A. H. Haynes Bell - The Thrush lyrics

Loud from its wicker cage the thrush yet sings; The blackbird pipes, though now it may no more Flit through the orchard as it did before; In spite of bars, the lark its carollings Still pours, and stretches still its useless wings As when it could at will to heaven soar. In sooth, though it should be a dungeon floor, The place is nought. If God has touched the strings, The music of his soul in melodies E'en there the wretched captive will outpour; Will even there to dull insensate things Attune his harp, as Orpheus oft of yore, So poets tell, in his sad wanderings Played to the rocks and hills and brooks and trees.