Historic Poem - Meadow Lark in California
The Meadow Lark.
[Written for the Rural Press by Hope Haywood.]
- Hear, oh hear, that meadow lark trill;
- Is it not clear and sweet?
- As he whistles so soft, and trills and thrills,
- With his happy bursts of song.
-
- His evening song in the pastures green;
- Where he has rested to-day;
- With his heart full of thanks
- For every good,
- Since his toil for his food,
- In the morning's gold to-day.
-
- His heart but waits for the morn,
- To come with its strength and power,
- To help him to sing, to carol, and bring
- New love to the fleeting hours.
-
- More love I'll bring, more love I'll bring,
- To earth with its garden of flowers;
- Where a home shall rest in every breast
- That findeth my meaning's bowers!
-
- Within, within, is the kingdom of heaven
- Within your patient heart;
- Bide through the dark, and then the lark
- Shall join in your glorious song.
-
- Oh hear him trill, oh, hear him trill,
- His happy, happy song;
- His thrilling, thrilling, thrilling joy,
- His glorious thought and song.
-
- His thanks, his burst, his love
- For the meadows there,
- That he so fair,
- And listen to his song.
-
- Meadows so rare,
- In the sun's soft air;
- All speckled with gold
- And purple fold,
- Of little flowers fair.
-
- I will build me a nest
- Of the brightest and best;
- Why should I not
- Gather this gold
- That the sunbeams hold,
- And the pearly pearl
- The soft winds twirl.
-
- He plays on his harp with sunbeams
- His music is so rare;
- He sets it where the diamonds fall
- From fountains of living springs
- That leap in the air,
- And the drops that fall
- Make music in his ear;
- And he sings, he sings,
- He rings, he rings
- His joy forth, pure and clear;
- Ah, life is a dower of love, and of beauty;
- Ah, life is a hope, and joy is a duty!
-
- Hear him! hear him!
- Hear that lark
- Like the light
- Out of dark;
- Oh, his glorious happiness
- In so sweet, he must confess
- The power it brings
- To his soul as he sings
- Hear him! hear him!
- Hear him sing!
-
- Oh, he makes such music ring;
- To my ears and heart
- They almost ache
- With the thrilling dart
- Of sweetness wrought
- From love's own heart;
- And I could almost sing
- His hymn divine.
-
- Oh, bird of the golden breast!
- Thou sheddest a ray
- Over my way
- This summer day;
- And I receive
- The song and its happiness.
El Cajon, San Diego. June 21 1879. Pacific Rural Press 17(25): 406.