The rivulet beneath the brae, That silent was the winter long, Is merry now the live-long day,— Babbling, murmuring, rippling along: Its muffler from its throat it drew, And now its liquid notes we hear anew. Through mists of green, in bush and tree, Full-throated choirs, early or late, Cheer toilers on the lawn and lea, Warbling, chirping, twitt'ring, elate: When all our sylvan halls were bare, They sang 'mong flowers in fields where skies were fair. Spring's gladdest song comes up the lane, Where winter through the deep drifts lay; Glad boys and girls are out again,— Laughing, shouting, romping at play: There's nought by which Care is beguiled As by thy voice,—thou happy-hearted child! |