Poem by James Russell Lowell

The Bobolink

    Anacreon of the meadow,
  Drunk with the joy of spring!
  Beneath the tall pine's voiceful shadow
  I lie and drink thy jargoning;
  My soul is full with melodies,
  One drop would overflow it,
  And send the tears into mine eyes--
  But what car'st thou to know it?
  Thy heart is free as mountain air,
  And of thy lays thou hast no care,
  Scattering them gayly everywhere,
  Happy, unconscious poet!

    Upon a tuft of meadow grass,
  While thy loved-one tends the nest,
  Thou swayest as the breezes pass,
  Unburthening thine o'erfull breast
  Of the crowded songs that fill it,
  Just as joy may choose to will it.
  Lord of thy love and liberty,
  The blithest bird of merry May,
  Thou turnest thy bright eyes on me,
  That say as plain as eye can say--
  "Here sit we, here in the summer weather,
  I and my modest mate together;
  Whatever your wise thoughts may be,
  Under that gloomy old pine tree,
  We do not value them a feather."

    Now, leaving earth and me behind,
  Thou beatest up against the wind,
  Or, floating slowly down before it,
  Above thy grass-hid nest thou flutterest
  And thy bridal love-song utterest,
  Raining showers of music o'er it,
  Weary never, still thou trillest,
  Spring-gladsome lays,
  As of moss-rimmed water-brooks
  Murmuring through pebbly nooks
  In quiet summer days.
  My heart with happiness thou fillest,
  I seem again to be a boy
  Watching thee, gay, blithesome lover,
  O'er the bending grass-tops hover,
  Quivering thy wings for joy.
  There's something in the apple-blossom,
  The greening grass and bobolink's song,
  That wakes again within my bosom
  Feelings which have slumbered long.
  As long, long years ago I wandered,
  I seem to wander even yet,
  The hours the idle school-boy squandered,
  The man would die ere he'd forget.
  O hours that frosty eld deemed wasted,
  Nodding his gray head toward my books,
  I dearer prize the lore I tasted
  With you, among the trees and brooks,
  Than all that I have gained since then
  From learnèd books or study-withered men!
  Nature, thy soul was one with mine,
  And, as a sister by a younger brother
  Is loved, each flowing to the other,
  Such love for me was thine.
  Or wert thou not more like a loving mother
  With sympathy and loving power to heal,
  Against whose heart my throbbing heart I'd lay
  And moan my childish sorrows all away,
  Till calm and holiness would o'er me steal?
  Was not the golden sunset a dear friend?
  Found I no kindness in the silent moon,
  And the green trees, whose tops did sway and bend,
  Low singing evermore their pleasant tune?
  Felt I no heart in dim and solemn woods--
  No loved-one's voice in lonely solitudes?
  Yes, yes! unhoodwinked then my spirit's eyes,
  Blind leaders had not _taught me_ to be wise.

    Dear hours! which now again I over-live,
  Hearing and seeing with the ears and eyes
  Of childhood, ye were bees, that to the hive
  Of my young heart came laden with rich prize,
  Gathered in fields and woods and sunny dells, to be
  My spirit's food in days more wintery.
  Yea, yet again ye come! ye come!
  And, like a child once more at home
  After long sojourning in alien climes,
  I lie upon my mother's breast,
  Feeling the blessedness of rest,
  And dwelling in the light of other times.

    O ye whose living is not _Life_,
  Whose dying is but death,
  Song, empty toil and petty strife,
  Rounded with loss of breath!
  Go, look on Nature's countenance,
  Drink in the blessing of her glance;
  Look on the sunset, hear the wind,
  The cataract, the awful thunder;
  Go, worship by the sea;
  Then, and then only, shall ye find,
  With ever-growing wonder,
  Man is not all in all to ye;
  Go with a meek and humble soul,
  Then shall the scales of self unroll
  From off your eyes--the weary packs
  Drop from your heavy-laden backs;
  And ye shall see,
  With reverent and hopeful eyes,
  Glowing with new-born energies,
  How great a thing it is to be!

1. Fancies about a Rosebud, Pressed in an Old Copy of Spenser
2. My Friend, Adown Life's Valley, Hand in Hand
3. Verse Cannot Say How Beautiful Thou Art
4. Sayest Thou, Most Beautiful, That Thou Wilt Wear
5. “No More But So?”

John Tabb The Bobolink ("Your notes are few")

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