Blare of trumpet, shriek of fife—
Only with undarkened blessing was the thrush’s singing rife.
Where the ways were broad and ordered
England’s Indian blossoms flamed;
Here, where guarding thickets bordered,
Bloom of May June’s sunshine claimed,
Lifting, 'mid the throngs of people, glance, half-fearing, half-ashamed;
Trembling at the cymbals’ crashing
Through the ancient solitude,
Till the thrush’s sweetness flashing,