BETA

A Herald of Spring

Sweet bird,
what makes thee glad ?1
Beneath this sky so wan
and sad,2
And leafless poplars, thin
and grey,3
Bowed down before the wintry sway.4
What tuneful thought of days gone by5
Doth make thee sing ? Or knowest thou why6
Thy soul is lifted, sweet bird ?7
Or dost thou hear Spring’s voice, unheard8
Of Earth that sleeps, nor, dreaming, minds9
The herald blast of trumpet winds10
That make old Winter’s fortress quail,11
And force him cast his coat of mail.12
What secret bower thy shape doth keep ?13
Close hidden by me buds that sleep ;14
Thy voice the firstling bloom that blows—15
Breaks joyful through the wintry boughs,16
That bear thy song of promise, meet17
For happy hours when lovers greet,18
When every leaf-lorn tree shall bear19
Flower, fruit, and song upon the air,20
And summer’s choir is full, and gay21
The soft winds on the sun’s feast-day.22
Sweet bird, as thou dost sing, my soul23
Both partly catch the speechless whole24
Of joyful pain that lifts the wings25
Of thy sequestered music—things26
Remembered half, and half forgot,27
Of sight, or sound, or sense begot,28
Confused in love’s ambrosial streams,29
And hidden in the house of dreams ;30
As frail sweet scent of flowers that hold31
Past time and days in some book’s fold,32
Which, when the leaves are turned again,33
Doth warm, like wine, the wintry brain.34
O bird thy heart doth sing in me,35
I hear what thou dost hear—I see36
Upon a high green land, untrod37
Of men, upon the flower-wrought sod38
The feet of Spring, and her bright throng39
Break from the woods with shout & song ;40
Soft piping winds with pleasant cheer41
Before her go, her path to clear,42
Sweet maids come with her, and behind,43
Light-footed as the lifting wind :44
Some bear her canopy on high,45
And warm gleams glid from the sky ;46
Some strew with flowers the flower-strewn
ground,47
Some bind them garlands, some are bound,48
And still, with all the happy rout,49
Fleet little loves wind in and out ;50
Some hide in maiden’s fluttering weed,51
And ply their pretty arts, nor heed,52
While wilful gusts make sport, like them,53
With mantles fold, and garments hem ;54
Or some, more bold, soft vengeance wreak55
On lifting hair, and glowing cheek.56
But, scarce the wood hath set them free,57
Some forceful sprite in Winter’s fee.58
To snatch Spring’s garland would make
bold,59
Whom shrill the shrinking maids do scold,60
Until the sun, their champion bright,61
Doth drive aback the wintry knight,62
Whose wild assault being overthrown,63
Far in the woodland makes he moan,64
And gentle Spring with all her train65
Doth hold high court on earth again.66
Walter Scott