 | Wood-notes and Church-bells |  |
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THE NIGHTINGALE;
OR, THE JOY OF PRAISE.
The nightingale in happy mood
Hid in a leafy solitude,
A labyrinth of underwood
And tangled mazes;
When other birds are hushed to rest,
O'er the dear secret of its nest
From golden tongue and throbbing breast
Pours sweetest praises.
Hid in a leafy solitude,
A labyrinth of underwood
And tangled mazes;
When other birds are hushed to rest,
O'er the dear secret of its nest
From golden tongue and throbbing breast
Pours sweetest praises.
Beneath the silent moonlight float
On the rapt ear from that small throat
Strange quivering trills of richest note,
Its bliss to utter:
Deep, solemn gladness is its dower;
Not melancholy rules the hour
When blossoms dance upon the bower
And green leaves flutter.
On the rapt ear from that small throat
Strange quivering trills of richest note,
Its bliss to utter:
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Not melancholy rules the hour
When blossoms dance upon the bower
And green leaves flutter.
O nightingale, thou teachest me
The happiness of praise to see;
Blest bird, I fain would rival thee:
“Awake, my glory!”
By me let God's high praise be sung,
Like incense on the night air flung;
Awake, my soul! Awake, my tongue!
Tell out thy story.
The happiness of praise to see;
Blest bird, I fain would rival thee:
“Awake, my glory!”
By me let God's high praise be sung,
Like incense on the night air flung;
Awake, my soul! Awake, my tongue!
Tell out thy story.
Silence to God let others keep
And world-worn hearts in slumber steep,
I will pour forth the gladness deep
Within me glowing;
My grateful tribute I will bring
To Thee my Maker, Saviour, King,
And with heart-melody will sing
And peace o'erflowing.
And world-worn hearts in slumber steep,
I will pour forth the gladness deep
Within me glowing;
39
To Thee my Maker, Saviour, King,
And with heart-melody will sing
And peace o'erflowing.
Blest bird, I shall outrival soon
The joy of thy divinest tune
Sung to the listening April moon,—
In regions glorious
Sitting beneath the Tree of Life
With fairest fruits and blossoms rife,
O'er pain and death, o'er sin and strife,
Through Christ victorious!
The joy of thy divinest tune
Sung to the listening April moon,—
In regions glorious
Sitting beneath the Tree of Life
With fairest fruits and blossoms rife,
O'er pain and death, o'er sin and strife,
Through Christ victorious!
| Wood-notes and Church-bells | |