Non tergo minus accipit quieto, Quam vectrix Veneris columba blando Admittat juga delicata collo. 45 Torvae si quid inhorruit procellae, Si quid saeviat et minetur, illa Spernit, nescit, et obviis furorem Fallit blanditiis, amatque et ambit Ipsum, quo male vulneratur, ictum. 50 Curas murmure non fatetur ullo; Non lambit lacrymas dolor, nec atrae Mentis nubila frons iniqua prodit. Quod si lacryma pervicax rebelli Erumpit tamen evolatque gutta, 55 Invitis lacrymis, negante luctu, Ludunt perspicui per ora risus. TRANSLATION. PEACE OF MIND:[98] UNDER THE SIMILITUDE OF A CAPTIVE SONG-BIRD. The time of the singing of birds is come; I will away i' the greenwood to roam; I will away; and thou azure-ey'd Muse Deign with thy gifts my mind to suffuse.-- So o'erheard I one say, as he withdrew To a fairy scene that well I knew, Light lac'd with shadow, shadow with light, Leaves playing bo-peep from morn unto night. But, ah, what is this? Alas, and alas, A sweet bird flutters upon the grass; Flutters and struggles with quivering wing! Tempted and snar'd--gentle, guileless thing. Vain, vain thy struggles; for, lo, a hand Hollow'd above, makes thee captive stand. Home hies the Captor, loud singing his joy; He has got a pet song-bird for his boy. Now twining and twisting, a cage he makes Wire-wrought and fast'n'd. Ah, my heart aches! It is a prison, for the poor bird prepar'd; Shut close and netted, netted and barr'd. Comes the flutter and gleam of forest-leaves Through the trellis'd window under the eaves; Comes the breath and stir of the vernal wind, Comes the goldening sunshine--to remind Of all that is lost; comes now and again Far off a song from the blading grain; Calling, still calling the Songster to come Back--once more back--to its woodland home. I mark eyelids rise; mark the lifting wing; Mark the swelling throat, as if it would sing; Mark the weary 'chirp, chirp,' like infant's cry, Yearning after the free and boundless sky; For the grand old woods; once more to sit On the swinging bough into blossom smit. Vain, vain, poor bird! thou'rt captive still; Thou must bend thee to thy Captor's will: Thy wing is cut; from thy mate thou'rt taken; All alone thou abidest, sad, forsaken. The days pass on; and I look in once more On the captive bird 'bove the ivied door. Sweetly it sings, as if all by itself, A short, quiet song. O thou silly elf, Hast forgot the greenwood, the forest hoar, The flash of the sky, the wind's soften'd roar? Hast forgot that thou still a captive art, Prison'd in wire-work? hast forgot thy smart? 'Tis even so: for now down, and now up, Now hopping on perch, now sipping from cup,