Caroline Fry (Wilson)

On Hearing the Song of a Bird One Cold Sabbath Evening in February

What novel song, sweet Bird, has tun'd thy throat
Thou art not wont to find so sweet a note,
When scarce a sunbeam cheers the wintry day,
And not a leaf is green upon the spray.
Now I could fancy that thy bosom knows
Something of that which o'er my spirit flows,
When, tun'd to joys more pure than earth can give,
I watch the closing of the Sabbath eve.
They are not sunshine joys, for they are stay'd
And sober, as the twilight's closing shade;
They are not things of earth, for they abide
When grief has claim to ev'ry thought beside;
And, like thy winter song, poor Bird, they sound
More sweet, when all is desolate around.
Yes, I have felt it, when the morning hour
Confess'd some earthly care's distracting pow'r,
And, with a step that spoke the bosom's load,
I joyless loiter'd to the house of God.
Oh! I have felt, when evening's tranquil hour
Bade me retrace the path I trod before,
A calm so heavenly o'er my bosom reign,
It seem'd no care might enter there again;
As if some magic touch had chang'd the scene,
And planted flowers where only thorns had been.
And thou, sweet Bird, couldst find a song for me,
When not a leaf was here to shelter thee.
And I will sing through winters long as thine,
Where sun of earthly bliss can never shine;
But where returning Sabbaths will renew
Flowers that from earthly sunshine never grew;
Till songs of purer happiness employ
Eternal Sabbaths of eternal joy.