trembling thing,
And bade its little pris'ner live;
But, ah! that bosom felt a sting
The panting warbler ne'er could give;
With sweet concern young Edwy cry'd,
" Can Celia save the tender thrush? "
Perhaps , I said — and foolish sigh'd,
Which shame converted to a blush.

He cry'd, " my Celia, why that sigh?
And why that blush? — the bird is free; —
But pity beams in Celia's eye,
Ah! let it fair one beam on me! "
My heart approv'd his pleasing claim,
Tho' sain to hide the rebel strove;
For pity bore a dearer name,
'Twas now converted into love!