On A Musical Box.

Poor little sprite! in that dark, narrow cell          Caged by the law of man's resistless might!     With thy sweet liquid notes, by some strong spell,          Compelled to minister to his delight!     Whence, what art thou? art thou a fairy wight          Caught sleeping in some lily's snowy bell,     Where thou hadst crept, to rock in the moonlight,          And drink the starry dew-drops, as they fell?     Say, dost thou think, sometimes when thou art singing,          Of thy wild haunt upon the mountain's brow,     Where thou wert wont to list the heath-bells ringing,          And sail upon the sunset's amber glow?     When thou art weary of thy oft-told theme,          Say, dost thou think of the clear pebbly stream,     Upon whose mossy brink thy fellows play,     Dancing in circles by the moon's soft beam,     Hiding in blossoms from the sun's fierce gleam,          Whilst thou, in darkness, sing'st thy life away?     And canst thou feel when the spring-time returns,          Filling the earth with fragrance and with glee;     When in the wide creation nothing mourns,          Of all that lives, save that which is not free?     Oh! if thou couldst, and we could hear thy prayer,          How would thy little voice beseeching cry,     For one short draught of the sweet morning air,          For one short glimpse of the clear azure sky!     Perchance thou sing'st in hope thou shalt be free,          Sweetly and patiently thy task fulfilling;     While thy sad thoughts are wandering with the bee,          To every bud with honey dew distilling.     That hope is vain: for even couldst thou wing          Thy homeward flight back to the greenwood gay,     Thou'dst be a shunned and a forsaken thing,          'Mongst the companions of thy happier day.     For fairy sprites, like many other creatures,          Bear fleeting memories, that come and go;     Nor can they oft recall familiar features,          By absence touched, or clouded o'er with woe.     Then rest content with sorrow: for there be     Many that must that lesson learn with thee;     And still thy wild notes warble cheerfully,     Till, when thy tiny voice begins to fail,     For thy lost bliss sing but one parting wail,     Poor little sprite! and then sleep peacefully!