Verse > Anthologies > Hunt and Lee, eds. > The Book of the Sonnet
Hunt and Lee, comps.  The Book of the Sonnet.  1867.
V. To a Bird Singing
By William Drummond, of Hawthornden (1585–1649)
SWEET Bird, that sing’st away the early hours
Of winters past or coming, void of care,
Well pleaséd with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet smelling flowers;
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers        5
Thou thy Creator’s goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven        10
Quite to forget earth’s turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven!
  Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise
  To airs of spheres—yes, and to angels’ lays.

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