TO A LYRE-BIRD
Oh, Lyre-bird! tethered to the earth,
Thou envy’st not the skylark in the sky,
But pour’st a thousand mocking notes of mirth,
Drowning the ravished songsters singing nigh.
If wing’d—so pure thy voice—thou might’st aspire
To drown indeed the whole seraphic choir!
And, listening to thee—captive in thy chains—
I think me of a singer such as thou
Who captured Nature’s notes for lovely swains,
And echoed them behind a mountain plough;
And moiled and sang, to prove to Gods above
The charm of earthly singing and of love.
Leave to the soaring minstrel of the sky
Her privilege of song at heaven’s gate;
Leave to the nightingale the charms whereby
She lights the grove and hushes strife and hate.
As great a boon—oh, blessed bird!—is thine,
Gyv’d to the soiling earth, yet singing still divine!
H.J.A.
8th Batt., 2nd Infantry Brigade.