Classic Poem

Si j'etais petit oiseau.

I, who to Beauty would but pay
A passing homage on my way,
Oh, with what envy must I see
The bird, with wings so light and free!
O'er what vast space he spreads his flight!
How all things to his course invite!
Soft is the air; the skies are bright
Were I little bird — ah me,
How passing swift my flight should be!

Then haply, taught by Philomel
Those sweetest notes she sings so well,
I to some country maiden's tone
Would gladly haste to join my own.
The hermit then entranced I'd hold,
Who never had his blessings sold;
Whose mantle shields the poor from cold
Were I a little bird — ah me,
How passing swift my flight should be!

Then to a round of topers gay,
In some thick grove, I'd flit away;
Their cups, enraptured by my strain,
To Beauty only should they drain.
Then with my favorite song I'd cheer —
Spoiled of his lands — the warrior's ear,
And make to him the hamlet dear
Were I a little bird — ah me,
How passing swift my flight should be!

To turrets then away I'd go,
Where the poor captives crouch below;
And, whilst my wings I hid with care,
Soft plaintive lays would sing them there.
A smile from one my notes might draw;
And one might dream, on bed of straw,
Of fields that once his cradle saw
Were I a little bird — ah me,
How passing swift my flight should be!

Hoping to move a monarch's breast,
Who from ennui would fain have rest,
Perched on the peaceful olive-bough,
For him my songs I'd warble now
Thence, where some exiled family
A shelter finds, I'd turn and flee,
A branch to bear them from that tree
Were I a little bird — ah me,
How passing swift my flight should be!

Then, O ye wicked ones, away
From you I'd speed where dawns the day;
Unless again Love unaware
Surprise me in his fatal snare:
For if this cunning fowler set,
On some fair bosom heaving yet
Beneath his touch another net,
Were I a little bird — ah me,
There passing swift my flight would be!