POE TRY.
SONG OF THE THRUSH. [AFTER THE WELSH OF RHYS GOCH.] Wrra dawn's rosy beams On the meadow bank green, A rapture far ringing His orisons over, Aroused me from dreams I saw the thrush preen
And guided me forth. His wings and his breast;
Aloft his rapt lay The clear honey dew A lone thrush was singing— He sipped from the clover, The Druid of day Then joyously flew To worshipping earth. To bis mate on her neat.
And still without falter And there a love metre On Nature's high altar He fashioned far sweeter Ministrant he offered Than ever in words His song's sacrifice. I had woven before.
Strains passing all words, And with its gold links From Gwalia's green psalter, To-night when I greet her, That Bard of the birds My Lunet, methinks, Poured forth to the skies. May love me once more ALFRED PERCEVAL GRATES.
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