THE THRUSH 



When at the day-god's light caress, 



Aurora, stirred from sweet repose, 

 Still thralled in drowsy listlessness, 



Doth trembling eyeHds half unclose; 

 Or when the garish day declines 



And all the world seeks balmy rest, 

 When twilight softens forms and lines, 



Then sings the wood-thrush at his best. 



Alone, in some sequestered bow'r, 



Where leafy arches cast their shade 

 And cool, at mid-day's torrid hour, 



The brooklet winding through the glade; 

 Where human discord, all unknown. 



Ne'er breaks of sacred hush the spell; 

 There, in his cloister, all alone, 



In shy seclusion doth he dwell. 



Now pause ; approach not all too near 



His favored haunt with careless tread, 

 So you a chorister would hear 



Whose rhapsodies might wake the dead. 

 Untutored, he has caught the art 



Alone, where nature's spirit broods. 

 Of giving voice to nature's heart 



And weaving chorals from her moods. 



No suitor bold for men's applause, 



Unconscious of his powers, he 

 From nature inspiration draws 



And fills her halls with harmony. 

 In woodland haunts, inviolate 



By mortals' sordid clamorings, 

 To his Creator and his mate 



He brings his choicest offerings. 

 [4] 



