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THE CANARY IN HIS CAGE.
- SING away, ay, sing away,
- Merry little bird,
- Always gayest of the gay,
- Though a woodland roundelay
- You ne’er sung nor heard;
- Though your life from youth to age
- Passes in a narrow cage.
- Near the window wild birds fly,
- Trees are waving round:
- Fair things everywhere you spy
- Through the glass pane’s mystery,
- Your small life’s small bound:
- Nothing hinders your desire
- But a little gilded wire.
- Like a human soul you seem
- Shut in golden bars:
- Placed amidst earth’s sunshine‐stream,
- Singing to the morning beam,
- Dreaming ’neath the stars:
- Seeing all life’s pleasures clear,—
- But they never can come near.
- Never! Sing, bird‐poet mine,
- As most poets do;—
- Guessing by an instinct fine
- At some happiness divine
- Which they never knew.
- Lonely in a prison bright
- Hymning for the world’s delight.
- Yet, my birdie, you’re content
- In your tiny cage:
- Not a carol thence is sent
- But for happiness is meant—
- Wisdom pure as sage:
- Teaching, the true poet’s part
- Is to sing with merry heart.
- So, lie down thou peevish pen,
- Eyes, shake off all tears;
- And my wee bird, sing again:
- I’ll translate your song to men
- In these future years.
- “Howsoe’er thy lot’s assigned,
- Bear it with a cheerful mind.”
