The Bird
Hither
thou
com'st:
the
busy
wind
all
night
Blew
through
thy
lodging,
where
thy
own
warm
wing
Thy
pillow
was.
Many
a
sullen
storm
(For
which
coarse
man
seems
much
the
fitter
born)
Rained
on
thy
bed
And
harmless
head.
And
now,
as
fresh
and
cheerful
as
the
light,
Thy
little
heart
in
early
hymns
doth
sing
Unto
that
Providence,
whose
unseen
arm
Curbed
them,
and
clothed
thee
well
and
warm.
All
things
that
be,
praise
Him,
and
had
Their
lesson
taught
them
when
first
made.
So
hills
and
valleys
into
singing
break;
And
though
poor
stones
have
neither
speech
nor
tongue,
While
active
winds
and
streams
both
run
and
speak,
Yet
stones
are
deep
in
admiration.
Thus
praise
and
prayer
here
beneath
the
sun
Make
lesser
mornings,
when
the
great
are
done.
For
each
inclosed
spirit
is
a
star
Enlight'ning
his
own
little
sphere,
Whose
light,
though
fetched
and
borrowed
from
far,
Both
mornings
makes
and
evenings
there.
But
as
these
birds
of
light
make
a
land
glad,
Chirping
their
solemn
matins
on
each
tree,
So
in
the
shades
of
night
some
dark
fowls
be,
Whose
heavy
notes
make
all
that
hear
them
sad.
The
turtle
then
in
palm
trees
mourns,
While
owls
and
satyrs
howl:
The
pleasant
land
to
brimstone
turns,
And
all
her
streams
grow
foul.
Brightness
and
mirth,
and
love
and
faith,
all
fly,
Till
the
day-spring
breaks
forth
again
from
high.
