Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/42

Hast thou beheld the roses blow?
Hast thou amongst them lovers met?
Of spring the tidings let me get,
And give me news of morns-a-glow.
Tell me, if in the forest gloom,
Thou heard'st thy friend the nightingale
Repeat her joyous notes, or wail,
To flowers that listen as they bloom.

Along these sombre humid halls
For forest flowers thou search'st in vain;
Here captives register their pain,
And trace their sorrows on the walls;
A living grave, deep under ground,
Unvisited by breeze or ray;
Here chains assert their ruthless sway,
And groanings are the only sound.

Gay darling of the meadows—go,
My prison is no place for thee!
Short-lived but freest of the free,
Enjoy the blessings as they flow;
Out of this place of endless sighs!
Where life is one long torment still!
And then, no chains may bind thy will,
No walls enclose thee but the skies.

Perchance some day, while fluttering glad
In some sequestered lone retreat,
Thou shalt two playful children meet,
Beside a mother pale and sad;
Ah then! console that mother meek,
And tell her all, yes, all I feel,—
But how should'st thou my heart reveal,
Alas! I know thou canst not speak!