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Alas, alas, my Bird! Why seek'st thou to be free? Wer't thou not blest in thy little bower, When thy song breathed nought but glee?

"Did my song of the summer breathe nought but glee? Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee? —O! hadst thou known its deep meaning well, It had tales of a burning heart to tell!

"From a dream of the forest that music sprang, Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang; And its dying fall, when it soothed thee best, Sigh'd for wild flowers and a leafy nest."

Was it with thee thus, my Bird? Yet thine eye flash'd clear and bright! I have seen the glance of sudden joy In its quick and dewy light.