The hermit thrush

Front matter

Reading edition

F· Schuyler Mathews

L·PRANG·&·C^o:

Boston:

The Hermit Thrush

The sweet fresh air of the new springtime

Breathes o’er the woods where the blue hills climb

Aloft from a belt of spruce and pine

That hides their feet in a dark green line.

On the edge of the wood where the white birch trees

WHERE THE BLUE HILLS CLIMB ALOFT FROM A BELT OF SPRUCE AND PINE

Nod and bend in the passing breeze,

A hermit lives who never is seen

Nearer the meadow’s rolling green

Than the pasture bars beside the hill,

Where the road is lonely, dark, and still,

And scarcely anyone passes by

But the boy and cows, and squirrels shy.

This hermit is brown, and small in size,

And hides away from curious eyes;

He wears no cowl and studies no book,

THE PASTURE BARS BESIDE THE HILL

Nor sits in a cave or sheltered nook;

But up in the top of the tallest tree

At the edge of the wood, alone sits he,

And sings his song in a wild sweet way,

Of the distant world so blithe and gay;

How he retired from its youthful folly—

And here there’s a touch of melancholy

In cadence soft; and the song’s complete,

With such a wealth of melody sweet

As never the organ’s pipe could blow,

Or ever musician could think or know.

Sometimes he sits in the gloaming still,

On the leaning birch beside the mill

And the old mill’s shaky, clumsy wheel,

Worn out with the work of grinding meal,

Frets and fusses and sputters away,

And beats the water to foam and spray;

Its broken buckets dipping along

In ill marked time to the thrush’s song.

Never was music softer nor tune

SOMETIMES HE SITS IN THE GLOAMING STILL ON THE LEANING BIRCH BESIDE THE MILL:

Sweeter than his in the afternoon

When the lowering sun shines slanting across

The rugged old pines, and the rocks, and moss.

Should you wish to hear this hermit thrush sing,

And his song in the woods and welkin ring,

Then come where the blue notch mountains rise

Far up in the north and pierce the skies;

Where Kinsman’s dome stands full and round,

And Lafayette’s pyramid peak is found;

Where Pemigewasset’s silvery stream

THE LOWERING SUN SHINES SLANTING ACROSS

Winds through the valley with glint and gleam;

There you will hear the heaven-born note

Swell from the thrush’s slender throat,

And listening nature will breathless lie,

To hear the sweetest song of the sky!

COME GENTLE SPRING