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University of Virginia Library

The bird and the bell, with other poems

Cranch, Christopher Pearse (1813-1892)

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[As one who in some cellar crypt has kept]

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THE BIRD AND THE BELL

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.

XLVII.

XLVIII.

XLIX.

L.

LI.

LII.

LIII.

LIV.

LV.

LVI.

LVII.

LVIII.

LIX.

LX.

LXI.

LXII.

LXIII.

LXIV.

LXV.

THE THREE MUSES.

THE SHADOWED RIVER.

NOVEMBER TREES.

THE FLOWER AND THE BEE.

THE CATARACT ISLE.

IN THE PINE WOODS.

LUNA THROUGH A LORGNETTE.

IN THE PALAIS ROYAL GARDEN.

THE AUTUMN RAIN.

SPIRITS IN PRISON.

THE OLD DAYS AND THE NEW.

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1.

2.

THROUGH THE FIELDS TO ST. PETER'S.

THE SPIRIT OF THE AGE.

AL HASSAN'S SECRET.

MY OLD PALETTE.

THE MOUNTAIN PATH.

THE CHANGING YEAR.

SOFT, BROWN, SMILING EYES.

THE DREAM OF PILATE'S WIFE.

THE DISPUTE OF THE SEVEN DAYS.

A THRUSH IN A GILDED CAGE.

UNDER THE SKYLIGHT.

I IN THEE, AND THOU IN ME.

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TO THE MEMORY OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

THE WORKSHOP AND THE BRONZE.

THE EVENING PRIMROSE.

A CHINESE STORY.

A SONG OF HOME.

A SPRING-GROWL.

WAITING BY THE SEA.

LOUIS NAPOLEON.

BY THE SHORE OF THE RIVER.

THE AMERICAN PANTHEON.

IN THE FOREST OF FONTAINEBLEAU.

A DAY OF MEMORIES.

TO A HALF-FRIEND.

A BATTLE OF THE ELEMENTS.

THE CENTURY AND THE NATION.

THE LAY OF THRYM; OR, THE HAMMER RECOVERED.

MICHAEL ANGELO BUONAROTTI.

ON RE-READING TENNYSON'S PRINCESS.

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THE HIGHER LAW.

THE GARDEN (CONTINUED).

TO O. B. F. (CONTINUED.)

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POEMS OF THE WAR.

THE BURIAL OF THE FLAG.

THE ROSE OF DEATH.

NOVEMBER 8TH, 1864.

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SONNETS FOR THE TIMES.

1.

I. THE DARK TOWER.

2.

II. DELIVERANCE.

3.

III. THE ABOLITIONISTS.

4.

IV. THE DAWN OF PEACE.

5.

V. THE DEATH-BLOW.

6.

VI. THE MARTYR.

7.

VII. OUR COUNTRY.

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156

A THRUSH IN A GILDED CAGE.

Was this the singer I had heard so long,
But never till this evening, face to face?
And were they his, those tones so unlike song,
Those words conventional and commonplace?

Those echoes of the usual social chat
That filled with noise confused the crowded hall;
That smiling face, black coat, and white cravat;
Those fashionable manner,—was this all?

He glanced at freedmen, operas, politics,
And other common topics of the day;
But not one brilliant image did he mix
With all the prosy things he had to say.

At least I hoped that one I long had known,
In the inspired books that built his fame,
Would breathe some word, some sympathetic tone,
Fresh from the ideal region whence he came.

157

And so I leave the well-dressed, buzzing crowd,
And vent my spleen alone here by my fire;
Mourning the fading of my golden cloud,
The disappointment of my life's desire.

Simple enthusiast! why do you require
A budding rose for every thorny stalk?
Why must we poets always bear the lyre
And sing, when fashion forces us to talk?

Only at moments comes the muse's light.
Alone, like shy wood-thrushes, warble we.
Catch us in traps like this dull crowd to-night,
We are but plain, brown-feathered birds, you see!