A Thrush in a Gilded Cage

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 !