THE POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE

As often as I murmur here

My half-formed melodies,

Straight from her osier mansion near,

The Turtledove replies:

Though silent as a leaf before,

The captive promptly coos;

Is it to teach her own soft lore,

Or second my weak Muse?

I rather think, the gentle Dove

Is murmuring a reproof,

Displeased that I from lays of love

Have dared to keep aloof;

That I, a Bard of hill and dale,

Have carolled, fancy free,

As if nor dove nor nightingale,

Had heart or voice for me.

If such thy meaning, O forbear,

Sweet Bird! to do me wrong;

Love, blessed Love, is every where

The spirit of my song:

‘ Mid grove, and by the calm fireside,

Love animates my lyre —

That coo again!—‘ tis not to chide,

I feel, but to inspire.