ELEGY ON A YOUNG THRUSH, WHICH ESCAPED FROM THE WRITER'S HAND, AND FALLING DOWN THE AREA OF A HOUSE, COULD NOT BE FOUND. Helen Maria Williams Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Williams, Helen Maria, 1759-1827. Poems on various subjects: with introductory remarks on the present state of science and literature in France. London G. and W. B. Whittaker 1823 pp. [222]-224.

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ELEGY ON A YOUNG THRUSH , WHICH ESCAPED FROM THE WRITER'S HAND , AND FALLING DOWN THE AREA OF A HOUSE , COULD NOT BE FOUND . MISTAKEN Bird , ah whither hast thou stray'd ? My friendly grasp why eager to elude ? This hand was on thy pinion lightly laid , And fear'd to hurt thee by a touch too rude . Is there no foresight in a Thrush's breast , That thou down yonder gulph from me wouldst go ? That gloomy area lurking cats infest , And there the dog may rove , alike thy foe . I would with lavish crumbs my bird have fed , And brought a crystal cup to wet thy bill ; I would have made of down and moss thy bed , Soft , though not fashion'd with a Thrush's skill . Soon as thy strengthen'd wing could mount the sky , My willing hand had set my captive free ; Ah , not for her who loves the Muse , to buy A selfish pleasure , bought with pain to thee ! The vital air , and liberty , and light Had all been thine ; and love , and rapt'rous song , And sweet parental joys , in rapid flight , Had led the circle of thy life along . Securely to my window hadst thou flown , And ever thy accustom'd morsel found ; Nor should thy trusting breast the wants have known Which other Thrushes knew when winter frown'd . Fram'd with the wisdom nature lent to thee , Thy house of straw had brav'd the tempest's rage , And thou through many a Spring hadst liv'd to see The utmost limit of a Thrush's age . Ill-fated bird ! — and does the Thrush's race , Like Man's , mistake the path that leads to bliss ? Or , when his eye that tranquil path can trace , The good he well discerns through folly miss ?