136 THE BULLFINCH. 



THE SONG OF THE CAPTIVE BULLFINCH. 



I dwelt with one whose soul was love, 



Patient and gentle as the dove ; 



And now that she hath passed away, 



And hears no 'more my grateful lay, 



Oh ! do not think I mourn her not, 



Who sweetly soothed my lonely lot. 



Did she not feed and cherish me, 



And make me blest as bird could be, 



Until my captive state seemed sweet, 



My prison-home a loved retreat ? 



When summer skies were clear and bright, 



She hailed my strains with fond delight ; 



And when I sung in wintry days, 



She gave my music double praise ; 



And while my plaintive notes she heard, 



She call'd herself a captive bird, 



And said that age, with heavy hand, 



Had bound her with his iron band, 



A nd bade her feet no longer roam 



Beyond her calm sequester'd home, 



And hung before her eyes a veil, 



And bade her flagging spirits fail. 



And then I heard her lips declare 



There was a land of purer air 



A land unswept by stormy gale, 



Unsaddened by the captive's wail. 



I loved those words of gentle tone, 

 Though half their meaning was unknown ; 

 And when I heard her voice no more, 

 I deemed her captive state was o'er ; 

 And, freed from every fettering band, 

 She sought and found that lovely land. 



