 | Ballads and other verses |  |
126
THE WHITE-THROATED SPARROW.
ON HEARING HIS SONG IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.
Hark! 'tis our Northern nightingale that sings
In far-off leafy cloisters, high and cool,
Flinging his flute-notes bounding from the skies!
In far-off leafy cloisters, high and cool,
Flinging his flute-notes bounding from the skies!
Thou wild musician of the mountain streams,
Most tuneful minstrel of the forest choir,
Bird of all grace and harmony of soul,
Unseen we hail thee for thy blissful voice.
Most tuneful minstrel of the forest choir,
Bird of all grace and harmony of soul,
Unseen we hail thee for thy blissful voice.
Up in yon tremulous mist where morning wakes
Unnumbered shadows from their dark abodes,
Or in the woodland glade tumultuous grown,
With all the murmurous language of the trees,
No blither presence fills the vocal space.
The wandering rivulets dancing through the grass,
The gambols, low or loud, of insect life,
The cheerful call of cattle in the vales,
Sweet natural sounds of the contented hours,—
All seem more jubilant when thy song begins.
Unnumbered shadows from their dark abodes,
Or in the woodland glade tumultuous grown,
With all the murmurous language of the trees,
No blither presence fills the vocal space.
The wandering rivulets dancing through the grass,
The gambols, low or loud, of insect life,
The cheerful call of cattle in the vales,
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All seem more jubilant when thy song begins.
Deep in the shade we lie and listen long;
For human converse well may pause, and man
Learn from such notes fresh hints of praise
That upward swelling from thy grateful tribe
Circle the hills with melodies of joy.
For human converse well may pause, and man
Learn from such notes fresh hints of praise
That upward swelling from thy grateful tribe
Circle the hills with melodies of joy.
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