  When on mountain road I travel, Stained with dust and dirt and gravel, In cool shade I sit me down; Oft I see among the bushes Feathered friends—shy brown thrushes, Sweetest singers of renown. Smooth his coat though brown and dusty, His mellow voice is ever trusty And clear and soft and sweet; On the tree-top oft he's singing, In the woods his voice is ringing While hills his notes repeat. I have heard him in the morning When the sun was just adorning Tops of tallest forest trees, Pour his soul of song so tender, That to God he seemed to render Thanksgiving harmonies. Every feather he did quiver, As his song he would deliver In bursts so wild and grand, That creation's face would gladden As the air with music laden Seemed fraught with choral band. Some notes that swelled his speckled breast Were like soft zephyrs from the west That fall on June-blown flowers; So full, so sweet, they lull the soul, And like a spirit voice control My reveries for hours. Soulful song, enwrapped in feather, Harbinger of pleasant weather, Sing softly unto me. Your tuneful notes at morn and even Are antepasts of joys in heaven That bring felicity. Attune your joyous song for me, And lift my soul that it may see The world in beauty bright; Sing on, sing on, until the wood Shall laugh aloud in merry mood, And sadness take her flight! Sweet warbling bird in brown attire, Your notes of praise do me inspire With love for Nature wild; Your songs of joy so sweetly sung, By heart and throat divinely strung, Proclaim you Nature's child. |
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