THE THRUSH AND THE POETS. 137 



as though it delighted to cheer with its music the hearts of 

 the sons of toil. 



A flute-like melody is thine, Thrush ! 



Full of rich cadences, and clear and deep ; 

 Upon the sense it cometh like a gush 



Of perfume, stolen by the winds that sweep 



Where spice-isles gem the bosom of the deep ; 

 At early morn, and 'mid the evetide's hush, 



Pouring thy mellow music, thou dost peep 

 From out the lilac tree or hawthorn bush. 

 I love thee for the love thou bear'st the lowly. 



The cottage garden is thy favourite haunt ; 

 And in those hours so calm, so pure, so holy, 



It ever is thy pleasure forth to chaunt 

 Those blithesome poems, seeming as it were 

 Thy wish to make all happy dwelling there. 



From the quotations already given, it will be seen that 

 our modern poets love the Thrush, which was also a 

 favourite with those of bygone times : thus Spenser relates 

 of one of his heroes : 



Now, when as Calepine was waxen strong, 



Upon a day he cast abroad to wind, 



To take the air and hear the Thrush's song. 



William Brown exclaims with evident delight 



See the spring 

 Is the earth enamelling 

 And the birds in every tree 

 Greet the morn with melody. 

 Hark ! how yonder Throstle chaunts it, 

 And her mate as proudly vaunts it. 



Then Douglas bids us listen to 



The Throstle with shrill sharps as purposely he sung 



T' wake the morning sun, or chiding that so long 



He was in coming forth, that should the thicket thrill. 



The Germans have an old cradle song, which assigns a 

 soothing influence to the strain of this bird ; it has been 

 thus translated : 



Sweet child, while not a breath around 

 Disturbs thy slumbers soft and sound, 



