Singing the song it has often sung— Hark to the troubadour glad and bold: "Sweet is the earth when the summer is young And the barley fields are green and gold!"
THE IMPRISONED LARK.
Did you send your song to the gates of gold In the days of long ago? A song of sweetness and gladness untold, Till fain was my lady to have and to hold— Ah! my lady did not know.
'Tis love and joy make the soul of a song, If we only understood. Can each strain be tender, and true, and strong, When the days stretch out so weary and long, Dear little bird of the wood?
The sun came so boldly into your cell— 'Tis the springtime, pretty bird— And full sweet the story he had to tell Of doings in meadow and wood and dell, Till your longing grew and stirred.
This cage of my lady's has silver bars, And my lady's voice is mild, But oh, to sail 'twixt the earth and stars, Forget the hurt of the prison bars In the gladness of freedom wild!
To soar and circle o'er shadowy glade Where dewdrops hide from the sun! O fields where the blossoming clover swayed! O voices familiar that music made Till the full, glad day was done!
Ah, then you sang, little bird of the wood, And you stilled the laughing throng. To make passionate longing understood You took the height and depth of your mood And flung them into a song!