 | Songs of the sea, with other poems |  |
113
TO A SINGING BIRD.
Blithe little prisoned warbler,
Thy silvery tones outbreak,
Like raindrops among summer leaves,
Or on a glassy lake!
How can such gleeful carols
Gush from thy quivering breast,
When in that gloomy cage thou'rt held,
Far from thy native nest?
Thy silvery tones outbreak,
Like raindrops among summer leaves,
Or on a glassy lake!
How can such gleeful carols
Gush from thy quivering breast,
When in that gloomy cage thou'rt held,
Far from thy native nest?
O, dost thou never languish,
And droop thy head in pain;
Missing the genial island-home
Thou may'st not see again?
The palm-tree bent above thee
With blossoms on its bough,
The vine-leaves clustered by thy side,—
No verdure cheers thee now.
And droop thy head in pain;
Missing the genial island-home
Thou may'st not see again?
114
With blossoms on its bough,
The vine-leaves clustered by thy side,—
No verdure cheers thee now.
Thy wings, that chased the sunbeam,
Have weak and nerveless grown;
And faded is the golden hue,
That on thy plumage shone;—
Brick walls and dusty pavements
Are all that meet thine eye,
For thou art even hidden from
The blue, impartial sky.
Have weak and nerveless grown;
And faded is the golden hue,
That on thy plumage shone;—
Brick walls and dusty pavements
Are all that meet thine eye,
For thou art even hidden from
The blue, impartial sky.
And yet thou hast forgiven
Thy nature's grievous wrong;
And thy full heart exultingly
Pours itself forth in song;—
An exile and a captive,
All lonely and bereft,
The impulse that now prompts thy lay,
The rapture still is left.
Thy nature's grievous wrong;
And thy full heart exultingly
Pours itself forth in song;—
An exile and a captive,
All lonely and bereft,
The impulse that now prompts thy lay,
The rapture still is left.
115
O joy-creating minstrel!
I bless thee for the thought,
Which thy untutored harmony,
Thy hymn of love hath brought:
If, in thy hour of darkness,
Such grateful glee is thine,
How should the immortal hope within
Forbid me to repine!
I bless thee for the thought,
Which thy untutored harmony,
Thy hymn of love hath brought:
If, in thy hour of darkness,
Such grateful glee is thine,
How should the immortal hope within
Forbid me to repine!
| Songs of the sea, with other poems | |