THE WHITE-THROATED SPARROW.
Reading edition
Hark! 't is our Northern Nightingale that sings In far-off, leafy cloisters, dark and cool, Flinging his flute-notes bounding from the skies!
Thou wild musician of the mountain-streams, Most tuneful minstrel of the forest-choirs, Bird of all grace and harmony of soul, Unseen, we hail thee for thy blissful voice!
Up in yon tremulous mist where morning wakes Illimitable shadows from their dark abodes, Or in this woodland glade tumultuous grown With all the murmurous language of the trees, No blither presence fills the vocal space. The wandering rivulets dancing through the grass, The gambols, low or loud, of insect-life, The cheerful call of cattle in the vales, Sweet natural sounds of the contented hours,— All seem less jubilant when thy song begins.
Deep in the shade we lie and listen long; For human converse well may pause, and man Learn from such notes fresh hints of praise, That upward swelling from thy grateful tribe Circles the hills with melodies of joy.