The Hermit Thrush.



289



THE HERMIT THRUSH.


By Winifred Holway Palmer.


[From Bird-Lore .]


I stood to-night, at twilight’s holy hour,


And heal'd the thrushes sing !


As from some far, secluded convent tower

The Angelus might ring.


Dropping its silver tones, like summer rain,


Those thirsty souls to bless


Whose lives are spent in endless toil and pain,


Or illness and distress.


So falls the song ! Each liquid cadence rare

In time and rhythm true !


Cool, tranquil, calm ; unhurried as a prayer,


And crystal clear as dew !


Deep, deep! Sounding the very depths of life

In reverential mood ;


Then higher rising, throbs with meaning rife,


Far through the dark’ning wood!


Higher and yet again, the strain is heard,


Until the heart is thrilled


With mysteries unsolved, and hopes deferred,


And longings unfulfilled !


Now that deep, opening strain is heard once more,

Bringing its blessed peace!


The sunset light is fading ; day is o’er,


And soon the song will cease !


Yet in my heart, those tones so wondrous sweet,—

That song of beauty rare,—


The night shall echo ; and my dreams repeat

That softly uttered prayer!



