Vespers and Matins.

—Isaac Bassett Choate.

SOFT and slow,

Faint and low,

Sings the hermit thrush her evening lullaby;

On a birch twig swinging,

To her loved ones singing,

Swinging,

Singing,

Softer yet and slower,

Fainter yet and lower,

Ring the bell-like notes till all the echoes die,

Till the hush of slumbers

Drowns the drowsy numbers,

Till the sleep of sacred silence seals the weary watcher’s eye.

 

Soon as light

Follows night,

Coursing all the lands and waters o’er,

With the day’s first breaking,

From their slumbers waking,—

Cheep, cheep;

Peep, peep,—

In a burst of gladness,

Of ecstatic madness,

All the birds together their songs of greeting pour,

Pour their souls in singing

Till the woods are ringing

Just as if on eastern borders day had never dawned before.

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