Poor restless dove, I pity thee； And when I hear thy plaintive¹ moan, I mourn for thy captivity², And in thy woes³ forget mine own.

    To see thee stand prepared to fly, And flap those useless wings of thine, And gaze into the distant sky, Would melt a harder heart than mine.

    In vain——in vain！ Thou canst not rise： Thy prison roof confines thee there； Its slender wires delude⁴ thine eyes, And quench⁵ thy longings⁶ with despair.

    Oh, thou wert made to wander free In sunny mead⁷ and shady grove⁸, And far beyond the rolling sea, In distant climes, at will to rove！

    Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate Thy little drooping⁹ heart to cheer, And share with thee thy captive state, Thou couldst be happy even there.

    Yes, even there, if, listening by, One faithful dear companion stood, While gazing on her full bright eye, Thou mightst forget thy native wood

    But thou, poor solitary¹⁰ dove, Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan； The heart that Nature formed to love Must pine, neglected, and alone.