Unshrouded from the eye of day 15
Upon yon Beech’s topmost spray.
Within the selfsame lofty tree
A thrush sings now—perchance ’tis he—
The lusty joyous gallant bird,
Which on that April morn we heard. 20
But oh! how different that voice
Which bade the very hills rejoice.
Through languid air, through leafy boughs
It falls, and can no echo rouse.