 | The Vale of Arden and Other Poems |  |
58
FELLOW-CAPTIVES
How blest on earth's green lap to lie,
Escaped from town's captivity,
But that its smoke on evening gale
Far borne—this Eden's serpent-trail—
Sullies the placid sky;
Escaped from town's captivity,
But that its smoke on evening gale
Far borne—this Eden's serpent-trail—
Sullies the placid sky;
Which else were stainless as the hue
Of those moss-cradled eggs, whose view
In quaint-cut hedge of town parterre
Drove me to seek the taintless air
And unpolluted blue.
Of those moss-cradled eggs, whose view
In quaint-cut hedge of town parterre
Drove me to seek the taintless air
And unpolluted blue.
Not here, alas!—Full three leagues fled
From yon grim city, overhead
Hangs gloom, and silence doth appal
As in some stricken house where all
The little ones lie dead.
From yon grim city, overhead
Hangs gloom, and silence doth appal
As in some stricken house where all
The little ones lie dead.
59
What evil spell has power to hush
The rapture of the impassioned thrush?
What keeps his sable-suited peer
Dumb, and each dainty sonneteer
Of copse and lisping rush,
The rapture of the impassioned thrush?
What keeps his sable-suited peer
Dumb, and each dainty sonneteer
Of copse and lisping rush,
That follows summer o'er the foam?
Or why is heaven's eternal dome
Vacant of its high chorister?—
Nature, her music reft from her,
Is drearier than the home
Or why is heaven's eternal dome
Vacant of its high chorister?—
Nature, her music reft from her,
Is drearier than the home
Whose sadness slowly I regain
Through ever-deepening shades of pain,
As (ever more the air grows sick
Where the dull miles of dismal brick
Spread like a loathsome blain;)
Through ever-deepening shades of pain,
As (ever more the air grows sick
Where the dull miles of dismal brick
Spread like a loathsome blain;)
My prison, and—God help you!—yours,
Poor little poets. Man endures
The woe his own unwisdom yields,
Who lost the freedom of the fields,
Misled by his own lures;
Poor little poets. Man endures
The woe his own unwisdom yields,
Who lost the freedom of the fields,
Misled by his own lures;
60
But you, whose ditty's simple meed
Was still to pluck the thistle seed,
You, bolder finch of sanguine breast,
And you, small sir, with rosy crest—
Cursed be the ruffian's greed
Was still to pluck the thistle seed,
You, bolder finch of sanguine breast,
And you, small sir, with rosy crest—
Cursed be the ruffian's greed
That mocked thy love-call, limed the spray
Where thou didst light to pipe thy lay,
Tore thee from all thou heldest dear,
To join thy captive song-mates here—
A pitiful array
Where thou didst light to pipe thy lay,
Tore thee from all thou heldest dear,
To join thy captive song-mates here—
A pitiful array
Of joy's own angels doomed to dwell
Pent in the city's weary hell;
For whisperings of the wind-swept wheat,
(The clangour of the jostling street;)
For clover-breath, the smell
Pent in the city's weary hell;
For whisperings of the wind-swept wheat,
(The clangour of the jostling street;)
For clover-breath, the smell
Of factory-fumes; for heaven's great ring,
Scarce space to prune an aching wing!
No more, ensconced in hawthorn flower,
To weave the wonder of their bower,
Or feel the fluttering
Scarce space to prune an aching wing!
No more, ensconced in hawthorn flower,
To weave the wonder of their bower,
Or feel the fluttering
61
Of those faint pulses soon to burst
Each fragile casket!—but accurst
With man's regard, exiled from nest,
Woodland and sky and all God's best,
To languish mid man's worst.
Each fragile casket!—but accurst
With man's regard, exiled from nest,
Woodland and sky and all God's best,
To languish mid man's worst.
Is't not enough that lean and pale
His children pine, but he must hale
The happiest of created things,
Made free by God's great gift of wings,
To share his crowded jail?
His children pine, but he must hale
The happiest of created things,
Made free by God's great gift of wings,
To share his crowded jail?
| The Vale of Arden and Other Poems | |