The Complete Works of Adelaide A. Procter With an Introduction by Charles Dickens |
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THE CHILD AND THE BIRD.
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 | The Complete Works of Adelaide A. Procter |  |
THE CHILD AND THE BIRD.
CHILD.
Wherefore pinest thou, my bird?
Thy sweet song is never heard.
All a bird's best joy surround thee
Ever since the day I found thee.
Once thy voice was free and glad,
Tell me why thou art so sad.
If this coarse thread cause thee pain
Thou shalt have a silken chain.
Thy sweet song is never heard.
All a bird's best joy surround thee
Ever since the day I found thee.
Once thy voice was free and glad,
Tell me why thou art so sad.
If this coarse thread cause thee pain
Thou shalt have a silken chain.
365
Still thy voice is ever mute,
Can I not thy fancies suit?
Will not silk content thy mind?
Must I something richer find?
Now then droop no more thy head,
Thou shalt have a silver thread.
Glittering silver now is thine,
Surely now thou canst not pine.
Can I not thy fancies suit?
Will not silk content thy mind?
Must I something richer find?
Now then droop no more thy head,
Thou shalt have a silver thread.
Glittering silver now is thine,
Surely now thou canst not pine.
What, in vain! then must I try
To humour still thy vanity,
Thou shalt have a royal chain,
Since silk and silver are too plain.
Raise thy head and proudly sing,
For, behold now, thou peevish thing,
Thou art tied with a golden string.
To humour still thy vanity,
Thou shalt have a royal chain,
Since silk and silver are too plain.
Raise thy head and proudly sing,
For, behold now, thou peevish thing,
Thou art tied with a golden string.
Well, then, since in vain I try,
Ungrateful bird, to please thee—fly!
Take thee to thy woods again
Since thy heart, so full of pain,
Stifles thy melodious strain;
But in vain thou there shalt pine
Gold nor silver will be thine.
Ungrateful bird, to please thee—fly!
Take thee to thy woods again
Since thy heart, so full of pain,
Stifles thy melodious strain;
But in vain thou there shalt pine
Gold nor silver will be thine.
BIRD.
Ah! these chains are bright and fine,
But for these I did not pine.
Thou hast made me once more free,
And I longed for liberty.
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But never more a captive hold.
What is silver to the sheen
Of the dew-drops on the green?
What is gold to beams of light
That sparkle in the morning bright?
Nought glads me like my own free will,
And golden fetters are fetters still.
| The Complete Works of Adelaide A. Procter | |