THEY say that island-bird, that sings | |
| Within our homes so rich a song,— | |
| The little bird with golden wings, | |
| That poureth, all day long, | |
| A flute-like music, sweet and clear, | 5 |
| As if it were a spirit’s lay, | |
| That brought the tones to mortal car | |
| Of fay-land, far away,— | |
| The small bright bird that cometh west, | |
| From the blue islands of the blest,— | 10 |
| They say that, in its own warm bowers, | |
| Where that fair songster floateth, free | |
| As floats the breeze o’er all the flowers | |
| That scent the tropic sea, | |
| The sun it soars to, fails to fling | 15 |
| This golden gleam upon its wing. | |
| That seemeth as it drew its dyes | |
| From wandering through those burning skies; | |
| The sun it sings to, shines in vain | |
| To wake that wild and witching strain | 20 |
| That gushes forth to meet his smiles, | |
| Like incense, from our colder isles,— | |
| The sweet and swelling music calls | |
| That answer where the daybeam falls, | |
| As if its touch had power to start | 25 |
| Some spring within the minstrel’s heart, | |
| And play those wingéd lyres of gold | |
| As erst it played the Memnon old; | |
| That these its fairy hues belong | |
| To wing restrained and riper age, | 30 |
| And still it pours its sweetest song | |
| Within its northern cage,— | |
| And, in its gifts most precious, comes | |
| To bless us, in our human homes! | |
| |
| O fairy from the far-off main! | 35 |
| Thou little flute with golden wings! | |
| Thy spirit-hue and spirit-strain | |
| Are types of fairer things, | |
| And we have dearer gifts than these | |
| Amid the mists of northern seas! | 40 |
| Bright forms that flutter in the sun, | |
| With voices sweet as silver bells, | |
| Whose tones along the spirit run | |
| Like music’s very spells,— | |
| And open, with their own sweet art, | 45 |
| Those inner chambers of the heart, | |
| Within whose depths was never heard | |
| The singing of the bird. | |
| And if thy wing of gold or green | |
| Be not to our beloved given, | 50 |
| Winged thoughts, within their dark eyes seen, | |
| Take oft the soul to heaven, | |
| But bring it surely back, to rest, | |
| At eve, within an earthly nest. | |
| Our fairies these,—while floating, free | 55 |
| As thou amid thy far-off sea, | |
| And, like thy sisters, singing sooth, | |
| In the bright island of their youth! | |
| But years to our beloved bring | |
| A richer song, with riper age, | 60 |
| When each is bound, with golden ring, | |
| Within a golden cage,— | |
| In whose sweet hush and holy rest | |
| New sounds steal up along the breast,— | |
| The angels playing soft and low, | 65 |
| As erst in Eden, long ago, | |
| Rich harmonies, till then unheard, | |
| Gush from our own bright human bird, | |
| And hues come o’er its heart, whose dyes | |
| Can have no fountain but the skies! | 70 |
| O, beauty haunteth everywhere, | |
| For spirits that can see aright, | |
| And music fills the common air | |
| Of morn and noon and night; | |
| But beauty wears no form on earth | 75 |
| Like that which sitteth by the hearth; | |
| And, mid the music of the throng, | |
| They never know, who always roam, | |
| How sweeter far that sweetest song | |
| That woman sings—at home. | 80 |
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