  I hear a splendid concert in my garden every day, When the breezes find by grove and lawn some instrument to play; They shake the shiny laurel with the clatter of the 'bones,' And from the lofty sycamore draw deeper 'cello tones, And giving thus the signal that the concert should begin, The brook beside the pebbled path strikes up its mandoline. Then all the garden wakes to sound, for not a bird is mute: The robin pipes the piccolo; the blackbird plays the flute; While high upon a cedar-top a thrush with bubbling throat Lifts up to this accompaniment her clear soprano note. Then by-and-by there softly sounds, beside some flowering tree The oboe of the dancing gnat, the cornet of the bee. Such tiny notes—and yet with ease their cadence I can trace, While over-head some passing rook puts in his noisy bass, Or from a green and shady copse, a daisied field away, I hear the jarring discords of a magpie and a jay. The Wind conducts the orchestra, and as he beats the time The flood of music sinks and swells in melody sublime; Till, when the darkness deepens and the sun sets in the West, They all put up their instruments and settle down to rest; And when I seek my slumber, like the daisy or the bird, My rest is all the better for the concert I have heard. |
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