The Canary

In the hills' embraces holden,
    In a valley filled with glooms,
Lies a cemetery olden,
    Strewn with countless mould'ring tombs.

Ancient graves o'erhung with mosses,
    Crumbling stones, effaced and green,--
Venturesome is he who crosses,
    Night or day, the lonely scene.

Blasted trees and willow streamers,
    'Midst the terror round them spread,
Seem like awe-bound, silent dreamers
    In this garden of the dead.

One bird, anguish stricken, lingers
    In the shadow of the vale,
First and best of feathered singers,--
    'Tis the churchyard nightingale.

As from bough to bough he flutters,
    Sweetest songs of woe and wail
Through his gift divine he utters
    For the dreamers in the vale.

Listen how ...

Folks has be'n to town, and Sahry
Fetched 'er home a pet canary,
And of all the blame', contrary,
Aggervatin' things alive!
I love music - that I love it
When it's free - and plenty of it;
But I kindo' git above it,
At a dollar-eighty-five!

Reason's plain as I'm a-sayin',
Jes' the idy, now, o' layin'
Out yer money, and a-payin'
Fer a willer-cage and bird,
When the medder-larks is wingin'
Round you, and the woods is ringin'
With the beautifullest singin'
That a mortal ever heard!

Sahry's sot, tho'. So I tell her
He's a purty little feller,
With his wings o' creamy-yeller,
And his eyes keen as a cat;
And the twitter o' the critter
'Pears to absolutely glitter!
Guess I'll haf to go and git her
A high-priceter cage 'n...

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
...

Alone in desert dreary,
A bird with folded wings
Beholds the waste about her,
And sweetly, sweetly sings.

So heaven-sweet her singing,
So clear the bird notes flow,
'Twould seem the rocks must waken,
The desert vibrant grow.

Dead rocks and silent mountains
Would'st waken with thy strain,--
But dumb are still the mountains,
And dead the rocks remain.

For whom, O heavenly singer,
Thy song so clear and free?
Who hears or sees or heeds thee,
Who feels or cares for thee?

Thou may'st outpour in music
Thy very soul... 'Twere vain!
In stone thou canst not waken
A throb of joy or pain.

Thy song shall soon be silenced;
I feel it... For I know
Thy heart is near to bursting
With loneliness and woe.

Imprison'd songster, thou for me
Hath warbl'd many a cheerful lay,
Thy songs, so sweetly glad and free,
Revive my heart, from day to day.

The frost is keen, the wind is cold,
No wild-bird twitters from the spray,
But, still resounding as of old,
Thy voice thrills forth, and seems to say:

"Wake up! O sadden'd mortal, wake!
Shake off that anxious, careworn frown,
Thy hopes renew, fresh courage take,
Nor let your troubles weigh you down.

"See, I am happy all alone,
And, kept behind the prison bars,
I sing, and shouldst thou ever moan?
A mortal free, beneath the stars.

"I fly around my narrow cage,
I sing the song that gladdens you,
But carking care thy thoughts engage,
While walking free, 'neath heaven's blue.

"My...

Once again my songs I sing thee,
    Now the spell is broken;
Brothers, yet again I bring thee
    Songs of love the token.
Of my joy and of my sorrow
    Gladly, sadly bringing;--
Summer not a song would borrow--
    Winter sets me singing.

O when life turns sad and lonely,
    When our joys are dead;
When are heard the ravens only
    In the trees o'erhead;
When the stormwind on the bowers
    Wreaks its wicked will,
When the frost paints lying flowers,
    How should I be still?

When the clouds are low descending,
    And the sun is drowned;
When the winter knows no ending,
    And the cold is crowned;
When with evil gloom oppressed
    Lie the ruins bare;
When a sigh escapes the breast,
    Takes us unaware;