 | The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman |  |
LE JOUR DU ROSSIGNOL
'T was the season of feasts, when the blithe birds had met
In their easternmost arbor, an innocent throng,
And they made the glad birthday of each gladder yet,
With the daintiest cheer and the rarest of song.
In their easternmost arbor, an innocent throng,
And they made the glad birthday of each gladder yet,
With the daintiest cheer and the rarest of song.
What brave tirra-lirras! But clear amid all,
At each festival held in the favorite haunt,
The nightingale's music would quaver and fall,
And surest and sweetest of all was his chant.
At each festival held in the favorite haunt,
The nightingale's music would quaver and fall,
And surest and sweetest of all was his chant.
At last came the nightingale's fête, and they sought
To make it the blithefullest tryst of the year,
Since this was the songster that oftenest caught
The moment's quick rapture, the joy that is near.
To make it the blithefullest tryst of the year,
Since this was the songster that oftenest caught
The moment's quick rapture, the joy that is near.
But, alas! half in vain the fine chorus they made;
Fresh-plumed and all fluttering, and uttering their best,
For silent among them, so etiquette bade,
To the notes of his praisers sat listening the guest.
Fresh-plumed and all fluttering, and uttering their best,
For silent among them, so etiquette bade,
To the notes of his praisers sat listening the guest.
Quel dommage! Must a failure, like theirs, be our feast?
Must our chorister's voice at his own fête be still?
While he thinks: “You are kind. May your tribe be increased;
But at this I can give you such odds if I will!”
Must our chorister's voice at his own fête be still?
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But at this I can give you such odds if I will!”
What avail, fellow-minstrels, our crotchets and staves,
Though your tribute, like mine, rises straight from the heart,
Unless while the bough on his laurel-bush waves,
To his own sängerfest the one guest lends his art?
Though your tribute, like mine, rises straight from the heart,
Unless while the bough on his laurel-bush waves,
To his own sängerfest the one guest lends his art?
Whose swift wit like his, with which none dares to vie,
Whose carol so instant, so joyous and true?
Sound it cheerly, dear Holmes, for the sun is still high,
And we 're glad, as he halts, to be out-sung by you.
Whose carol so instant, so joyous and true?
Sound it cheerly, dear Holmes, for the sun is still high,
And we 're glad, as he halts, to be out-sung by you.
| The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman | |