The Lonely Bird

From a ruin thou art singing,
O lonely, lonely bird!
The soft blue air is ringing,
By thy summer music stirr’d.
But all is dark and cold beneath,
Where harps no more are heard:
Whence win’st thou that exulting breath,
O lonely, lonely bird?

Thy songs flow richly swelling
To a triumph of glad sounds,
As from its cavern-dwelling
A stream in glory bounds!
Though the castle-echoes catch no tone
Of human step or word,
Though the fires be quench’d and the feasting done,
O lonely, lonely bird?

How can that flood of gladness
Rush through thy fiery lay,
From the haunted place of sadness,
From the bosom of decay--
While the dirge-notes in the breeze’s moan,
Through the ivy garlands heard,
Come blent with thy rejoicing tone,
O lonely, lonely bird?

There’s many a heart, wild singer!
Like thy forsaken tower,
Where joy no more may linger,
Where Love hath left his bower:
And there’s many a spirit e’en like thee,
To mirth as lightly stirr’d,
Though it soar from ruins in its glee,
O lonely, lonely bird!