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.