The time of the singing of birds is come;
I will away i' the greenwood to roam;
I will away; and thou azure-ey'd Muse
Deign with thy gifts my mind to suffuse.--
So o'erheard I one say, as he withdrew
To a fairy scene that well I knew,
Light lac'd with shadow, shadow with light,
Leaves playing bo-peep from morn unto night.
But, ah, what is this? Alas, and alas,
A sweet bird flutters upon the grass;
Flutters and struggles with quivering wing!
Tempted and snar'd--gentle, guileless thing.
Vain, vain thy struggles; for, lo, a hand
Hollow'd above, makes thee captive stand.
Home hies the Captor, loud singing his joy;
He has got a pet song-bird for his boy.
Now twining and twisting, a cage he makes
Wire-wrought and fast'n'd. Ah, my heart aches!
It is a prison, for the poor bird prepar'd;
Shut close and netted, netted and barr'd.
Comes the flutter and gleam of forest-leaves
Through the trellis'd window under the eaves;
Comes the breath and stir of the vernal wind,
Comes the goldening sunshine--to remind
Of all that is lost; comes now and again
Far off a song from the blading grain;
Calling, still calling the Songster to come
Back--once more back--to its woodland home.
I mark eyelids rise; mark the lifting wing;
Mark the swelling throat, as if it would sing;
Mark the weary 'chirp, chirp,' like infant's cry,
Yearning after the free and boundless sky;
For the grand old woods; once more to sit
On the swinging bough into blossom smit.
Vain, vain, poor bird! thou'rt captive still;
Thou must bend thee to thy Captor's will:
Thy wing is cut; from thy mate thou'rt taken;
All alone thou abidest, sad, forsaken.
The days pass on; and I look in once more
On the captive bird 'bove the ivied door.
Sweetly it sings, as if all by itself,
A short, quiet song. O thou silly elf,
Hast forgot the greenwood, the forest hoar,
The flash of the sky, the wind's soften'd roar?
Hast forgot that thou still a captive art,
Prison'd in wire-work? hast forgot thy smart?
'Tis even so: for now down, and now up,
Now hopping on perch, now sipping from cup,
I mark it sullen and pining no more,
But keeping within, though open the door.
List ye, now list--from its swelling throat,
Of its woodland song you miss never a note.
Alone, it is true, and in a wir'd cage;
But kindness has melted the captive's rage.
Behold a sweet meaning in this bird's story--
How the child of God is ripen'd for glory:
For it is thus with the child of God,
Smitten and bleeding 'neath His rod:
Thus 'tis with him; for, tranquil and calm
'Mid dangers and insults, he singeth his psalm:
Alone, all alone, deserted of man,
Slander'd and trampl'd and plac'd under ban,
He frets not, he pines not, he plains not still,
But sees clear in all his dear Father's will:
Come loss, come cross, come bereavement, come wrong,
He sets all to music, turns all to song;
Come terror, come trial, come dark day, come bright,
Still upward he looks, and knows all is right:
Wounded, he sees the Hand gives the stroke,
Bending his neck to bear his Lord's yoke,
And finds it grow light, by grace from Above,
As love's slender collars o' the Queen of Love;
Comes the starting tear, 'tis dried with a smile;
Comes a cloud, as you look 'tis gone the while;
Stirs the 'old Adam' to tempt and to dare,
He thinks Who was tempted and knows what we are;
Gentle and meek, murmurs not nor rebels,
But serene as in heaven and tranquil dwells:
And so the Believer has 'songs in the night,'
And so every cloud has a lining of light.
Thus, even thus, the captive bird's story
Tells how a soul is ripen'd for glory. G.