Читать книгу Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 5 November 1848 - Various - Страница 7

Ring out, ring out, thy clear sweet note!

Art longing to be free —

To break thy bars and heavenward float?

My bird, this may not be.

Thou ne'er hast known another home

Than in that cage of thine,

And shouldst thou from its shelter roam,

Where meet a love like mine?

When the gay wealth of leaves and flowers

Wreathes every fragrant bough,

And hides thee all the summer hours

From noontide's sultry glow —

And when the limpid grass-fringed brook

Reflects thy yellow wing,

And thou may'st seek each quiet nook

Where sweets are blossoming —

And warble there the cheerful song

That oft has charmed mine ear,

Thou might'st, those leafy shades among,

Be happier far than here.

But when sad Autumn sheds abroad

The stillness of decay,

And leaves beneath the feet are trod

Where young winds love to play —

When icy chains the streams have bound,

Gems hang from every tree,

And but the snow-bird skims the ground,

Where would my trembler flee?

Ah, fold thy wing and rest thee there,

Nor trust deceitful skies,

Though balmy now the gentle air,

Dark tempests will arise.

And Freedom! 'tis a glorious word!

But should the rude winds come,

Then wouldst thou wish, my warbling bird,

For thine own quiet home.

My bird! I too would take my flight,

I long to soar away

To those far realms where all is bright,

Where beams an endless day.

I may not tread a holier sphere,

I may not upward move,

But bound like thee, I linger here

And trust a Father's love.