The soaring lark from swelling breast may sound
Exultant strains that thrill the world below;
The thrush on flute melodious may blow
The sweet sad tones that stir the soul profound;
But haply, too, on lonely shady mound
The wood-bird pipes a heart-song soft and low,
That through her own breast sends a cheery glow,
Yet brightness, too, the little world around:
And may not one who feels his bosom swell
And thrill at every note sublime and strong,
Who loves the sweet sad melodies that dwell
And linger in the heart's recesses long,
The while himself he cheers, attempt as well
To lighten others with his artless song?