Sonnet, To a Blackbird
Hard was the heart that, from thy native spray,
Bore thee, sweet bird! that cruel cage to fill;
How languid, now, thy once melodious lay!
Tho' rich thy prison, 'tis a prison still:
The glossy radiance of thy golden bill
Is pale; and ruffled all thy sloe-black breast;
Lost like thy mellow note's ecstatic trill,
Wont, by its wild extravagance, t' attest
Thon wert beyond thy plumy brethren blest;
Once more, thou sigh'st, amid the woodlands free,
Thy glib eye brighten'd, and thy garb new-drest,
Thy old compeers, and little loves to see,
Ah! never may the wretch, who wrong'd thy nest,
Know the rich bliss of careless liberty!
Bore thee, sweet bird! that cruel cage to fill;
How languid, now, thy once melodious lay!
Tho' rich thy prison, 'tis a prison still:
The glossy radiance of thy golden bill
Is pale; and ruffled all thy sloe-black breast;
Lost like thy mellow note's ecstatic trill,
Wont, by its wild extravagance, t' attest
Thon wert beyond thy plumy brethren blest;
Once more, thou sigh'st, amid the woodlands free,
Thy glib eye brighten'd, and thy garb new-drest,
Thy old compeers, and little loves to see,
Ah! never may the wretch, who wrong'd thy nest,
Know the rich bliss of careless liberty!
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