A Prisoner.

Where I can see him all day long
And hear his wild, spontaneous song,
    Before my window in his cage,
    A blithe canary sits and swings,
    And circles round on golden wings;
    And startles all the vicinage
    When from his china tankard
    He takes a dainty drink
    To clear his throat
    For as sweet a note
    As ever yet was caroled
    By lark or bobolink.

Sometimes he drops his pretty head
And seems to be dispirited,
    And then his little mistress says:
    "Poor Dickie misses his chickweed,
    Or else I've fed him musty seed
    As stale as last year's oranges!"
    But all the time I wonder
    If we half comprehend
    In sweet song-words
    The thought of birds,
    Or why so oft their raptures
    In sudden silence end.

They do not pine for forest wilds
Within the "blue Canary isles,"
    As exiles from their native home,
    For in a foreign domicile
    They first essayed their gamut-trill
    Beneath a cage's gilded dome;
    But maybe some sad throbbing
    Betimes their spirits stirs,
    Who love as we
    Dear liberty,
    That they, admired and petted,
    Are only - prisoners.