To A Thrush

Singing one Spring morn ’mid deepest fog

Throstle-bird! I have heard This thy voice of cheer, As I lay In the sway Of a waking fear; And its message dropt me peace, From its rapt career.

Yet, say how Thou may’st now Every note prolong! Doth the fog Never clog Never still thy song? Doth thy music ever rise Mellow, sweet, and strong?

Ho! when Morn Doth adorn Shuddering Mother Earth, Jocund Day Swelling gay, Kingly in his girth, I may something understand This so mellow mirth.

But when morn Rises worn, As on gloomy wing; When in murk Light doth lurk Like some callow thing, Tell me, throstle, how thou then Cheerily canst sing?

Oftentime Peace sublime, ’Mid the fairest day, Flickers wan And is gone Phantom on its way, Then a sudden gloom enshrouds Hearts within its sway.

Then the smile Fades awhile, Then the laugh is still, Then the tune Falters, hewn By the touch of Ill, Then Life’s music flutters low Sorrow to fulfil.

Ill-content To be pent Out of aught, griefs come All unbid Right amid Spirits frolicsome: Ah! then lips attuned to praise Press each other dumb!

Yet, sweet bird, Nought has blurred These most wondrous throes: Melody Rapt and free Out the midst of woes; May I turn to thee to learn What thy spirit knows!

That when gloom Like a doom Blots the azure sky, I may learn Blight to spurn, And the Day descry, Howsoe’er the Word of Ill Spells the Earth awry.

Smirk and smutch May I touch To a loftier scheme, Irk and Doubt Ravelling out In a song supreme; As, rare bird, thy spirits turn Sturdily thy theme.