Lit up the dull and cheerless scene, But suddenly there gleamed on high So clear and fair, 'twas like a gem And, like a beacon-fire on shore, Oh! beauteous are the charms of morn, And, like the Sabbath, which bestows The heaven-born joys of peace and rest. THE NIGHTINGALE. "He that should hear, as I have, the clear airs of the nightingale, the sweet descants, the rising and falling of her voice, might well be lifted above the earth, and say, 'Lord, what music hast Thou provided for Thy saints in heaven, when Thou hast given bad men such music here on earth?"-Izaak Walton. I N gath'ring gloom around, The daylight fades from view ; And on the thirsty ground Descends the welcome dew; The gentle presence of the night. The stars, with rays of gold, Spangle the azure sky ; Till, beauteous to behold, Mounting in state on high, The full-orbed moon, with brilliant beam, The flow'rs that deck the day Have hushed into repose; Whilst slumber seems all else to bind But, hark! a voice I hear So pure, so calm, so clear, Surpassing strong, and yet so light, O'er sleeping earth and heavens bright. With ripple light and low, Doth the swift brook rejoice; And merry is its voice : Over the meadow-grass, And underneath the trees, The newly-wakened breeze : But sweeter on the ear there floats Mysterious bird of night, Thou hidden fount of joy, What sources of delight Thy ceaseless tongue employ? Thou seemest, with thy music grand, Some spirit of the better land. Oh! welcome is to me The song of ev'ry bird : Of all I ever heard ; And more than all thy strain I love, Thou minstrel of the slumb'ring grove. WH THE ROBIN. HEN some heavy storm of winter And the clouds in broken masses When some fitful gleam of sunshine Often have I heard a robin, Perched upon some lofty tree, Pour, in outbreak loud and sudden, Strains of sweetest melody. Like some heaven-inspired singer, In an hour of dark despair, Soothing with his holy music Hearts oppressed with pain and care; Like some hopeful, fleet forerunner Of the joys of coming spring. Oh! I cannot but be happy When I hear the robin sing. Many a bird that all the summer At the first approach of winter, Flies to warmer lands away. D But not thus the faithful robin : Makes him dearer to our sight. Other birds, when all is pleasant, But not so this merry minstrel : In the dreary days of winter All his soul to speech is stirred. Thanks to thee, thou cheerful robin, May I, with a grateful spirit, Learn from thee the way to live! Thus, when fast around is fading Still, in patient hope abiding, . And, like thee, though silent often With their tuneful voices ring; |