Music at Home

I sat beneath a fragrant tasselled tree,Whose trunk encoiling vines had made to beA glossy fount of leafage. Sweet the air,Far-off the smoke-veiled city and its care,Precious and near the book within my hand—The deathless song of that immortal landWherefrom Keats took his young EndymionAnd laurelled bards enow their wreaths have won;—When from some topmost spray began to chantAnd flute, and trill, a warbling visitant,A cat-bird, riotous the world above,Hasting to spend his heritage ere loveShould music change to madness in his throat,Leaving him naught but one discordant note.And as my home-bred chorister outviedThe nightingale, old England's lark beside,I thought—What need to borrow? Lustier climeThan ours Earth has not,—nor her scroll a timeAmpler of human glory and desireTo touch the plume, the brush, the lips, with fire;No sunrise chant on ancient shore and sea,Since sang the morning stars, more worth shall beThan ours, once uttered from the very heartOf the glad race that here shall act its part.Blithe prodigal, the rhythm free and strongOf thy brave voice forecasts our poet's song!