| |
|
At the corner
of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrush
that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Poor
Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the
silence of morning the song of the bird.
'Tis a
note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A
mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes
of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows
on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures
she views in the midst of the dale
Down which she so
often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small
cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling
on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart
is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river,
the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and
the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all
passed away from her eyes!
|
|
|
