The Blackbird. Upon the cherry-bough the blackbird sings His careless, happy song, As ’mid the rubied fruit he tilting swings, Heedless of Right or Wrong. No Future taunts him with its fears or hopes, No cares his Present fret ; The Past for him no dismal vista opes Of useless, dark regret. Ah ! how I envy him, as there he sings His glad unthinking strain, Untroubled by the sad imaginings That haunt man’s plotting brain ! All orchards are his home ; no work or care Compels him here to stay ; His is the world—the breathing, open air— The glorious summer day. Below, Earth blossoms for him ; and above Heaven smiles in boundless blue ; Joy is in all things, and the song of Love Thrills his whole being through. From bough to bough its gay and transient guest Is free to come and go Where’er the whim invites, where’er the best Of juicy blackhearts grow. His are these sunny sides, that through and through He stabs with his black bill ; And his the happiness man never knew, That comes without our will. Ah ! we who boast we are the crown of things, Like him are never glad ; By doubts and dreams and dark self-questionings We stand besieged and sad. What know we of that rare felicity The unconscious blackbird knows, That no misgiving spoils ; that frank and free From merely living grows ? Haggard Repentance ever dogs our path ; The foul fiend Discontent Harries the spirit, and the joys it hath Are but a moment lent. The riddle of our Life we cannot guess ; From toil to toil we haste, And in our sweetest joy some bitterness Of secret pain we taste. Ah ! for an hour at least, when bold and free In being’s pure delight, Loosed from the cares that clog humanity, The soul might wing its flight. Then, blackbird, we might sing the perfect song Of Life and Love with thee, Where no regret nor toil, nor fear of Wrong, Nor doubt of Right should be. W. W. S.