 | Diana's Looking Glass and Other Poems by Charles D. Bell |  |
21
TO THE THRUSH.
O minstrel Thrush, whose matin song
Is silver sweet and clear and strong,
Who will for me translate the note
That gushes from thy mellow throat?
Is silver sweet and clear and strong,
Who will for me translate the note
That gushes from thy mellow throat?
The green leaves tremble on the thorn,
Wet with the dews of early morn,
From which is heard the dulcet voice,
Whose music makes the woods rejoice.
Wet with the dews of early morn,
From which is heard the dulcet voice,
Whose music makes the woods rejoice.
I fain would know what theme divine
Inspires that glorious chant of thine,
Which thrilling on the vernal air,
Might charm its sorrow from despair.
Inspires that glorious chant of thine,
Which thrilling on the vernal air,
Might charm its sorrow from despair.
Dost hail the advent of the spring,
When swallows wheel upon the wing,
And clouds whose treasures wept in dew,
Earth's fair, immortal youth renew?
When swallows wheel upon the wing,
And clouds whose treasures wept in dew,
Earth's fair, immortal youth renew?
22
Or sendest through the deep-leaved grove,
Delicious canzonets of love,
Which throbbing on from bough to bough,
Bear to thy mate the tender vow?
Delicious canzonets of love,
Which throbbing on from bough to bough,
Bear to thy mate the tender vow?
Haply thou canst not choose but sing,
And make the woodland echoes ring,
Thy joyous heart must needs declare
The rapture and the passion there.
And make the woodland echoes ring,
Thy joyous heart must needs declare
The rapture and the passion there.
O warbler of the sweetest lay
That ever hailed an April day,
Teach me the sympathetic art,
By song of mine to touch the heart.
That ever hailed an April day,
Teach me the sympathetic art,
By song of mine to touch the heart.
Would I could soothe by some soft strain,
The sorrow born of grief and pain,
Would that like thine my voice could flow
To some sad soul, and cheer its woe.
The sorrow born of grief and pain,
Would that like thine my voice could flow
To some sad soul, and cheer its woe.
Ah, happy Bird, to have the power,
Seated within thy cloistered bower,
Round thee such melody to raise,
As turns heart-sadness into praise.
Seated within thy cloistered bower,
Round thee such melody to raise,
As turns heart-sadness into praise.
| Diana's Looking Glass and Other Poems by Charles D. Bell | |