Volume Iii Part 58 (1/2)

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]

JOY-MONTH

Oh, hark to the brown thrus.h.!.+ hear how he sings!

How he pours the dear pain of his gladness!

What a gus.h.!.+ and from out what golden springs!

What a rage of how sweet madness!

And golden the b.u.t.tercup blooms by the way, A song of the joyous ground; While the melody rained from yonder spray Is a blossom in fields of sound.

How glisten the eyes of the happy leaves!

How whispers each blade, ”I am blest!”

Rosy Heaven his lips to flowered earth gives, With the costliest bliss of his breast.

Pour, pour of the wine of thy heart, O Nature!

By cups of field and of sky, By the br.i.m.m.i.n.g soul of every creature!-- Joy-mad, dear Mother, am I.

Tongues, tongues for my joy, for my joy! more tongues!-- Oh, thanks to the thrush on the tree, To the sky, and to all earth's blooms and songs!

They utter the heart in me.

David Atwood Wa.s.son [1823-1887]

MY THRUSH

All through the sultry hours of June, From morning blithe to golden noon, And till the star of evening climbs The gray-blue East, a world too soon, There sings a Thrush amid the limes.

G.o.d's poet, hid in foliage green, Sings endless songs, himself unseen; Right seldom come his silent times.

Linger, ye summer hours serene!

Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes!

Nor from these confines wander out, Where the old gun, bucolic lout, Commits all day his murderous crimes: Though cherries ripe are sweet, no doubt, Sweeter thy song amid the limes.

May I not dream G.o.d sends thee there, Thou mellow angel of the air, Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes With music's soul, all praise and prayer?

Is that thy lesson in the limes?

Closer to G.o.d art thou than I: His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly Through silent ether's summer climes.

Ah, never may thy music die!

Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes!

Mortimer Collins [1827-1876]