Page:Themes and variations (IA themesvariations00wils).pdf/61
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In a Garden—Victoria.
49
III.
Sweet missel thrush, what loving exile’s hand
Hath brought thee over half a sphere of seas
To wake the memories of a greener land
With that brave morning-voice among the trees?
Slipped from the cage, a truant frank and bold,
Thou seekest a home in leafage never bare,
Our Danäe tree that blooms in rain of gold,
And feeds with honeyed perfume all the air—
Here mayest thou find a mate, and rest and build,
Grand master of thy wild and warbling guild.
Hath brought thee over half a sphere of seas
To wake the memories of a greener land
With that brave morning-voice among the trees?
Slipped from the cage, a truant frank and bold,
Thou seekest a home in leafage never bare,
Our Danäe tree that blooms in rain of gold,
And feeds with honeyed perfume all the air—
Here mayest thou find a mate, and rest and build,
Grand master of thy wild and warbling guild.
IV.
But yet I love our pied musician best.
Such tunes, perhaps, were heard when Morning drew
His bow, and struck on Memnon’s stony breast,
Under old Egypt’s rain-forsaken blue.
Hear him at dawn; he tells his thoughts aloud:
Or in our silent evenings, dry and cool,
When rosy footprints of the flying cloud
Still sparkle from the shallow forest-pool.
And where the sunset leaves of light were shed,
One planet hangs its golden seed instead.
Such tunes, perhaps, were heard when Morning drew
His bow, and struck on Memnon’s stony breast,
Under old Egypt’s rain-forsaken blue.
Hear him at dawn; he tells his thoughts aloud:
Or in our silent evenings, dry and cool,
When rosy footprints of the flying cloud
Still sparkle from the shallow forest-pool.
And where the sunset leaves of light were shed,
One planet hangs its golden seed instead.