THE SOLITARY SINGER.

Sweet singer!—sweet to hear when only one Among the thousand voices of the spring Thou carollest—how sweeter far, alone And all unrivalled, art thou wont to fling The spell of music o’er the list’ning air From yon drear spray by winter’s blight left bare. Say what the burden of that patient strain Which answer seeketh none, but ever forth Is poured, and by itself its own refrain, Still echo’d, findeth—save that from the North Responsive plainings through the leafless tree Mingle, methinks, with thine in sympathy. It cannot but be sad—a low-tuned sigh For lost delights thy callow youth once knew, When all the grove was blossom, all the sky A smile above thee, and the glad hours flew Unmarred from when thy notes brought in the day, Till evening’s hush was mellowed by thy lay. It cannot all be sad—some sweet alloy Of Hope would seem to tremble through thy song, And serve, when all thy mates are mute, to buoy Thy heart, though clouds across thy heaven throng, Though strewn all blossom, and the rude winds’ brawl Sound the sad dirge of twilight’s sombre fall. Whate’er it be, clear-throated, soft, and low, It woos the stern hour with a lulling tone, According well with streams that whispering flow Ice-muffled, with the sound of sere leaves blown In rustling eddies ’neath their parent shade, Where Autumn’s glory by the wind is laid.