The Valley Virginian. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1865-1895, 1878-01-17
9netrg.
THE wooD.THRUsH.

Those who have listened-spell bound-to tn
enchanting song Of the Thrush, will read with de
light the following exquisite poem which w
transfer to our columns from 1.-THE Catholic
World To express its beauties OF imagery ant
language, in this prose and Inadequate introduc
ton, would be as difficult task as the poet hat
in rendering into verse the soul inspiring sonl
IF the Wood Thrush. So We will reproduce the
poem itself without further comment, regrettihe
that we cannot give the writer's name.
How shall put in words that song OF thine:
How tell it in this struggling phrase OF mine
Thatstrange. sweet wonder Of fnli-throated bliss
The wildwood freedom Of its perfectness.
Faint scent OF flowers frail strong breath ofpine
The west winds music and the still sunshine.
Could worcestershire into words. hold fast
Days sunset glow that it might ever last,
That clothesas with immortal robe each height,
Rugged and stern mid glare of MONDAY light,
softened beneath ewes gracious glory cast
Like soul released, from strifeto sweetness past.
Were such power mine 80 might hope, perchance
In fitting speech to rhyme thy songs romance,
To sing its sweetness with note al sweet,
As thine that makes this sunset hour complete.
As voice beloved doth richest Joy enhance,
As swelling organ yearning soul doth trance.
There is no sorrow set in thy pure song
Thy notes to realms where all is JOY belong.
Thou callest-woods grow greener through thy
voice, ly
The stainless skies in deeper peace rejoice,
All their best glories through thy singing throng
Voice of life that ne'er knew thought Of wrong
No martyr life of conquered grief is thine.
Whose happiness but through old tears can shine;
80. sure, didst thou in Eden sing ere Eve.
Our eldest mother, learned for life to grieve,
When thought was fresh. and knowledge still
divine.
And in loves light no shade of death did Irvine.
Our songs to-day grow sweetestthrough our pain.
Our Eden lost. we md 1T not again.
Even our truest, most enduring Joy
Earth's twilight darkens with its dusk alloy.
Soft. soft the shadow OF thy heaven-dropt strain
Only our weakness dms with sorrows stain.
Thou sinsst, o hermit bird! OF Paradise,
Not as lamenting its lost harmonies.
Not as still fair through perfect penitence,
Bnt as unconscious in first innocence
Token Of time thou art when sinless eyes
Were homes for cloudless thoughts divinely wise
All things that God found good seem yet to fill
The few sweet notes that triumph in thy triil
All things that yet are good and purely fair
Give unto thee their happy grace to wear.
Sweet speech art thou for sunset-lighted hill;
Yet day dies gladlier when thou art still
And I, O rare brown thrush that idly gaze
Far down the valleys mountain Swallowed ways
Where bears the stream light burden ofthe sky,
Where day, like quiet soul, in peace doth die,
It's calm gold broken by no storm-clouds blaze
Hearken, ioy-hushed, thy vesper song OF praise
That from yon hillside drops strong caroiling,
A living echo thereto answering,
Doubling the sweetness with the glad reply
That drifts like argosy, joy-laden, by.
Light grows my soul as thy uplifted wing;
Heart knows no sorrow when it hears thee sing |!