Poems (Chitwood)/To a Caged Bird
TO A CAGED BIRD.
Oh, why so mournful and so tremulousThe cadence of thy song—mournful yet sweetAs the low vibrating of some lone harp, Played by a lingering hand, and echoingUpon the stilly air. Why do I ask?Thou art a captive bird—in vain thy wingFlutters and beats against the gilded wiresOf thy fair prison-house.
Ah! this explainsThe dimness of thine eye, and trembling notesOf 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 thoseWho minister to thee. Sing as thou didstWhen fluttering 'mid the foliage of the wood'sBright verdant leaves. In vain I list—'tis stillThe same complaining cadence, coming fromA pining heart.
Captive, what thoughts are thine?Oh let me turn magician, and computeWhat 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 grassSwayed to and fro, as thy unwavering wingSwept past—of the low vales where kindred notesWere wont to blend with thine, and where the dewShrined in the lily's cup was drank by thee;Or, hovering o'er the rivulet. thy wing Rippled its sunny waves, 'mid changing lightAnd shadows, mingling beautifully there—Or the deep forest, where thy cradle nestWas hidden 'mid the clustering leaves, and whereThy young, unsteady wing was trained to flight.Hast thou not longed, sweet bird, to mount again,With a free gush of song, melodiouslyWelling from thy glad heart, till thou wert lostTo watching eyes amid the boundless fieldsOf trackless air?
There, warbler, would'st thou singThe sweetest song thy thankful heart could frame,With none to hear, and where thine eye could seeNaught 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 singTheir low, sweet lullaby.
Say, hast thou notDreamed thus amid the long and weary hoursOf thy captivity? Does this not giveThy song its mournful thrill? Ah, so it is!By the sad melody that answereth backFrom thy low cage I seem to hear the words,"Oh give me liberty, or life is butA weary dream, which brings the heart but oneProtracted 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, thenBreak in that last, last sigh, its trembling strings;Andthen thy long captivity will cease.