BEAUTIFUL boy, with the sunny hair, What wouldest thou do with that birdling rare? It belongs to the sky, -- it hath wings, you know, Loosen your clasping, and let him go: -- But the child replied with a laugh of glee, "It can learn to play, -- it must stay with me!" Then out spoke the sister with lute-like tone, "In spring, when the ice from the brooks had gone, The new-born leaves in the grove were stirred By the sweetest music I every heard. Brother mine, -- 'twas the song of the free, -- Will the song of thy captive as tuneful be?" Gentle Mother, whose yearning breast Exults o'er the birds of thine own fair nest, Methinks I see, through thy smile of care, The quickened soul of a voiceless prayer. Give it breath, -- give it flight, to the Gracious Ear, -- A mother's joy hath its root in fear. Her fondest love hath a tinge of grief, -- Her proudest hopes are an aspen leaf; -- Turn to the Ark that outrides the gale, Seek for the strength that can never fail, That thy birds may on starry pinions soar Among the trees that shall fade no more. |