 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
161
LINES
ON HEARING AN UNKNOWN BIRD SING SWEETLY AT HALFPAST THREE ON A SUMMER MORNING.
I thank thee, little warbling bird,
For that sweet sylvan song of thine;
A sweeter voice I never heard,
Nor saw a fairer plumage shine.
For that sweet sylvan song of thine;
A sweeter voice I never heard,
Nor saw a fairer plumage shine.
Thou art—I cannot spell thy name;
Thou camest from—I know not where;
But this I know—that thou art tame,
And this I see—that thou art fair:
Thou camest from—I know not where;
But this I know—that thou art tame,
And this I see—that thou art fair:
And this I feel—no earthly eye
Save thine, bright bird, is fix'd on me.
Sweet minister of melody,
I could for ever gaze on thee.
Save thine, bright bird, is fix'd on me.
Sweet minister of melody,
I could for ever gaze on thee.
Then stay, sweet stranger! I invite
Thy song to cheer my solitude:
Oh, vain request! thy wings so bright
Already bear thee to the wood.
Thy song to cheer my solitude:
Oh, vain request! thy wings so bright
Already bear thee to the wood.
These orient plumes, 'mid many hues,
That song 'mid rust'ling leaves is lost;
And I am left alone to muse
O'er foolish wishes early cross'd.
That song 'mid rust'ling leaves is lost;
And I am left alone to muse
O'er foolish wishes early cross'd.
Yet wherefore mourn?—the hour of bliss
Enjoy while yet its moments last;
But grieve no more for that or this,
For all we love must soon be past.
Enjoy while yet its moments last;
But grieve no more for that or this,
For all we love must soon be past.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |