  O for thy wings, sweet bird! And soul of melody by being blest— Like thee, my voice had stirred Some dear remembrance in a weary breast. But whither wouldst thou rove, Bird of the airy wing, and fold thy plumes? In what dark leafy grove Wouldst chant thy vespers 'mid rich glooms? Or sing thy love-lorn note— In deeper solitude, where nymph or saint Has wooed some mystic spot, Divinely desolate the shrine to paint? Yet wherefore ask thy doom? Blessed compared with me thou art— Unto thy greenwood home Bearing no bitter memory at heart; Wearing no earthly chain, Thou canst in azure bright soar far above; Nor pinest thou in vain O'er joys departed, unforgotten love. O take me to thy bower! Beguile the lagging hours of weariness With strain which hath strange power To make me love thee as I love life less! From mortal consciousness Which binds to earth—infirmity of woe! Or pining tenderness— Whose streams will never dry or cease to flow; An aching, voiceless void, Hushed in the heart whereunto none reply, And in the cringing crowd Companionless! Bird, bear me through the sky! Written more than sixty years ago for the New Hampshire Patriot. |
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