The Canary Bird

I cannot hear thy voice with other’s ears, Who make of thy lost liberty a gain; And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears Feel not that every note is born with pain. Alas! That with thy music’s gentle swell Past days of joy should through thy memory throng, And each to thee their words of sorrow tell While ravished sense forgets thee in thy song. The heart that on thy past and future feeds, And pours in human words its thoughts divine, Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds, Its song may charm the listening ear like thine, And men with gilded cage and praise will try To make the bard like thee forget his native sky.