ELODIE.
I.
A bird that had no song by day,
But crouch'd in sadness in the shade,
As soon as came the evening's ray,
Took wing and soar'd aloft,
And, with a music soft,
Sweet melodies for all the forest made.
Elodie! Elodie!
Thus evermore the plaintive ditty rose—
Elodie! Elodie!
Subsiding to a murmur at the close,
That grew to silence but was not repose,
And might be tears, for still
The accent seem'd to fill,
As of a heart still bursting to be free—
With evermore that chant—sad chant—of Elodie.
II.
They tell of one denied, who fled
His human to a forest home;
Who laid at last his aching head
Beneath the wood and slept,
While death upon him crept,
And, with a holy word, expell'd his gloom.—
Elodie! Elodie!
Was still the last fond murmur of his breast—
Elodie! Elodie!
And from that moment a wild bird grew blest,
With the sweet burden never more to rest—
For ever, with the night,
Eager in song and flight,
As with a soul still bursting to be free.
His wings swell out with still that chant of Elodie.
