A Prisoner.

Where I can see him all day long     And hear his wild, spontaneous song,         Before my window in his cage,         A blithe canary sits and swings,         And circles round on golden wings;         And startles all the vicinage         When from his china tankard         He takes a dainty drink         To clear his throat         For as sweet a note         As ever yet was caroled         By lark or bobolink.     Sometimes he drops his pretty head     And seems to be dispirited,         And then his little mistress says:         "Poor Dickie misses his chickweed,         Or else I've fed him musty seed         As stale as last year's oranges!"         But all the time I wonder         If we half comprehend         In sweet song-words         The thought of birds,         Or why so oft their raptures         In sudden silence end.     They do not pine for forest wilds     Within the "blue Canary isles,"         As exiles from their native home,         For in a foreign domicile         They first essayed their gamut-trill         Beneath a cage's gilded dome;         But maybe some sad throbbing         Betimes their spirits stirs,         Who love as we         Dear liberty,         That they, admired and petted,         Are only - prisoners.