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| HOW sweet the harmonies of afternoon! | |
| The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze | |
| His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon; | |
| Rich breath of hayfields streams thro’ whispering trees; | |
| And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, | 5 |
| And listen fondly—while the Blackbird sings. | |
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| How soft the lovelight of the West reposes | |
| On this green valley’s cheery solitude, | |
| On the trim cottage with its screen of roses, | |
| On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, | 10 |
| And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings | |
| Its bubbling freshness—while the Blackbird sings. | |
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| The very dial on the village church | |
| Seems as ’t were dreaming in a dozy rest; | |
| The scribbled benches underneath the porch | 15 |
| Bask in the kindly welcome of the West; | |
| But the broad casements of the old Three Kings | |
| Blaze like a furnace—while the Blackbird sings. | |
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| And there beneath the immemorial elm | |
| Three rosy revellers round a table sit, | 20 |
| And thro’ gray clouds give laws unto the realm, | |
| Curse good and great, but worship their own wit, | |
| And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings, | |
| Corn, colts, and curs—the while the Blackbird sings. | |
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| Before her home, in her accustom’d seat, | 25 |
| The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade | |
| Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet | |
| The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid; | |
| To her low chair a little maiden clings, | |
| And spells in silence—while the Blackbird sings. | 30 |
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| Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud | |
| Breathes o’er the hamlet with its gardens green, | |
| While the far fields with sunlight overflow’d | |
| Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen; | |
| Again, the sunshine on the shadow springs, | 35 |
| And fires the thicket where the Blackbird sings. | |
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| The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manor-house, | |
| With its peach-cover’d walls, and rookery loud, | |
| The trim, quaint garden alleys, screen’d with boughs, | |
| The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud, | 40 |
| The mossy fountain with its murmurings, | |
| Lie in warm sunshine—while the Blackbird sings. | |
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| The ring of silver voices, and the sheen | |
| Of festal garments—and my Lady streams | |
| With her gay court across the garden green; | 45 |
| Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love-dreams; | |
| And one calls for a little page; he strings | |
| Her lute beside her—while the Blackbird sings. | |
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| A little while—and lo! the charm is heard, | |
| A youth, whose life has been all Summer, steals | 50 |
| Forth from the noisy guests around the board, | |
| Creeps by her softly; at her footstool kneels; | |
| And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things | |
| Into her fond ear—while the Blackbird sings. | |
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| The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher, | 55 |
| And dizzy things of eve begin to float | |
| Upon the light; the breeze begins to tire; | |
| Half way to sunset with a drowsy note | |
| The ancient clock from out the valley swings; | |
| The Grandam nods—and still the Blackbird sings. | 60 |
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| Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal, | |
| Where the great stack is piling in the sun; | |
| Thro’ narrow gates o’erladen wagons reel, | |
| And barking curs into the tumult run; | |
| While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings | 65 |
| The merry tempest—and the Blackbird sings. | |
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| On the high wold the last look of the sun | |
| Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream; | |
| The shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fun; | |
| The Grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dream; | 70 |
| Only a hammer on an anvil rings; | |
| The day is dying—still the Blackbird sings. | |
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| Now the good Vicar passes from his gate | |
| Serene, with long white hair; and in his eye | |
| Burns the clear spirit that hath conquer’d Fate, | 75 |
| And felt the wings of immortality; | |
| His heart is throng’d with great imaginings, | |
| And tender mercies—while the Blackbird sings. | |
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| Down by the brook he bends his steps, and thro’ | |
| A lowly wicket; and at last he stands | 80 |
| Awful beside the bed of one who grew | |
| From boyhood with him—who with lifted hands | |
| And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings, | |
| And sweeter music than the Blackbird sings. | |
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| Two golden stars, like tokens from the Blest, | 85 |
| Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun; | |
| His sinking hands seem pointing to the West; | |
| He smiles as though he said—“Thy will be done:” | |
| His eyes, they see not those illuminings; | |
| His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings. | 90 |
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