  From purple woods the stock-dove’s notes are flowing, As deep and melancholy as the night, Whose shadows from the early morning’s glowing Now take their flight; So sweetly clear, and gently wooing, They bring my soul an exquisite delight. A byre-cock’s crow comes shrilly from afar, And wakes loud answers in the neighbor’s yard, They greet the coming of Apollo’s car, Like many a modern and accepted bard; But to the woodland notes compared they are So challenging, and hard. The farmer rises wearily from bed, Looks on the morn, and smiles that it is fair, And Providence has placed on him its care, While others fight, and mingle with the dead, To nourish hope and life becomes his share. But who has eyes and ears for nature’s ways? Who goes to matin at the stock-doves call? When man his brother man so foully slays, And nations into utter ruin fall; Must war obscure the morning’s rosy rays, And keep a May-dawn’s music from the soul? A time like this demands the bread and meat, But also music for the famished heart; And we should rise the better things to greet, Be they in nature, or in perfect art, Lest struggling man at last must fall beneath The load in which now all men have a part. |
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