There is a concert in the trees,
There is a concert on the hill,
There 's melody in every breeze,
And music in the murmuring rill.
The shower is past, the winds are still,
The fields are green, the flow'rets spring,
The birds, and bees, and beetles fill
The air with harmony, and fling
The rosied moisture of the leaves
In frolic flight from wing to wing,
Fretting the spider as he weaves
His airy web from bough to bough;
In vain the little artist grieves
Their joy in his destruction now.
Alas! that, in a scene so fair,
The meanest being e'er should feel
The gloomy shadow of despair
Or sorrow o'er his bosom steal.
But in a world where woe is real,
Each rank in life, and every day,
Must pain and suffering reveal,
And wretched mourners in decay--
When nations smile o'er battles won,
When banners wave and streamers play,
The lonely mother mourns her son
Left lifeless on the bloody clay;
And the poor widow, all undone,
Sees the wild revel with dismay.
Even in the happiest scenes of earth,
When swell'd the bridal-song on high,
When every voice was tuned to mirth,
And joy was shot from eye to eye,
I 've heard a sadly-stifled sigh;
And, 'mid the garlands rich and fair,
I 've seen a cheek, which once could vie
In beauty with the fairest there,
Grown deadly pale, although a smile
Was worn above to cloak despair.
Poor maid! it was a hapless wile
Of long-conceal'd and hopeless love
To hide a heart, which broke the while
With pangs no lighter heart could prove.
The joyous spring and summer gay
With perfumed gifts together meet,
And from the rosy lips of May
Breathe music soft and odours sweet;
And still my eyes delay my feet
To gaze upon the earth and heaven,
And hear the happy birds repeat
Their anthems to the coming even;
Yet is my pleasure incomplete;
I grieve to think how few are given
To feel the pleasures I possess,
While thousand hearts, by sorrow riven,
Must pine in utter loneliness,
Or be to desperation driven.
Oh! could we find some happy land,
Some Eden of the deep blue sea,
By gentle breezes only fann'd,
Upon whose soil, from sorrow free,
Grew only pure felicity!
Who would not brave the stormiest main
Within that blissful isle to be,
Exempt from sight or sense of pain?
There is a land we cannot see,
Whose joys no pen can e'er portray;
And yet, so narrow is the road,
From it our spirits ever stray--
Shed light upon that path, O God!
And lead us in the appointed way.
There only joy shall be complete,
More high than mortal thoughts can reach,
For there the just and good shall meet,
Pure in affection, thought, and speech;
No jealousy shall make a breach,
Nor pain their pleasure e'er alloy;
There sunny streams of gladness stretch,
And there the very air is joy.
There shall the faithful, who relied
On faithless love till life would cloy,
And those who sorrow'd till they died
O'er earthly pain and earthly woe,
See Pleasure, like a whelming tide,
From an unbounded ocean flow.