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THRUSH IN A GILDED CAGE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Was this the singer I had heard so




WAS this the singer I had heard so long,
But never till this evening, face to face ?
And were they his, those tones so unlike song,-
Those words conventional and commonplace ?


Those echoes of the usual social chat
That filled with noise, confused the crowded hall,-
That smiling face, black coat, and white cravat, -
Those fashionable manners, - was this all


He glanced at freedmen, operas, politics,
And other common topics of the day;
But not one brilliant image did he mix
With all the prosy things he had to say.


At least I hoped that one I long had known,
In the inspired books that built his fame,
Would breathe some word, some sympathetic tone,
Fresh from the ideal region whence he came.


And so I leave the well-dressed , buzzing crowd,
And vent my spleen alone here by my fire;
Mourning the fading of my golden cloud,
The disappointment of my life's desire.


Simple enthusiast! why do you require
A budding rose for every thorny stalk ?
Why must we poets always bear the lyre
And sing, when fashion forces us to talk ?


Only at moments comes the muse's light.
Alone, like shy wood- thrushes, warble we.
Catch us in traps like this dull crowd to-night,
We are but plain , brown feathered birds, you see!






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