The Waking Of The Lark.
I.
O bonnie bird, that in the brake, exultant, dost prepare thee -
As poets do whose thoughts are true, for wings that will upbear thee -
Oh! tell me, tell me, bonnie bird,
Canst thou not pipe of hope deferred?
Or canst thou sing of naught but Spring among the golden meadows?
II.
Methinks a bard (and thou art one) should suit his song to sorrow,
And tell of pain, as well as gain, that waits us on the morrow;
But thou art not a prophet, thou,
If naught but joy can touch thee now;
If, in thy heart, thou hast no vow that speaks of Nature's anguish.
III.
Oh! I have held my sorrows dear, and felt, tho' poor and slighted,
The songs we love are those we hea...