Sweet bird! Thou singest in the lonely woods,
Far from great cities. There men dream of life,
And walk with blinded eyes, while grim Care broods
Upon their withered hearts; and snarling Strife,
Flaps her foul wings before the eyes of men,
Hate gnaws their hearts, and sordid Avarice halts
Out from his noisome, miserable den,
Clutching men's souls with yellow, shrivelled hands,
Till each shrinks up, and filthy gods exalts
To proud dominion, worse than Pagan lands
Ever bowed down before;
While, grasping handfuls of his glittering ore,
He makes of it, oh, wonder! tough, strong bands,
To bind them to his sordid service and curst lore.

Thou knowest nought of this. Thy home is in
The thick green forests. There thou hast thy nest,
Where the leaves whisper with an earnest din,
And gentle winds cool thy harmonious breast,
And there thy music fills the listening wood,
And rings among the giant forest trees,
Waking up every slumbering solitude,
And sending out, with never-ceasing flow,
A different strain on the wings of every breeze,
Now loud, now soft, now rapid, and then slow,
With many a merry change;
And causing men, for thy wild, wondrous range,
Hault in their journeying, and seek to know
What emulous mad bird pours out a song so strange.

Thou small philosopher, who laughest at
All troubles of the world! I would that I
Thy mirth and merriment could imitate,
And high above all care and trouble fly.
Thou art not drunken with rich, rosy wine;
Joy ever nestles in thy happy heart,
Shaking a dewy influence divine
From his soft wings upon it. Thou, whose throat
Surpasses in its powers all human art,
Who startlest each lone bird with his own note,
As if thou wert his mate;—
Thou, whose fine song is heard, early and late,
Through the thick leaves and flowers to dance and float;—
Teach me the joyful secret of thy happy state!

It cannot be that thou, who now dost sing
With so tumultuous melody, while round
All spirits of the woods are hovering
And drinking in with eager ears each sound,—
It cannot be that thou, too, dost conceal
The sorrows of thy soul in stormy mirth,
Or that thou dost not in good earnest feel
The joyance of thy song. That is for men
Who walk alone on the pain-peopled earth,
And pour out melodies with tongue and pen
That all the world admire;
While they with their own songs grow faint and tire,
And sadly droop and languish, even when
Their golden verse burns brightest with poetic fire.