The Burdens of Belief and Other Poems By The Duke of Argyll [i.e. G. D. Campbell] |
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ON FIRST OBSERVING THE WILLOW WREN IN MIDWINTER ON THE
PINCIAN HILL, IN ROME, DECEMBER
1842
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 | The Burdens of Belief and Other Poems |  |
ON FIRST OBSERVING THE WILLOW WREN IN MIDWINTER ON THE PINCIAN HILL, IN ROME, DECEMBER 1842
Fair summer bird whose very name
Was ever charm to me,
And is it that this sunny land
Is winter home to thee?
Was ever charm to me,
And is it that this sunny land
Is winter home to thee?
Then will I feel it nearer home
And love its beauty more;
Then will I tread more joyously
Upon its golden shore;
And love its beauty more;
Then will I tread more joyously
Upon its golden shore;
66
For thou hast been, thou loved one,
The joy of early hours,
The first proclaimer, soft one,
Of spring's returning powers.
The joy of early hours,
The first proclaimer, soft one,
Of spring's returning powers.
Scarce has the yellow primrose seen
The virgin snowdrop fade,
The wild bee has not 'gun to taste
The hawthorn's scented shade.
The virgin snowdrop fade,
The wild bee has not 'gun to taste
The hawthorn's scented shade.
Ere yet the swallow well has reached
The land with weary wing,
Thrice welcome is thy gentle voice,
And all its whispers bring.
The land with weary wing,
Thrice welcome is thy gentle voice,
And all its whispers bring.
It is a soft and gentle voice
That cometh from above,
A song that ever seemed to me
The very voice of love.
That cometh from above,
A song that ever seemed to me
The very voice of love.
But few do know thee, gentle bird;
Few, few have ever seen
The soft-lined mansion thou dost build
Low in the tufted green.
Few, few have ever seen
The soft-lined mansion thou dost build
Low in the tufted green.
67
'Tis there, thy home, that shy retreat,
And there the livelong day
Thou pourest forth unceasingly
Thine oft-repeated lay.
And there the livelong day
Thou pourest forth unceasingly
Thine oft-repeated lay.
'Tis there, and in that stillest nook
Of some light, budding bower,
How often have I, musing, felt
Thy most mysterious power.
Of some light, budding bower,
How often have I, musing, felt
Thy most mysterious power.
With others I may gladly hear
The Blackbird's music float,
Or pouring forth, the Missel Thrush,
His loud, melodious note.
The Blackbird's music float,
Or pouring forth, the Missel Thrush,
His loud, melodious note.
With brothers and with friends I'll go
Where many a varied voice
Calls from each bush, and tree, and field,
‘Rejoice with me, rejoice!’
Where many a varied voice
Calls from each bush, and tree, and field,
‘Rejoice with me, rejoice!’
Yes, other warblers I can love
With love that's all their own,
But when to thee, dear bird, I list,
I must be quite alone.
With love that's all their own,
But when to thee, dear bird, I list,
I must be quite alone.
68
It is not that the softest sound,—
The rustling of a leaf,—
Will break the whisp'rings of a song
Already all too brief.
The rustling of a leaf,—
Will break the whisp'rings of a song
Already all too brief.
It is that if we'd truly feel
The music of the heart,
Or have dim mem'ries softly touched
We must be far apart
The music of the heart,
Or have dim mem'ries softly touched
We must be far apart
From every thought, or sound, or sight,
Save that and that alone
Which hath some mystic power to raise
Dreams of a world unknown.
Save that and that alone
Which hath some mystic power to raise
Dreams of a world unknown.
If ever there's a moment when
All trouble quits my breast,
And leaves it to the sacred balm
Of calmness, love, and rest;
All trouble quits my breast,
And leaves it to the sacred balm
Of calmness, love, and rest;
If e'er association's power,
That wondrous fount of joy,
Almost beguileth me to think
I am again a boy,
That wondrous fount of joy,
Almost beguileth me to think
I am again a boy,
69
If ever to my inmost soul
I feel I can be glad
With gladness all more deep, because
It is a little sad,
I feel I can be glad
With gladness all more deep, because
It is a little sad,
It is, dear bird, that April day,
That golden hour of spring,
When first in some quick budding bower
I hear thee, charmer, sing.
That golden hour of spring,
When first in some quick budding bower
I hear thee, charmer, sing.
For 'tis the gentlest strain that floats
Upon the summer air,
There is no room for ruffled thoughts,
No place for anger there.
Upon the summer air,
There is no room for ruffled thoughts,
No place for anger there.
It is a soft and gentle voice
That cometh from above,
A song that ever seemed to me
The very voice of love.
That cometh from above,
A song that ever seemed to me
The very voice of love.
Then joy, that I have met thee, bird,
Thrice joy, where'er we roam,
To think, these wintry months away,
We'll meet again at home,
Thrice joy, where'er we roam,
To think, these wintry months away,
We'll meet again at home,
70
When the green earth, in every germ,
Feels a reviving power;
When the yellow primrose gently opes
Its softly scented flower;
Feels a reviving power;
When the yellow primrose gently opes
Its softly scented flower;
Then joy, that I have met thee, bird,
Thrice joy, where'er we roam,
To think, these wintry months away,
We'll meet again at home.
Thrice joy, where'er we roam,
To think, these wintry months away,
We'll meet again at home.
Now, ask not, stranger, for the name
Of this dear bird of mine,
'Tis one that seldom meets the ear
And 'twould be strange to thine.
Of this dear bird of mine,
'Tis one that seldom meets the ear
And 'twould be strange to thine.
It is a small and gentle bird
That shuns the haunts of men;
And few, who do not seek, have heard
The Lesser Willow Wren.
That shuns the haunts of men;
And few, who do not seek, have heard
The Lesser Willow Wren.
Rome, 1843
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