THE THRUSH.
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol cheers his furrowed brow.
So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear
Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid movements, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank thee, Author of this opening day!