Little pilgrim swallow, still
Thou dost perch upon my sill,
Singing every morning, till
My heart repeats thy plaintive rill;
What is wrong, tell me along,
Little swallow, in thy song?
Art forsaken by thy mate,
Abandoned and left desolate;
Or weep'st perhaps my cruel fate,
Seeing me disconnsolate?
With sorrow wrung, my heart's unstrung,
Little swallow, by thy tongue.
Yet have I most cause to sigh
Thou canst on thy wings rely,
Skim the lake and soar on high,
Wake in echoes from the sky
Notes that each my prison reach,
Little swallow, with thy speech.
Ah! if I — but fates, compel
Me dungeoned to this narrow cell,
Whence the sun may not dispel
The gloom that drowns my voice as well,
Lifted vain, in sad refrain,
Little swallow, to thy strain.
Now September is at hand
Thou wilt leave me with thy band,
Calling mountains, dreary sand,
Calling oceans, flowery land,
Without choice, to rejoice,
Little swallow, with thy voice.
Still shall I, awake from sleep
Opening my eyes to weep,
Though the earth with snow be deep,
Fresh thy love and pity keep;
Without restraint, to hear I'll feint,
Little swallow, still, thy plaint.
When spring comes in radiance bright,
A cross will stand upon yon height;
Little swallow, check thy flight,
Upon its topmost bar to light;
Salute my grave, and at its verge,
Little swallow, chant my dirge.
