THE THRUSH. 
January gray is here, 
Like a sexton by her grave ; 
February bears the bier, | 
March with grief doth howl and rave, 
And April weeps—but, O ye hours! 
Follow with May’s fairest flowers. 
Ohe Thrush. 
Burns. 
Stead on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough ; 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain ; 
See, aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign, 
At thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow. 
So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear 
Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid movements, bids them part, 
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 
I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 
Thou whose bright sun now gilds the Orient skies! 
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; 
The mite high Heaven bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll 
share. 





























