The bard, and minor poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The first sweet song of spring
Is ringing in mine ear,
The birds their music bring
From hill and starry sphere:
The merry woodland round,
The hawthorn and the broom,
And all the valleys sound
A dirge o'er Winter's tomb.

The sky-lark soaring high,
The blackbird on the spray,
The throstle piping nigh,
In chorus tune their lay:
It is a note of mirth,
Of joyaunce bright and clear;
And gladness fills the earth
From field and forest near.

Their song is of the dead—
Of loves and memories gone;
For Winter bows his head,
And breathes his latest moan.
The Winter storms are past—
The snow-wreath and the rain,
And every raging blast
That thunder'd o'er the plain.

187

It is the voice of Love
From twice ten thousand throats,
That swells along the grove
And lifts to heaven their notes;—
Love—Omnipresent love—
Wakes every impulse now:
It guides the stars above,
And rules the world below.

The joy fills every breast—
It springs they know not where;
And warmest raptures rest
On every breath of air;
For passion's sacred fires
In court nor palace brood,
But rear their holiest pyres
In wilderness and wood!

They feel the coming breath
Of Summer's balmy bowers—
The breezes of the heath,
The fragrance of the flowers:
And every primrose dell,
And violet-scented glade,
With song and incense swell
The sunshine and the shade.

O, joyous-hearted things!
O, creatures of delight!
A tide of rapture springs
To hear your carols light:

188

To see each fluttering breast
Such notes of gladness pour,
That greet the golden West
With song's melodious shower.

A myriad, myriad strains,
A myriad hymns they raise;
The various music rains
From heaven, in streams of praise
To Him who reigns on high,
And spreads the azure calm,
For glories of the sky,
For Spring and Summer balm.

Yea, blessings fill the breast
Of poet wandering near,
Along the mountain crest
Your melody to hear:
Nor human skill can bring
Such harmony and art
As now divinely ring
Within the poet's heart.

Nor envy we the herd
Of town or courtly sphere:
To me, that little bird
Hath raptures far more dear:
The fine Italian trill
Can no such meanings bear,
As from that cherub bill
Are borne along the air!

189

Behold! the sun how bright,
The heavens so deeply blue;
The hills are clad with light,
The vales with golden hue:
The peeping buds rejoice,
And every hazel bough;
Whilst Nature joins her voice
And listens to your vow.

Adieu!—from East to West
The heavens are all your own;
Your music fills my breast
With every sweetest tone:
And, oh! this blessed hour,
Each various note and theme,
Will bring your woodland bower
To memory's dearest dream!