her invisible lute, calling the feathered tribe back to their
summer homes. Old robin, though stricken to the heart
with winter's snow, prophesies of fair earth and sunny
skies. The brooklet sings melting murmurs to merry [30]
meadows; the leaves clap their hands, and the winds [1]
make melody through dark pine groves.
What is the anthem of human life?
Has love ceased to moan over the new-made grave,
and, looking upward, does it patiently pray for the per- [5]
petual springtide wherein no arrow wounds the dove?