What lofty pæans shall the victor greet! What crown resplendent for his brow be fit! O child, if earthly life be bitter-sweet, Hast thou not something missed in missing it?
SINGING IN THE DARK
O ye little warblers, flying fast and far From the balmy south-land, where the roses are, Robins red and blue-birds, do ye faint to see How the chill snow-blossoms whiten shrub and tree?
Through the snowy valley cold the north winds sweep; Mother earth, half-wakened, turns again to sleep; Silent lies the river in an icy trance, And the frozen meadows wait the sun’s hot glance.
Dull and gray the skies are. Soft and blue were those That so late above you bent at daylight’s close; Do ye grieve, remembering all the balm and bloom, All the warmth and sweetness of the starlit gloom?
Do ye sadly wonder what strange impulse drew All your flashing pinions the far ether through? Do ye count it madness that so wide ye strayed From the starry jasmine and the orange shade?
Yet this morn I heard ye singing in the dark, Songs of such rare sweetness that the world might hark! O ye blessed minstrels, silent not for pain, God is in the heavens, and your sun shall shine again!
THOMAS MOORE
May 28, 1779-1879
Hush! O be ye silent, all ye birds of May! Cease the high, clear trilling of your roundelay! Be the merry minstrels mute in vale, on hill, And in every tree-top let the song be still!
O ye winds, breathe softly! Let your voices die In a low, faint whisper, sweet as love’s first sigh; O ye zephyrs, blowing over beds of flowers, Be ye still as dews are in the starry hours!