YOU think he sings a gladsome song!
Ah, well, he sings! but only see
How oft on glossy neck and breast
His bright head droops despondingly;
Or note the restless, eager bird
When a free minstrel's voice is heard.
You think because he pecks his grain
With vigorous mien and active bill,
This long captivity has trained
To tame content his roving will.
But watch, as some wild pinion flies,
Flashed near his cage, from summer skies:
He lifts his crest, his eyes dilate
To yearning orbs of passionate fire;
His whole small body seems to thrill,
And vibrate to the heart's desire:
The deathless wish once more to roam
The broad blue heaven God made his home.
Mark, next, the weary pant, the sigh
Of hope deferred, that follows then;
Perchance your captive's pain is deep
As that which haunts imprisoned men,
Pining behind their cruel bars
For sunlight or the holy stars.
Come! ope the door! he owns a soul
As tender, sensitive and fine
As yours or mine--for aught we know,
And dowered with rights scarce less Divine;
Come! let him choose, at least, between
God's azure and yon gilded screen!
Freed! yet he flies not--Wait!--his brain
Is dazed!--he comprehends not yet
How earnest is your proffered boon,--
How surely his the glorious debt
Of freedom and all free-born things:
Wait!--ha! he prunes his doubtful wings.
Hops, perch by perch, to gain the door;
Then, as if first conviction came,
Full-faced, and whispered, "thou art free!"
He darts without, a wingèd flame,
And soon from far, fair cloudland floats
The rapture of his grateful notes!
