Poems (Chitwood)/To a Caged Bird
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TO A CAGED BIRD.
Oh, why so mournful and so tremulous
The cadence of thy song—mournful yet sweet
As the low vibrating of some lone harp,
Played by a lingering hand, and echoing
Upon the stilly air. Why do I ask?
Thou art a captive bird—in vain thy wing
Flutters and beats against the gilded wires
Of thy fair prison-house.
The cadence of thy song—mournful yet sweet
As the low vibrating of some lone harp,
Played by a lingering hand, and echoing
Upon the stilly air. Why do I ask?
Thou art a captive bird—in vain thy wing
Flutters and beats against the gilded wires
Of thy fair prison-house.
Ah! this explains
The dimness of thine eye, and trembling notes
Of thy sweet voice, Can'st thou not be content?
Thy cage is beautiful, thy food is rare,
And love's soft hand doth watch thee every hour.
Then sing, sweet forest bird, in praise to those
Who minister to thee. Sing as thou didst
When fluttering 'mid the foliage of the wood's
Bright verdant leaves. In vain I list—'tis still
The same complaining cadence, coming from
A pining heart.
The dimness of thine eye, and trembling notes
Of thy sweet voice, Can'st thou not be content?
Thy cage is beautiful, thy food is rare,
And love's soft hand doth watch thee every hour.
Then sing, sweet forest bird, in praise to those
Who minister to thee. Sing as thou didst
When fluttering 'mid the foliage of the wood's
Bright verdant leaves. In vain I list—'tis still
The same complaining cadence, coming from
A pining heart.
Captive, what thoughts are thine?
Oh let me turn magician, and compute
What thy sad song in words would fain express.
Thou'rt thinking, in thy gilded prison house,
Of the glad sunlight and the pure soft air,
Where erst thy free song rang in joyous notes,
And Heaven's blue arch gave joyous echo back—
Of the high hills, whose waving, glittering grass
Swayed to and fro, as thy unwavering wing
Swept past—of the low vales where kindred notes
Were wont to blend with thine, and where the dew
Shrined in the lily's cup was drank by thee;
Or, hovering o'er the rivulet. thy wing
Rippled its sunny waves, 'mid changing light
And shadows, mingling beautifully there—
Or the deep forest, where thy cradle nest
Was hidden 'mid the clustering leaves, and where
Thy young, unsteady wing was trained to flight.
Hast thou not longed, sweet bird, to mount again,
With a free gush of song, melodiously
Welling from thy glad heart, till thou wert lost
To watching eyes amid the boundless fields
Of trackless air?
Oh let me turn magician, and compute
What thy sad song in words would fain express.
Thou'rt thinking, in thy gilded prison house,
Of the glad sunlight and the pure soft air,
Where erst thy free song rang in joyous notes,
And Heaven's blue arch gave joyous echo back—
Of the high hills, whose waving, glittering grass
Swayed to and fro, as thy unwavering wing
Swept past—of the low vales where kindred notes
Were wont to blend with thine, and where the dew
Shrined in the lily's cup was drank by thee;
Or, hovering o'er the rivulet. thy wing
Rippled its sunny waves, 'mid changing light
And shadows, mingling beautifully there—
Or the deep forest, where thy cradle nest
Was hidden 'mid the clustering leaves, and where
Thy young, unsteady wing was trained to flight.
Hast thou not longed, sweet bird, to mount again,
With a free gush of song, melodiously
Welling from thy glad heart, till thou wert lost
To watching eyes amid the boundless fields
Of trackless air?
There, warbler, would'st thou sing
The sweetest song thy thankful heart could frame,
With none to hear, and where thine eye could see
Naught but the sunbeam and the deep blue sky,
Or wandering cloudlet tinged with paly gold;
And thou would'st sink, with motion wavering,
Down 'mid the dewy foliage of the beech;
There rock'd to rest while zephyrs softly sing
Their low, sweet lullaby.
The sweetest song thy thankful heart could frame,
With none to hear, and where thine eye could see
Naught but the sunbeam and the deep blue sky,
Or wandering cloudlet tinged with paly gold;
And thou would'st sink, with motion wavering,
Down 'mid the dewy foliage of the beech;
There rock'd to rest while zephyrs softly sing
Their low, sweet lullaby.
Say, hast thou not
Dreamed thus amid the long and weary hours
Of thy captivity? Does this not give
Thy song its mournful thrill? Ah, so it is!
By the sad melody that answereth back
From thy low cage I seem to hear the words,
"Oh give me liberty, or life is but
A weary dream, which brings the heart but one
Protracted torture." Thou wilt pine, bright bird,
And thy last song will ask for liberty;
With plaintive, faltering notes, thy wing will droop,
Thy gentle eye grow dim, and thou wilt die;
Thy sad heart give one long vibration, then
Break in that last, last sigh, its trembling strings;
Andthen thy long captivity will cease.
Dreamed thus amid the long and weary hours
Of thy captivity? Does this not give
Thy song its mournful thrill? Ah, so it is!
By the sad melody that answereth back
From thy low cage I seem to hear the words,
"Oh give me liberty, or life is but
A weary dream, which brings the heart but one
Protracted torture." Thou wilt pine, bright bird,
And thy last song will ask for liberty;
With plaintive, faltering notes, thy wing will droop,
Thy gentle eye grow dim, and thou wilt die;
Thy sad heart give one long vibration, then
Break in that last, last sigh, its trembling strings;
Andthen thy long captivity will cease.