SAID
THE SKYLARK.
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“O
soft, small cloud, the dim, sweet dawn adorning,
Swan-like a-sailing on its tender grey;
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Why
dost thou, dost thou float,
So high, the wing’d, wild note
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| Of
silver lamentation from my dark and pulsing throat |
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May
never reach thee,
Tho’ every note beseech thee
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To
bend thy white wings downward thro’ the smiling
of the morning,
And by the black wires of my prison lightly stray?
“O
dear, small cloud, when all blue morn is ringing
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| With
sweet notes piped from other throats than mine; |
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If
those glad singers please
The tall and nodding trees—
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| If
to them dance the pennants of the swaying columbine, |
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If
to their songs are set |
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| The
dance of daffodil and trembling violet— |
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Will
they pursue thee |
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| With
tireless wings as free and bold as thine? |
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Will
they woo thee |
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love throbs in the music of their singing? |
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Ah,
nay! fair Cloud, ah, nay!
Their hearts and wings will stay
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| With
yellow bud of primrose and soft blush of the May; |
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Their
songs will thrill and die, [Page 182] |
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| Tranc’d
in the perfume of the rose’s breast, |
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While
I must see thee fly |
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white, broad, lonely pinions down the sky. |
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“O fair, small cloud, unheeding o’er
me straying,
Jewell’d with topaz light of fading stars;
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Thy
downy edges red |
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| As
the great eagle of the Dawn sails high |
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And
sets his fire-bright head |
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wind-blown pinions towards thy snowy breast; |
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And
thou canst blush while I
Must pierce myself with song and die
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| On
the bald sod behind my prison bars; |
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Nor
feel upon my crest |
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| Thy
soft, sunn’d touches delicately playing! |
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“O fair, small cloud, grown small as lily
flow’r!
Even while I smite the bars to see thee fade;
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The
wind shall bring thee
The strain I sing thee—
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I,
in wired prison stay’d,
Worse than the breathless primrose glade.
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That
in my morn, |
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I
shrilly sang to scorn; |
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burst my heart up to thee in this hour! |
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“O fair, small cloud, float nearer yet and
hear me!
A prison’d lark once lov’d a snowy cloud,
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Nor
did the Day |
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| With
sapphire lips, and kiss |
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Of
summery bliss, [Page 183] |
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Draw
all her soul away;
Vainly the fervent East
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| Deck’d
her with roses for their bridal feast; |
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She
would not rest |
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| In
his red arms, but slipp’d adown the air |
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And
wan and fair, |
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| Her
light foot touch’d a purple mountain crest, |
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And
touching, turn’d |
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Into
swift rain, that like to jewels burn’d;
In the great, wondering azure of the sky;
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And
while a rainbow spread |
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| Its
mighty arms above, she, singing, fled |
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To
the lone-feather’d slave, |
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In
his sad weird grave, |
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| Whose
heart upon his silver song had sped |
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To
her in days of old,
In dawns of gold,
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| And
murmuring to him, said: |
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| “O
love, I come! O love, I come to cheer thee— |
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Love,
to be near thee!” [Page 184] |
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