 | [Poems by Howells in] Poems of two friends |  |
119
THE CAGED ROBIN.
Oh, like the laughter of a broken heart
That tells of sorrow in its hollow ring,
Yet strives to hide beneath a show of art
The joyless spirit's silent cankering—
Seems the sweet strain thou art caroling,
Poor patient Robin, in thy prison home—
Shut from the opening beauties of the spring
In the thick, somber silence of this room,
Where scarce through curtained glass a sickly light can come.
That tells of sorrow in its hollow ring,
Yet strives to hide beneath a show of art
The joyless spirit's silent cankering—
Seems the sweet strain thou art caroling,
Poor patient Robin, in thy prison home—
Shut from the opening beauties of the spring
In the thick, somber silence of this room,
Where scarce through curtained glass a sickly light can come.
Erst when the day in peaceful panoply,
With crimson banners decked the glowing east,
Thy matin gushed in joyous notes and free,
And only with the morning's freshness ceased.
So when the sunset reddened all the west,
Thy vesper rose, and with its beauty died,
And the sad whippowil beguiled the rest.
But here alike are morn and eventide,
The sunset's purple glory and Aurora's pride!
With crimson banners decked the glowing east,
Thy matin gushed in joyous notes and free,
And only with the morning's freshness ceased.
So when the sunset reddened all the west,
Thy vesper rose, and with its beauty died,
And the sad whippowil beguiled the rest.
But here alike are morn and eventide,
The sunset's purple glory and Aurora's pride!
120
Erewhile I marked thee on thy bounding wing,
In aerial gambols whirling through the sky,
Stooping, anon, to taste the little spring,
That, pebbly-channeled, leapt translucently
Down a green hill-side—sparkling in its glee.
In crystal vase thy still warm drink now stands,
Its unrefreshing moisture mocking thee!
Dost loathe the bounty of thy captor's hands,
And long for that bright spring?—its silver shifting sands?
In aerial gambols whirling through the sky,
Stooping, anon, to taste the little spring,
That, pebbly-channeled, leapt translucently
Down a green hill-side—sparkling in its glee.
In crystal vase thy still warm drink now stands,
Its unrefreshing moisture mocking thee!
Dost loathe the bounty of thy captor's hands,
And long for that bright spring?—its silver shifting sands?
Can this carved roof and colonnaded hall
Vie with the blue sky and wild-wood grove,
Where now unanswered sounds the tender call
Of thy lone partner, plaining for her love?
What though thy cage be hung with fruits above?
Its wires be hid in freshly-gathered flowers—
Sweeter the fruits that thou mightst pluck, and rove
Through woods a-bloom, and fair, vine-clambered bowers,
The while shaking bright dew from clustering leaves in showers.
Vie with the blue sky and wild-wood grove,
Where now unanswered sounds the tender call
Of thy lone partner, plaining for her love?
What though thy cage be hung with fruits above?
Its wires be hid in freshly-gathered flowers—
Sweeter the fruits that thou mightst pluck, and rove
Through woods a-bloom, and fair, vine-clambered bowers,
The while shaking bright dew from clustering leaves in showers.
O! sing no more, but fold thy useless wings,
And drop thy head upon thy bosom low—
Thou art too like the grief-worn soul that flings
A vail of gladsomeness upon its woe,
And mocks with gayety its bitterest throe!
O! hush the song now rising in thy throat!
Bid the sweet lay be still—or rough its flow,
Till sorrow speaks in every lilting note,
And sob-like strains along the carved arches float!
And drop thy head upon thy bosom low—
Thou art too like the grief-worn soul that flings
A vail of gladsomeness upon its woe,
And mocks with gayety its bitterest throe!
O! hush the song now rising in thy throat!
Bid the sweet lay be still—or rough its flow,
Till sorrow speaks in every lilting note,
And sob-like strains along the carved arches float!
| [Poems by Howells in] Poems of two friends | |