 | Lays of Leisure Hours |  |
TO THE SKYLARK.
Sweet bird! how hast thou changed thy thrilling noteSince first I heard it in the blue air float;
'Twas gay, but now, alas! it is not gay,
It seems like my poor broken heart to say
“All—all is changed, or dead, or crushed, or lost,”
Like my poor heart?—Oh! that hath darkly crost
With its own sadness thy sweet joyous strain,
Never may it be gay or blest again!
77
Nor feared Hope's disappointment and decline;
But now betrayed, abandoned, and bereft,
It hath no note of buoyant gladness left;
And wheresoe'er it meets with joy—young joy,
And hope, winged hope, its heavy sighs destroy
The harmonious charm, with Sorrow's worst alloy;
It will not share, it will not see delight,
And, Oh! it hath a power, a fatal might
That makes all glad and joyful things appear
Unto itself, as its own fortunes, drear.
It will not feel, it will not find content,
Too skilled to turn all mirth and merriment
To bale, and bitterness, and secret pain,
And chain Creation with its own harsh chain.
'Twill not endure, nor yet encourage hope,
But still condemns all things alike to droop—
It will not breathe, nor will it bear, that voice
Which saith, though Skylark! with thy note, “Rejoice!”
| Lays of Leisure Hours | |