THE PRISONER.
101
Thou know'st not which may prosper,
Or whether all shall bloom.
Room on the narrowest ridges
The ripening grain will find,
That the Lord of the harvest coming,
In the harvest sheaves may bind.
Or whether all shall bloom.
Room on the narrowest ridges
The ripening grain will find,
That the Lord of the harvest coming,
In the harvest sheaves may bind.
THE PRISONER.
"Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away and be at rest. Lo, then would I wander far off, and remain in the wilderness."—Psalm lv. 6, 7.
My soul forgets the fetters that she wears,
And upward soars and sings:
Like captive bird, fast tethered to the stake,
Soon droop her weary wings.
The blue sky, in the summer sunshine, seems
Each moment yet more near;
Till now the cord recalls the bird to earth,
And dumb he falleth here.
Ay, dumb he lies! but deep within his heart
Still rests his half-sung hymn,
To swell in rapturous tones of love and joy,
When freedom comes to him.
And upward soars and sings:
Like captive bird, fast tethered to the stake,
Soon droop her weary wings.
The blue sky, in the summer sunshine, seems
Each moment yet more near;
Till now the cord recalls the bird to earth,
And dumb he falleth here.
Ay, dumb he lies! but deep within his heart
Still rests his half-sung hymn,
To swell in rapturous tones of love and joy,
When freedom comes to him.
