Blithe Bird


BLITHE bird of the morning, how sweet is thy song;

Thou'st caroled it bravely, thou'st kept it up long;

I've heard it since day-break, so strong and so clear;

What makes thee so joyous, so brimful of cheer?

Is't praise to thy Maker that swells thy bright throat?

Art pouring thy gratitude forth in each note?

Art telling to mortals, in sweet roundelay,

That night has given place to the new, gladsome day..?


Dost wait for the maiden that one sunny morn

Released thy torn wing from the grasp of the thorn?

When from their tormentors thy kin had all fled,

And over the hedge-row thy dear mate lay dead?

The white hand that fed thee, the face that caressed,

Will no more be laid 'gainst thy feathery breast;

Neath the snow-covered roof, near the window before thee,

Lies in death the sweet maid that to life did restore thee.


She heeds not thy song, she sees not thy form;

Alike to her now are the sunshine and storm;

But the kind heart that pitied a birdling distressed,

Will yet beat with rapture in climes of the blessed

Sing on, pretty troubador, songs are not vain,

Though the ear of your lady you ne'er charm again;

You may cheer the sad mourners, who wearily come

From the grave of their child to a desolate home.


Sing on, brave evangel, the Father above

Will crown with a blessing your mission of love;

Thy matins are heard in the heavenly land,

Thou'rt kept by the power of an almighty hand.



E. R. L.